((For those of you who might've read the prologue before, I have changed the name of the country, so...there. You've been informed.))

Flames burst and crackled all around them, methodical in its manic way burning nearer and nearer. The high, wooden beams up above turned to black ash, or thundered down from their lofty perch, tearing down that which they had held once so dear. Simply put, the castle was slowly crumpling in on itself in death, in ruin; the fire was an early scavenger, was all. Sahale had been withered for quite some time, and now its mortal remains were falling to the same end. The flames burned white-hot, and the bronze statues of Fate and Chance wept openly even as their own figures succumbed to the greed of the fire. All that had once stood for power and grace, the beauty of the modern world… It would be no more than a memory come morning, and every ash would be lost to the Four Winds once Eurana rode along the dawn's train. Tapestries and paintings, the carved wooden chairs and tables; nothing was spared.

Rapid, panicked steps slapped against the marble floor and were just as quickly silenced, a loud thump of a body striking the firm ground, echoing the whirr of an arrow that had found its mark. A whimper escaped raw and bitten lips as fingernails scraped futilely for some sort of purchase in the marble stone, a male of tender age trying to scramble to his feet, to run, to flee, to fly far, far awa—

The youth was once again introduced to the floor harshly as a booted foot pressed down between his shoulder blades, the tip of the boot pushing cruelly against the yew arrow lodged in his bleeding flesh. A cry this time was ripped from his lips, even as his whimper devolved into incoherent babbling. Hot breath scraped along his velvet soft cheek, and bright, green eyes were brighter still with fear, fear for the one who loomed over him, who whispered in his ear so gently, so softly…

"You promised, Oliver. Don't you remember your promise?"

The words were needles of ice in his heart, and suddenly a scream was wrenched from his soul as his tormentor stepped fully upon the feathered arrow and the shaft broke off even as the head was driven in deeper.

"'TILL DEATH DO US PART', Oliver!"

A madness ruled that voice, and drove that mind, fanning the flames of ambition to the monstrous wildfires of hell. That same madness had withered the very heart that he had loved her for. Tresses of white, silken hair were flicked back over sweat-soaked shoulders, soot marking very clearly where drops of perspiration had dribbled down her pallid skin.

"Please, Marian—"

She swooped down upon him, and green eyes shut closed, hoping that the end was swift, when arms enveloped him, and she brushed a finger lightly down his cheek, even as feather-soft lips pressed sweetly against his temple. She held him to her bosom dearly, stroking his velvet skin as tenderly as the first day they had met. Her sapphiric eyes drank in his sight affectionately, her love not without its layer of madness over it. "Yes, my love?" She asked ever so kindly.

"Marian…" His voice broke, sweat mixing with his blood and trickling down the side of his oval face. "Marian…let me go. Please, Marian." The castle continued to fall to pieces around them, and she shook her head warmly, smiling even.

"No, Oliver…it can't be done."

"Marian, we're going to /die/."

"Yes, Oliver." She admitted, nodding candidly. A sob fell away from him, and in some room nearby, the ceiling collapsed, tons of stone crushing the stone marble below. The end was near. Raggedly sucking in a deep breath, his emerald eyes lay upon her soft features one last time.

"I hate you, Marian." He whispered tragically.

"Yes, Oliver." She murmured in a dream-like tone. "I love you, too."

All that tied Sahale's last prestige to the mortal world went up in flames, the last two monarchs clutching each other in death just as tightly as they had never been in life.