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It’s done.” Durin said, dropping his hand from the old man’s neck. He grimaced at the fresh blood now coating his hands, pulling out a handkerchief and gruffly wiping them on it. The moon’s light pierced through the window, the eerie silver cutting around the throne. Myra scoffed at the mess. Atticus had made that throne his wrongful  pedestal, his rise to power. 
“Wherever you rise, you’re bound to fall as well.” She murmured aloud, stepping delicately towards the body now pinned to the back of the chair. She ran her fingers along the scepter she’d plunged into his heart, sighing wistfully. Her heart had long grown old and tired. Durin grimaced at her, his face doused under silver lighting like the rest of the otherwise empty room.