We are not the monsters. 

This is what Erebus told himself, over and over, clenching his fists until his nails dug deep into the flesh of his palms. 

We are not the villains. 

The king of Astania let out a pathetic cough from his position kneeling before Erebus’s father. The sound of his blood hitting the cold stone floor echoed in the mostly-empty dark throne room. 

We are not the devils. 

His father’s smile was as cruel and sharp as his red-stained blade, or the glinting black crown atop his carefully groomed hair. He waved for his guards to drag the king away with a rattle of chains. 

From the shadows of the throne, Erebus watched him go. Pale hair, pale face, pale eyes. The only splashes of color were the blood and bruises dancing across his formerly regal and poised face. His eyes were closed, defeated. Erebus’s skin crawled. 

We are not the sinners. 

Astaroth leaned his head on his leg and he uncurled his fists, placing a hand between his soft ears. The wolf growled comfortingly, pushing his head upwards, prompting Erebus to scratch at him absentmindedly. 

“You did well, son,” came the voice behind him. He looked up to see his father smiling down at him, all warmth and love. The king of demons ruffled his son’s hair kindly. Erebus could smell the metalic scent of blood on his hands. 

We are not the monsters, he reminded himself. Erebus stared at his own hands, small and suited for his five years of age. 

We’re only kids.