You are welcome to tell me what you think about this story of mine. I had to translate it from Icelandic to English, but it was interestingly fun. Hope you enjoy.
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The Tyrant

“Your highness, the rebels are on their way through the main hall.” The voice of my high counselor echoed in my massive office forged with steel walls. I sat by my desk and was writing a long letter to the neighboring country in the west where I demanded their surrender by the borders. Earlier that day I had gotten news that some foreigner had climbed on top of my statue in the town square and after he had the attention of all the village idiots he announced that he had found the only weapon that could kill me. I looked tired at my high counselor.

“Your highness?” echoed in my office. I looked from my high counselor and onto the walls where eight beautiful paintings of myself in uniforms hung. I stood up from the desk, walked to my closet and found the crimson cloak. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I looked fearsome.

“What do you think, high counselor?” I asked my high counselor. He looked at me with a smile.

“I think this is a wise choice, sire,” he said exactly like a servant should sound. “Fearsome, yet noble.” I couldn’t agree more.

I walked down the corridor and made my way towards the main hall with my high counselor. As I had hoped the guards had let the rebels up the stairs and to the gate which they now tried to break through. Their hero was nowhere to be seen. He was probably trying to sneak into the castle from somewhere else.

“What do you think, high counselor? Will the hero attempt to get in through the air ducts this time? Or perhaps use the old secret tunnels?” This was not the first time there was a rebellion in the town. I’ve needed to defend against attacks from all sides.

“We’ve made changes to the air ducts, sire. Only a child could get through there. And the tunnels have been demolished due to the poisonous fumes that we let in there.” Ah, yes. The fumes. I remember them specially. We let them into the tunnels to defend against the last assault, which was lead through the tunnels. Good times, good memories.

Many have tried to get into the castle to overthrow me. What for? To take over my world stretching empire which took me centuries to build? Then reign over it with an iron fist? I think not. That privilege is reserved for me alone. Not that they could kill me or anything, I am immortal after all. I had a wizard extract my should and bind it into another object. Unless this object comes into direct contact with me or is destroyed I won’t die. And now there is some fool who thinks he has found that object? What a foolish thought.

I and my high counselor arrived to the main hall where the guards had taken a position. They weren’t many, perhaps only five or six but that was enough. They knew what to do. Suddenly, a young man jumped forward, dressed in rags and barefoot. Before I had time to take a good look at him he ran me through with a sword. My blood gushed forth and colored his blond hair red.

The door opened and the village idiots ran in with pitch forks and torches but came to a sudden stop when they saw their hero with a sword in his hand and me with that sword running through me. The hero withdrew his sword from my body and I let myself fall down on the blood-covered floor. The rebels could hardly believe their own eyes. The battle had ended before they got a chance to fight. Nevertheless they cheered as their hero lifted the blade over his head and cheered with them. I hate his cheering. They tend to be so loud.

I got back on my feet. My beautiful uniform was covered in blood. When the townsfolk saw this they stopped cheering. The hero didn’t know why until he turned around to meet the barrel of my specially made hand-cannon. One bullet is enough to pierce through the thickest armor. Alas, the hero’s head was not armored and the bullet pierced through his head like a warm knife through melted butter. Much blood followed the bullet which flew through the group of rebels and ended in the steel enforced wall. The rebels looked like they had seen a ghost. It is this look which I treasure the most. The look of my opponents when I rise again from death.

“I thank you for this entertainment, my dear subjects,” I said to the speechless fools in front of me. “No get to your homes and celebrate that your lovable king still lives, or stay and spend the night in my dungeon.” It took some time, but at last the village idiots left the main hall. The body of the hero was removed and my high counselor took up the sword which had been used.

“What should I do with this, my lord?” he said with a humble voice and showed me the sword. It was a masterwork even though I say so myself, since it was I who made it.

“How about hiding it in the black forest this time? It should take them a little longer to find. They were a bit too fast this time. And make up some story about a weapon that can kill anything, even the dead. I want a report by this time tomorrow which includes how that guy got in.” My high counselor wrote it all down and got to work. Of course there is something that can kill me but I hide that in a hidden safe under my desk. Not in some cave guarded by a dragon.

I sat back down by my desk and finished the letter to the neighboring country in the west.

Nice short story Skari! There are some minor grammar 'errors', but I think those mostly come from translating. Otherwise a very entertaining point of view. And I usually don't like stories written in the first person.

One tip: Make paragraphs

I'm not very good with english grammar, specially not when translating
I'll fix that paragraph thing, which I obviously did wrong since I thought I did make paragraphs, but I'll do that later. Thanks for your comments man

"Fixed" the paragraph thing a little bit, so this should turn out to be an easier reading for you. Also made some changes to the wording in this to attempt at fixing the grammar. Please let me know what can be done to make this better, like grammar or spelling as an example.