The End

“Tell me a story, my beloved,” said the king, “Or the sun will shine over your headless corpse.”
Scheheradze smiled and recited the same story she’d told every night for the past three years.
The king was cruel, yes, but also senile.
He woke up every morning, free from memory of the day before.
So, when he’d ask for a story, it was always new to him.
Just once, she grew tired and changed it.
“Why did you change the story?” he said.
She was confused… frightened. He… knew?
He was laughing as she buried a dagger in his chest.