I have sat upon the throne for many years now, though the weight of it never quite ceases to surprise me. Not because it is a seat of power—power is fleeting, ephemeral—but because it is a seat of solitude, of perpetual distance from the world I once knew.

I remember, as a child, how much I longed for the day I would take the crown, when I would stand in the court and hear the applause of my people, when I would command armies and shape the future. But now, sitting here in the cold stone room, I see those dreams for what they truly are—glittering fragments of a past I cannot return to.

Today, as always, my chamber is filled with whispers—small, careful, measured tones from those who seek my favor. A noble man approaches, his face twisted with a mixture of ambition and fear. He speaks of trade routes, of a new alliance, and his words are full of promise. He hopes I will grant his request, that I will see his cause as vital to the kingdom’s future.

I listen. I always listen. But my gaze drifts past him, to the polished floor beneath the throne, to the windows that let in the pale light of an afternoon sun. I once marveled at that light. Now, it simply reminds me of the hours that pass, unremarked, unnoticed, in the shadow of duty.

The man finishes speaking, his voice quivering with expectation, and I return my focus to him.

“My lord,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a breath, “Your request is heard.”

He bows low, his forehead almost brushing the floor. The movement is so ingrained in him, so practiced, that I feel the dull weight of ritual pressing on me. A king’s word is law, they say, but sometimes I wonder if my word is anything more than an echo, a reminder of promises I no longer wish to make.

I motion him away, watching as he scurries from the room, leaving me alone again. The doors close with a soft thud, and the silence that follows feels almost suffocating.

I rise from my seat, for once relishing the freedom of standing, of being unbound by the cold, heavy throne. My feet take me to the balcony, and I step into the cool breeze of the open air. Below, the people move like ants, their lives too small for me to understand, too far removed for me to reach. I can see them from this height—small, insignificant, yet so full of life. They are free in a way I will never be.

A servant enters, her steps light and hesitant, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace I have found. I glance at her, and she holds out a silver goblet, filled with wine, the deep red liquid shimmering like blood under the dimming light.

“Your grace,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “The council awaits your decision.”

I take the goblet, but I do not drink. The weight of the choice I must make today presses heavily on my chest. Another war to quell. Another city to defend. Another treaty to sign, another life to control.

I close my eyes, the taste of a freedom I cannot have lingering on my tongue. If only I could be one of them, one of the people below, free to love, to live without consequence, without the burden of responsibility. If only I could walk through the streets without guards at my back, without the ever-watchful eyes of those who would see me fail.

But I cannot.

I raise the goblet to my lips, feeling the cold, silken surface of the silver against my skin. The decision has already been made. The crown is a mantle I cannot shed, a destiny I cannot escape. I will continue to rule, continue to be the figurehead of a kingdom that depends on me. I will continue to make choices that will shape the lives of those below, even if they never know the weight of those choices.

I drink, and as the wine slips past my lips, I find myself wondering, just for a moment, if there could have been another life for me. One without a throne. One without the endless stream of duty.

But such thoughts are luxury, and luxury is a thing of the past. The silver throne waits, as it always has.

And I must return to it.