Time is a circle. What has happened before will happen again. Thus has it always been, thus will it always be.

Lord Rizath the Deciever had lived for innumerable eons in a cycle that had begun so long ago that even he did not know how it started.

He'd gather an army of monsters and men, and scourge the world for decades. A hero would arise to challenge him, and ultimately defeat him. But as his body died, the lingering spark of his essence would escape his physical ruin, and implant itself into the hero.

Then he would whisper into the hero's mind, slowly corrupting him, until his thoughts were no more than an echo of Rizath's own. He'd drive them to flee into seclusion, preserving his new vessel's life with his dark power for a century or more, until both they and Rizath were forgotten by the world. Then he'd gather an army of monsters and men, and scourge the world for decades. And so on.

Rizath didn't like the part where he was always defeated, of course, but he'd learned to accept it. After all, despite being doomed to lose eventually, he got to spend far more time winning. And even in that final moment of crushing failure, he knew that time is a circle, and he'd be back on top soon enough.

Right up until that last time.

Perun Eagle-Eyes had smote Rizath with his ancient holy sword, little realizing he was striking down the very body that had struck down Rizath with that same holy sword, a few centuries earlier.

Rizath fell screaming in pain and rage, with white light streaming out of his eyes, his mouth, and a thousand cracks that formed all over his body. His deaths were always spectacular light shows, like that.

Amid that distracting display, a dull orange ember drifted up from his body, and floated slowly to the side, before arcing towards Perun, who was raising his blade to the sky in triumph.

Closer...a little closer...

Perun's famously keen eyes suddenly turned towards Rizath's ember of essence, when it was only inches away. Startled, the glowing mote that was Rizath used the last of his power to dart forward and down, aiming for his new home deep inside the hero's heart.

And Perun, apparently driven by some unknown instinct, dodged.

The incorporeal speck of Rizath's being sailed through empty air, then through the roof of the Royal Palace atop which Rizath and Perun had their final battle. Down he went, into the Royal Residence below, where a young man crouched in the center of a phalanx of guards, along with the rest of the Royal Family, who had hunkered down in their keep when Rizath assaulted the palace.

Rizath had no choice to but collide with him, and sink into his heart.

His horror at the deviation from what had seemed to be an unending cycle faded, however, when he realized where he was. It was not the heart he'd sought, not the heart of the one that had laid him low. But it was the heart of a prince.

/./././././

Prince Cameron leaned against the battlements atop the castle, and yawned. He'd gotten up an hour past midday, and after a hearty brunch he'd decided it was high time he made some very important decisions.

Should I go play cards with the young Duke of Westport's party, he mused, turning to look towards the west side of the city, where the game would be taking place at an aristocratic gambling den. Or should I slum it tonight, and go watch the pit fights down by the harbor?

He turned towards the east side of the city, where a very exclusive high-class brothel was located. Or....

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of galloping hooves in the courtyard. Cameron's brother Caelan, the heir to the throne, was riding out on his white destrier, flanked by a pair of royal guards. Cameron smirked. He was probably rushing off on some tedious errand their father had sent him on. As the heir, Caelan was often called upon to carry out certain royal duties in the king's name, to prepare him for his own eventual rule.

Colm, the second-oldest, also frequently had to perform such royal drudgery, just in case anything happened to both father and Caelan. Even Corey, the king's third son, had to shoulder some of the load, occasionally.

Thank the Divine I'm the fifth in line of five, Cameron thought, not for the first time. The King might think his youngest son was a lout, but the Queen doted on Cameron, and the old man had never been able to say no to his beloved wife.

As a result, Cameron got what he wanted, and could do as he liked. And best of all, no one expected anything from him.

Which is why, a part of him thought, They'd never suspect you were behind it, if hired brigands dressed as soldiers from Lothholm killed Corey and Ciaran while they were off on one of those stupid hunting trips of theirs.

He frowned thoughtfully, as he followed that line of thinking further. There'd be war with Lothholm, then -- father wouldn't want Caelan to go, but he'd insist, and the old man would relent, because he was a warrior in his youth. That idiot Colm always follows Caelan wherever he goes, so he'd ride off to war as well. Normally noblemen and royals aren't killed in battle, they're ransomed back to their homeland, but letters to the right people in Lothholm, telling them where the princes would be encamped, could take of that...

Then Cameron chuckled. Imagine doing that much work!

And for what? So he could become king, and have to do even more work? He shook his head, and produced a flask from inside his doublet, taking a long pull on the strong spirit therein. Best to keep his mind pleasantly sedated, rather than let it come up with more nonsense like that, he thought. He had far more important things to consider.

The whorehouse it is! he decided, after a few more moments of contemplation, and then he loped easily towards the stairs, to descend from the battlements.