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Narrator: A wandering bard who once sang praises to kings—now sings whispers of a tyrant's heart.
I have sung for noble courts, drunken inns, and dying soldiers.
But never… never have I sung a song like his.
They told me never to praise him. That a man like Leonas, the Smiling Tyrant, the White Wolf of the East, had no place in melody. That his name belonged only in war cries and curses, not in verse.
And for a time, I agreed.
I composed ballads of his cruelty—the day he burned Caldoa to the ground, laughing as priests wept; the night he held a feast atop the corpses of his enemies, wine dripping like blood. They cheered those songs. They paid me well.
But then… I went to the capital.
Not the ruins he conquered—no, his city. The one he built with blood and brilliance.
And what I saw there still gnaws at me.
He walked among the children—not smiling, but not scowling either. A flick of his eyes kept the guards back. He let a little girl pull at his royal mantle, and when she called him "snow prince," he turned his head… and chuckled. Just once.
He still executed traitors. Still crushed rebels. Still held that unholy arrogance in his eyes.
But there was something… wrong. Something changed.
He no longer ruled with rage—he ruled with burden.
He stopped sacking temples. He allowed festivals again. He ordered grain stores to the poorest cities, even when his generals warned of revolt. And when a foreign diplomat insulted his youth, he didn't respond with execution.
He simply smirked, eyes closed, and said, "Let children rule. Grown men have ruined enough."
There's a song I wrote—one I only perform when I'm sure no soldier listens. It's quiet. Almost sad.
It tells of a tyrant who once saw people as insects, then—without warning—began to see them as his insects. Annoying. Loud. Fragile. But his.
I asked a courtier once, a trembling steward who'd served him for years, what changed.
He didn't know.
None of them do.
Some say it was the war orphan he saved by mistake. Others whisper it was the death of a loyal general. One claimed the tyrant found a mirror that showed not his face, but the suffering he caused.
All lies.
Or truths.
I don't know.
All I know is this:
The devil learned how to hold a nation in his arms… and feared what would happen if he ever let go.
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