It doesn't take long for the grass to go up in flames; it is dry, after all, unwatered since His Majesty's rule.
It won't be easy to put out the fire, and harder still to erase the burnt amber glow that casts rings on the blood that stains the floor.
I watch the rebels being led past my room, their feet drumming on our cobblestone floor and hands setting the white castle walls ablaze.
There are screams, but they are of older men and castlehands, and I have grown up with enough war to focus instead on the roar of the fire. It's hot, and I can feel the heat, but it's a distant thing - my skin is cool to touch even now.
I'm as good with a sword as I am with a bow, poised to lash like a snake in the sand. Down, down, down; the king's servants stain the walls with blood dark as paint. Warcries line the air, and thumps are the backing of the melody of screams.
I am tired, tired, tired, but I push back against knights decked in silver and throw body after body to shatter on the stone.
At last, I reach the two large yew doors, hemmed with silver and gold and glittering in the light of the fire that's rising to overwhelm us.
His Majesty, The King, King Artus, my father - every version will die tonight.
I slit the key in the lock and open the door. Silver surrounds me - at least ten swords, pointed at my neck. Footsteps are behind me, and I know without looking that the rebels had reached us.
I know that I couldn't beat The King's guards in a fight. Slowly, slowly, I lower my hood. "It's me," I whisper, and the footsteps pause.
My father is a smarter man than I am, and twice as powerful, and my wife is already pregnant with a tiny baby boy. I have outlived my usefulness, and the knowledge passes through our gaze with burning fire.
"Dad." My voice echoes louder than I say it - cracks, a little bit, on the harsh stone walls.
I have killed hundreds of his men tonight - enough to halve my servants, at most. My own men. I know, in my beating fire heart, that it was justified - that my father more than deserved them.
That I hated him, to the bottom of my soul.
But... it hurts, more than it should, in the careless way he waves his hand. I don't look at the men as they charge towards me - they do it quickly. They give me that pity, at least. The blade is colder than his eyes, but it stays there, on my neck, as if it were hesitating.
"King Caeyus the First," I say: "Long live the rebels."
And then I say nothing, and the room goes up in flames.