To rule is to lead.
And to lead—is to sacrifice.
That was the mantra of monarchs, whispered between bloodied thrones and silent wars. In the Empire, they sang it with reverence, carved it into marble, etched it into swords gifted to children too young to understand their weight.
But true sacrifice was not dying for one's people.
It was living for them.
Living with the shame. The burden. The decisions that stained the soul beyond redemption.
Only those whose hearts were vast as the holy mountain—so vast they could cradle an entire nation's grief—had the right to be kind.
Only those with the strength to destroy the world... yet chose not to.
The world didn't need rulers who healed the wounded.
It needed those who could bear the entire wound of the world—and still stand tall.
That… was the kindness only sovereigns understood.
That… was the kindness Eli had chosen.
