Beyond the castle juts a pier of stone.
Stand at its basalt peak. Let eyes drift down:
The swirling vapours hide a gulf unknown.
To this abyss, the old king threw the crown.
Those were the days of wealth, and distant war,
But choices still were hard, and rule was pain.
The weary monarch cried at last “No more!”,
Fled duty and the throne, and joined the slain.
But now the war has reached these ancient walls.
The keep is held — by squabbling, shattered men.
Three blood-stained generals eye the royal halls.
Where father leaped, now daughter climbs again.
Above the stones, her parachute spreads wide …
The gates behind her crack; foes storm inside.
Jenkins Rising 
One response to “The Last Heir”
Again loverly prose.
Written in such a way as to encourage the reader to moderate his speed, enhancing the reverence of the sonet.
Thanks Edward, keep it up