The empty throne

War had ravaged the land, tearing apart homes and families, slaughtering thousands and removing any evidence that they had ever even been there. The people's blood soaked the ground so thoroughly, it permanently stained the dirt, and one would have to travel well beyond the extent of the once-been kingdom in order to see its natural color. Over a dozen kingdoms had collided on this one land, and in the end, it was hard to say that there had been a winner. All of them had suffered heavy casualties. As long as there was one kingdom who refused to agree to treaty, the battle raged on, the homeland's people caught in the crossfire, until there was no one left to fight.

It was early in the morning, and the sky was painted a dark blue, the clouds still dark as the sun was only barely beginning to rise. A gentle breeze brushed through the air, lifting the ragged remains of the flags that stood on rickety poles. One might question how they had survived the onslaught of hooves and swords - they had not. King Thyrain had struggled through the night to makeshift new poles and put together what was left of his kingdom's flags, getting them shoved up into the air just before sunrise, before sitting on his broken throne and staring blankly into the distance as the world formed around him, where before there had been nothing but black.

The stone walls of his castle were little more than scattered rubble. Were it not for the embedded rock still in the ground, just barely visible under the shifted earth, one might have never known that there had been a castle there. Where once there had been extravagant halls, and statues made of marble and gold, fine paintings created to show the history of his kingdom, Thyrain now looked out upon open air, shattered earth, and emptiness. There were no people to rule. No animals or plants to farm. His land had been left barren, nothing left to rule, and yet it had been left to him. Of all the kings who had entered his land and fought upon it, not a single one had laid claim to it. They had destroyed it, and left it behind, for him to deal with.

The land had not even been his when the war began. It had been his father's. But his father had died trying to protect his land and his people, and then his uncle, and then all three of his older brothers. His mother. His sisters. He had only survived long enough to inherit the throne because, by the time he was in a position to do so, the war was finally over. Everyone else in his family had perished before him along the way.

He was alone. Alone in an empty land that was his to rule over. But what was there to rule over when the land could not be farmed? When it would be years, or decades before people began to return to it slowly, and in small numbers. When not even the animals would return for who knows how long.

He stood from what was left of his throne. He could feel it shifting as he stood, but did not turn back to watch it fall. He would make right by his heritage, and his land. But he could not do it pretending to be a king over nothing.