Perched on his obsidian throne, Erebus thought to himself, his mind going back to the same question over and over again.

Where did it all go wrong?

The room was quiet and empty, echoing with every breath. It was cold, colder than his old home had been. Not that it mattered, though. He was never going back. 

He could, however, do something about the emptiness. It was a small matter to convince the once-important demons to make the move with him, occupying the silent halls with their bustling chatter and heavy footsteps.

“They would go anywhere for you,” Astaroth had whispered to him, placing the crown on his head. Not for the first time, he wondered how, exactly, he’d ended up here.

Here, as in, sitting atop a frigid throne carved of black stone. Here, alone, in a room in a too-large house that would never feel like home. Here, along with the knowledge that, in the aftermath of his own father’s death, he’d garnered the support of thousands. Here, with the weight of a crown and the kingdom it came with resting heavy on his young head.

“Because what kind of parentless fifteen-year-old longs for a crown?” Erebus asked of the room. The stubbornly uninhabited space held no answers for him, of course. He still didn’t understand, presumably never would. Yes, his father was a widely respected man and he himself was often seen as a prodigy, but the fact remained that he was so young. How could they have trusted him to hold the crown, to heft the burden, to change the world? 

“It is us, who live in the shadows, that will bring the change,” his father had said, over and over, his smile wide and his eyes crinkling at the edges. His father; an ever gentle and kind-hearted man. A king, once here and now gone. Erebus would never see him again. 

Fresh, it stung like an open wound. Erebus couldn’t wait until the exposed flesh healed itself once more. The way it had again and again in his life. Wasn’t it tired, he thought, of everything it had been through? Because, after all of this time, nothing ever changed.

His father, Orpheus, had been so adamant that change was something to be brought. He had always acted as if change was just within reach, a tantalizingly bright fruit, close enough to touch.

And yet, he’d never taken it upon himself to initiate this change. He had let years pass under him, quiet and stealthy as a river, until time had reached up and drowned him in its cold, cruel embrace. How desperately he’d wanted the unification, for his people to walk the same sun-touched earth that the creatures, elves, they called themselves, lived on so many miles away. How easily that dream had slipped and evaporated with his illness, leaving Erebus alone with only a faint sense of longing for the world Orpheus saw, if only to fulfill that lost and broken hope. 

Erebus wondered what such a world would look like. He pushed the too-large crown slipping down his hair back into its position absently, picturing it.

A world without duty, perhaps, one in which he wouldn’t have this title called “King”. One where Astaroth and Alcor wouldn’t have to hurt and kill to survive. He could see it in his mind, smiling and laughing alongside the other, newly freed royals, their crowns discarded and their thrones left empty as they enjoyed their simple youths. 

He could see now that his father couldn’t bring change. Orpheus lacked what was needed to advance the kingdom of twilight, to guide them into the light.

Perhaps the genius that was the former king couldn’t do it, but maybe he could.

Allowing himself to relax for the first time in weeks, Erebus closed his eyes and began to plan.