The Prince of Clay glanced over the edge into the pit below. He could hear them down there, shuffling and squashing against each other. Roaring and grunting between laboured breaths and mouthfuls of meat. He thanked the Forevers that the light in the throne room made it too dim to see down into the pit. The sounds and the smell were enough to conjure a multitude of horrors that would haunt his dreams until the day he died. His loyal general Xain approached slowly having completed his search of the palace and spoken to the scouts.

‘What news?’

‘Well, I.’ The general stammered, trying to find the words.

‘Speak up general.’

‘There’s no one left my prince.’

‘No one, in the entire kingdom.’

‘No one but the king.’

‘And where is my father now?’ The prince growled low through gritted teeth, his fists clenched.

‘In his chambers my liege.’ That was all the prince needed to hear. He marched of towards his fathers room.

‘Keep searching general, I will attend to the king.’ The prince said turning to leave.

‘And what shall we do with these, things?’

‘When the time comes you will burn those atrocities and this palace to the ground. But I have need of them yet.’ With that the prince was gone.

The prince did not find his father in his chambers, but the secret passage to the Kiln was open and the prince could hear noises from within. Taking a torch from the sconce, the prince followed the insane babbling down the winding passages and ancient pathways to the Kiln. The womb of their kingdom. All citizens of Ougrast were born of the kings flesh here. The king had, since the dawn of time always given of his flesh to the Sire. Who through commune with the Mould, created the next generation of Sirelings. If the Kiln were the womb of the kingdom the the Mould would be the mother. It was the Mould that breathed life into the lifeless clay flesh of the king with the help of the Sire.

Entering the chamber the prince found the Sire dead on the floor. His flesh had begun to crack and crumble, returning him to the earth. The mortal wound, a broken neck. The Sire’s body laid face down yet his head was turned almost completely around. To interfere with the duties of the Sire was a crime punishable by torment and terror. To murder one, such a thing had never been heard of. More rantings and shrieks, coming from within the Mould Nest. Sure enough when the prince moved towards the Nest he found the chamber open. A second blasphemy, none, not even the king were permitted to enter the sacred pools of the Mould. None save the Sire. The relationship between the Mould and the Sire was sacred. It was always a Sire’s final duty to pass his knowledge onto his successor. It was the last service that they performed for the kingdom. Each Sire held the knowledge of all that had come before them. The Prince wondered at what horrors he may find ahead.

The prince stood at the threshold of the chamber, afraid to go in. Even now with his kingdom in ruins and his people dead, the prince still respected the laws. Laws that he had studied and come to believe in. Laws that had led him to war to fight for the people and lands he loved. And now that the war was won, what was his reward? What did he find upon his return? An empty kingdom, a mad king and abominations in his throne room. Taking a breath the prince stepped inside.

What he saw almost robbed him of his sanity in a single moment. The Mould was dying, it laid in its pool slumped and quivering with each of its laboured breaths. It’s light growing brighter then dimmer with each moment. The king laid against the side of the colossus, rising and falling with it. This was truly their end. The king, had not only robbed them of their Sire. He had poisoned the Mould when he forced it to create his obscenities. Dumbstruck the prince had scarcely noticed that his father had seen him and was rising from his profane resting place. ‘Be gone shade’ the king demanded. ‘I have nor the time or patience to entertain your kind tonight.’ It would seem that despite his frail and ragged form the king had lost none of his strength. ‘I am no phantom’ The prince boomed back. ‘I am your son, returned to you.’

‘Do not speak nonsense spirit, my son is lost to me. Gone ten winters now.’ The king replied turning from the supposed shade.

‘Yes, gone to war this past decade. Fighting to free us from the grip of our enemies. But returned to you now victorious.’ The prince took a step towards the pool. His father stopped and turned, the beginnings of tears misting over his eyes. ‘Joshua? You are truly my Joshua?’ The king almost whispered the words, not daring to hope.

‘I am Joshua, Prince of Clay. Servant of the Mould and high protector of the Sirelings. But I am yours no longer.’ The Prince stood tall, his pride swelled even at the now hollow titles.

‘What do you mean my son? Why do you speak so?’

‘Has your sanity fallen so far father that you do not see the horror you have wrought upon our lands?’ The prince demanded.

‘I saved our lands, when you were lost to us I created the means to end the war. I created a weapon that would deter any who would stand against us.’

‘And yet the only ones you unleashed it upon were your own.’ The prince took a step towards his father, who recoiled at the prince’s barely contained fury.

‘You don’t understand. We thought you were gone. We had received no word from you.’

‘My men and I were entrenched deep in the enemy kingdom. Striking them whenever and wherever we could. Always staying on the move. We were ticks trying to bleed a titan to death. But bleed it we did, in time our enemies grew so fearful of us that their lords began returning themselves to the dust rather than face us. We five hundred men bought down an empire in the name of this kingdom. I was securing our future you fool. I had little time for correspondence. And even if I did, we couldn’t chance our enemies intercepting them and learning of our position. One counterattack would have finished us. I did the impossible for you, for this land, and what do I find when I return?’

‘My son I.’

‘What do I find?’ The prince bellowed, his rage off the leash. ‘My Sire lies dead, my mould will soon follow and all of my subjects. Every last one, you have fed to those abortions in the pit. My men and I are the last of our race. You have doomed us to extinction and for what? For what? Vengeance? You would exterminate us for so small a reason?’

‘Please my son, listen to me.’ But the prince had no intention of listening. He was past the point of reason now. He crossed the chamber in a stride and grabbed his shrieking father by the collar. He dragged him to the throne room. Pulling and kicking the maniac along when he wouldn’t comply. All the way to the pit where, without a word he tossed the king in. The beasts had not eaten for days and they quickly pulled the screaming king apart. He would not make much of a meal the prince thought. But it mattered not, it would be their last. No one knows what happened to the Prince of Clay after that awful day. He and his men retreated from the dead city having kept their vow to burn it to the ground. Whether they lived on or all fell to dust, no one knows. But there were tales told from time to time of a man clad in rags and guarded by an ever dwindling force. Roaming the lands and setting to right the evils of the world.