The Great Immortal Venerable Sovereign
["Power unchallenged is power unseen.
Justice untested is justice uncertain.
And even a Sovereign must walk among the dust and ash of the world,
To know if the light he kindled in the hearts of men still burns.
Thus, the Great Immortal Venerable Sovereign set down his crown,
And clothed himself in the silence of the common road."]
---
The Sovereign walked through the great gates of Selvarad, the Shining City.
He wore no crown now.
No throne followed him.
Only a heavy cloak, a simple staff, and an unseen weight upon his shoulders.
The streets were filled with color — banners fluttered, merchants shouted praises to the king, fountains spilled wine for the festival of the "Benevolent Reign."
Children danced in gilded masks. Soldiers smiled behind polished armor.
The city glowed like a gemstone turned to face the sun.
But the Sovereign's eyes, hidden beneath his hood, saw deeper.
He moved through the crowd without disturbing it, like a shadow cast at noon.
Beneath the bright parades and golden songs, he heard the true heart of Selvarad:
A mother weeping blood tears behind a locked door.
A crippled man thrown into an alley because he could no longer serve.
A merchant selling poisoned bread to orphans for a king's coin.
He passed a shrine where a priestess chanted blessings for the king.
Behind her altar, he glimpsed the broken bodies of the poor, used to fuel the "miracles."
["Where crowns grow from ash," the Sovereign murmured beneath his breath, unseen by all, "the rain that falls will be black."]
In the marketplace, he watched a boy snatch a fruit from a merchant's stall.
The merchant, red-faced and brutish, seized the boy and raised a club to crush his hand.
The Sovereign's staff tapped the stone once.
The merchant froze, his arm trembling in midair.
He blinked, feeling as if the gaze of a god had fallen upon him.
A voice, low and calm, entered the air — but none could see its source:
["The measure of a man is not what he owns, but what he forgives."]
The merchant fell to his knees, the club dropping from his hand.
He began to sob without knowing why, letting the boy go free.
The Sovereign turned away, his cloak brushing the dust.
Another crack in the city's illusion. Another seed planted.
---
The day wore on.
The Sovereign climbed the marble steps of the Palace of Selvarad, blending into the pilgrims who came to offer gifts to the king.
Within the grand hall, nobles laughed and drank, throwing coins to starving children brought in as entertainment — a display of "charity."
The Sovereign stood silently at the edge of the court.
None recognized him.
A duke, drunk with wine and power, raised a goblet and roared:
"Behold the blessings of Selvarad! Our glory shines to the heavens! Even the beggars sing our praise!"
The Sovereign raised his head slightly.
His eyes, cold and merciless, caught the duke's for a moment.
The duke stumbled, his voice faltering mid-toast.
Across the hall, a low voice spoke — no louder than the breath of wind, but it struck the heart like a hammer:
["A kingdom that deafens itself with its own songs will not hear the approach of ruin."]
The torches flickered. The wine soured in the goblets.
Some among the gathered nobles shifted uncomfortably, though they could not say why.
The Sovereign left before the throne could notice.
He had seen enough.
---
That night, as the revels raged and false blessings filled the streets, the Sovereign sat atop the highest tower of Selvarad, unseen.
He watched the city sparkle in the darkness like a crown set with bloody jewels.
["Pity the fool who mistakes glitter for gold. Pity more the king who mistakes rot for rule."]
He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of what must come.
Selvarad had three chances: to repent, to rebuild, to restore true justice.
The Sovereign would give them these chances.
If they squandered them...
Selvarad would become a name only whispered by the ruins.