rust-king-iron-bronze

I wandered through the ruins of a once mighty city. The battle had tarnished its beauty, and death replaced the vibrant life that used to fill the streets. I wanted to take it all in, once more, before I left for the desert. I wouldn’t not be back again, and I wanted to remember my home.

The street lead me to the king’s throne room, once a grand adventure to see him and his court in their splendour. The battered doors and shattered windows wept for what once was. As I slipped in, I could only hang my head in painful and sorrowful respect for the past.

As I passed over the threshold, my spirit sank. Something was wrong, more wrong than the devastation of the city. There, sitting on a rotting wooden stump, a man sat wearing a rusted crown.

“You! Down from there. Do you know where you assume the right to sit?”

He raised his head, as if my call had roused him from a sleep. But it was not sleep that I saw in his eyes. It was dastardly. Evil gave his shrunken pupils a dark glisten.

“I know where I sit. The problem is, you don’t know me nor my right to sit here.”

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