The Crown Taken at a Cost
The Crown Taken at a Cost
He did not inherit the crown.
He wrested it from the hands of fate —
and from the man he once was.
The blood on the blade is not a confession of cruelty,
but a ledger of consequence —
a reminder that every choice carves its way into the body.
The crown in his grasp is jagged,
unforgiving,
a relic forged from grief and duty.
He does not lift it to his brow.
He weighs it.
He measures what it asks of him.
Behind him stand the silent witnesses —
soldiers, ghosts, oaths —
those who followed, those who fell,
those who will never speak of what happened in the dark.
The storm does not break him.
It names him.
He is a man who understands that power is never triumphant —
only costly.
That leadership is not the roar of conquest,
but the quiet acceptance of burden.
The world will say he is ruthless.
The truth is simpler, and harder:
He did what was necessary —
and he will carry it for the rest of his days.
Heather Lynn Donovan
Always by Candlelight