The Crown
The candlelight flickered against the aged parchment as Liora Kale turned another page of The Writ of Kings, the personal journal of King Kevin, the sovereign of the colony. The leather-bound tome had been preserved in a locked chest within the ruins, its pages brittle with time, yet inked with the weight of unrelenting ambition.
Her fingers traced the uneven script, each word scrawled with purpose—no hesitation, no doubt. She imagined the king's hand pressing against the paper, quill scratching against the silence as he immortalized his thoughts. The words carried a presence, as though the past whispered its secrets to her.
She took a deep breath and read.
The King's Burden
Spring, 5525
Today, Coca comes before me, wearied by his conscience, speaking treason in the guise of reason. His heart is softened, his sight blurred by excess. He does not understand, or perhaps, he chooses not to. He questions me, as though I am some merchant to be swayed, as though a kingdom can be built upon kindness.
Liora leaned forward. Coca—the king's second-in-command—was well known in the fragmented records they had recovered. He had been the architect of the colony's grand halls, the overseer of production, and by all accounts, a brilliant mind. But until now, the extent of his discontent had remained unknown.
Her eyes flicked to the next passage.
"Why must we continue to steal people from their homes?" he asks me, his voice heavy with doubt. "Have we not enough?"
"Enough?" I set down my quill, peering at him through the candle's dim glow. He stands before my desk, shoulders tense with the weight of his words.
"You speak of 'enough' as though the word holds meaning. Do you know who speaks of enough, Coca? The smallfolk, the meek, the farmers content to harvest their modest crops and count their silver with trembling hands. Kings do not ask if they have enough. Kings ask if there is more."
"But, my lord," Coca pleads, stepping forward, voice hushed as though afraid to utter his thoughts in full. "We eat off golden plates while the slaves starve. We possess wealth beyond measure, yet we drive them to death's embrace. The harsh conditions are unnecessary. We could pay men for their labor—offer them dignity."
"Dignity?" I scoff. "Dignity is a lie for the weak to hold in place of power. A starving man speaks of dignity when he cannot grasp wealth. A conquered man clings to dignity when he cannot wield control. What would you have me do, Coca? Set them free? Offer them coin? Let them leave when they tire of my rule? No, no—this is the way of fools and failures."
He flinches but does not yield. "But, my king, we have more silver than we could ever spend. We have outgrown the need for such cruelty. Even the greatest empires of old released their bondsmen in time. Have we not learned from history?"
"History? What history? The history of the crumbling, the failed, the weak? The history of empires too foolish to tighten their grasp? No, Coca. I do not study the mistakes of the fallen so I may follow their path—I study them so I may surpass them. The moment a king believes he has enough, he is already undone."
Descent into Obsession
Liora shivered. The words were not those of a mere ruler, but of a man consumed—an ambition so vast it had devoured reason itself.
She turned another page.
Coca's hands clench at his sides. He is a man at war with himself. Once, he was like me—ruthless, unyielding. But years in these halls have softened him. He has grown comfortable in prosperity. He does not understand that power is not maintained by mercy.
"Then tell me, my king," he says at last, voice laced with bitterness, "When will it be enough?"
I fix him with my gaze, watching the last remnants of defiance flicker in his eyes like a dying flame.
"It will be enough when every silver coin in the Rim is mine. It will be enough when all who dwell beneath the stars answer to Sovereign's Grasp. It will be enough when I decide it is enough—and not a moment before."
His face darkens. I see it in his eyes—that sliver of betrayal, that whisper of revolt. But he will not act on it. Not yet. He fears what I am willing to do. And fear is the weight that crowns must bear.
The journal trembled in Liora's hands. This was not the declaration of a ruler seeking order, nor the reflections of a tyrant burdened by necessity. No—King Kevin had been something else entirely. He had not built Sovereign's Grasp out of need. He had built it for the sheer, unquenchable thrill of dominion.
The Chains of the Crown
The next entry was dated months later. The tone had changed.
Summer, 5525
Coca is dead.
He thought me blind to his doubts. He mistook my patience for weakness. He plotted in whispers, gathered the others, fanned the embers of their unease into the flames of treason. Fools. They did not realize that I was watching, always watching. Before their rebellion could bloom, I plucked it from the root.
The executions were swift. Coca was the last to kneel before me, bound in chains of gold, a symbol of the shackles he so loathed. He did not beg. Even in his final moments, he was proud. But he was wrong.
"You believe yourself righteous," I told him, standing over him as the blade was readied. "You believe this is justice. But justice is a word for men who do not understand power."
His blood stains the stones of the grand hall. I have ordered that it remain—untouched, unwashed—a reminder to those who may forget the cost of betrayal.
Liora inhaled sharply. She could see it now—the echoes of Sovereign's Grasp stretching beyond death, its legacy carved into the bones of those who had lived and perished beneath its rule. The king had ruled not with necessity, nor even with cruelty, but with the insatiable need for more.
The Last Entry
She flipped to the final page.
Autumn, 5526
I have achieved greatness. The colony thrives beyond measure. The markets clamor for our goods, the Rim bends to our will. But still, the hunger gnaws at me. There is always another deal to strike, another slave to break, another world beyond this one that dares to exist beyond my grasp.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
The ink trailed off there, the sentence unfinished, as though the king had been interrupted—or perhaps, as though he himself had finally hesitated.
Liora closed the journal, the weight of its words pressing upon her. Sovereign's Grasp had not fallen because it had grown weak. It had fallen because the hunger of its ruler had been bottomless.
In the end, the crown had devoured him whole.