I tell of a future, I want you to see. You have put your trust in me. Kings and men die over a spoken tone; yet, these prophecies are nothing but a creation of my own. Like a web, intricate and spun.

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Torches lit the spires of Greyfriars Church. John Comyn and his men cast menacing shadows in front of them, as they stood at the threshold of the building.

"John, we need to speak. Alone." Said Robert, dismounting his horse.

"What can an absentee King possibly have to discuss with me? You have shamed oor' great nation, six chances she gave ye, six times ye failed her."

"I would not have come, if I did not have something to offer."

"Fine. Yer men will stay outside, and ye'll hand yer weapons over while yer at it." At his command, Comyn's men swelled forward; they outnumbered Roberts two to one, but they had served their purpose. He had gained an audience with John Comyn. Alone.

Yes, yes, kill. Do not give them the knife. Keep it hidden. Kill. The voice's whisper grew louder in his head as one of the soldiers patted him down. With each step he took closer to the church, the voice grew; Robert swore that any louder and people would be able to hear it. His chest grew heavy, causing his breathing to labour as he felt the cold steel of the concealed blade flash against his skin. You will do what you must.

They stood at either side of the high-altar; the only light was a trio of candles that stood at the foot of the pedestal.

"What are ye doin' here Robert?"

"I have come to barter. Publicly denounce your claim to the throne, and I will make you one of the wealthiest men in Scotland. Double your lands."

Comyn fiddled with a ring on his finger, before looking up with a wide grin on his face. "I am already one of the wealthiest men in Scotland. What is money compared to the authority of a King?"

"John, you know that if we continue to fight, Longshanks will gain complete control over our nation."

"What do you know of Longshanks? I met with him last week, he supports my claim to the Scottish throne."

Robert felt like he had taken an arrow to the throat, as the words gurgled at the back of his mouth: seething with rage. "You have made a deal with that bastard?"

"Aye. And as soon as ye step out of this chrurch, my men will have ye. I will savour the moment as I watch yer pitiful head lopped from yer shoulders."

Robert closed his eyes, turning away from Comyn. Kill. Kill. "Then you will die." He spun frantically, lurching for his foe, with the small blade brandished high in the air. Robert found his hand caught in Comyns as he tried to sink the blade deep into the flesh, causing the pair to crash to the floor. They tossed around, fuelled by the murderous adrenaline coursing through their veins. Robert managed to free his left hand and strike Comyn in the face; blood spraying from an open wound.

The favour was quickly returned, causing Robert to drop the blade that he held to his right. As he reached for it, Comyn took control, and spun him over; landing blow after blow upon his face. With his consciousness fading, he heard the voice. The blade. It is within your reach. Do it. His fingers found the sgian dubh as he wrapped them around the leather hilt, and without hesitation, he violently thrust it upwards to meet the neck of John Comyn.

He pushed him off as the dying Lord clung to the hole in his neck, gasping for each blood-splattered breath. As the shimmering crimson pooled around him, Robert saw the vacant stare and heard the last laboured exhale of his rival. Thus, with God as their only witness, John Comyn of Badenoch died before the high-altar.

Yes. Yes.