He had been a goddamn child.
So sure of himself. So certain that he was meant for greatness, that the world would part for him like the Red Sea with Moses and crown him for his brilliance. He had believed so deeply in his own myth,that great lie, the orphan who rose from the gutters, the slave who turned his chains into laurels.
He'd looked in the mirror and seen not a man, but a story. A legend.
And legends, he thought, didn't bleed.
He had believed that power was a thing of wit and will, that as long as he kept moving forward, as long as he refused to kneel, the world would eventually yield.
But as it turned out , it didn't.
Power had a price. It always did. It demanded its toll in blood and pain and sleepless nights. And when it couldn't find an enemy to take it from, it reached for your friends instead.
He had escaped slavery, yes. Crawled from the mud, stolen the keys to the princedom, and worn a crown that had been meant for men born better than him.
