“Even the fiercest crown cannot armor a bleeding heart.” The King’s Monologue He, a king who reaps the truth from mortal eyes; His tongue a sword, that cleaves the swollen ego. His eyes, though dull, pierce hearts steeped in envy. Brave is the king that soaks in bloody truth, and washes golden lies from his sight. One who sheaths his sword before a wronged foe, yet unsheathes it to a masked ally. Yet the king, though mighty, is but a man— he bleeds, and weeps for foes, and kingdoms yet unsaved. Though he was but a child, crying for help, and left alone, never did he place an arrow upon a neck that turned from him. And still he stands, scarred by past, crowned in sorrow, a sovereign whose mercy outshines the might of crowns, for even kings are measured by the hearts they spare, and to rule without compassion is to wound oneself in shadow.