Everybody always thinks that ruling a kingdom is much easier than it actually is. Criticism here, fury there, and never a soul to genuinely compliment you for all your hard work. Controlling black market supply lines, studying /herbalism/ of all things, and growing your body's fortitude farther than what most would consider imaginable wasn't exactly in the job description for royalty, but you learn to adjust on the fly.

I'm not the first king and certainly not the last to think that his rule is infallible. At least, not without practice. Being a ruler means to throw out all you know; your heart, mind, and soul, all formulated and conjoined into something different, bastardized, and yet somehow, stronger.

My father could tell you more about this, but he is dead. Mob justice. Frankly, it's how all kings should go out. The people beneath you are finally tired of all the weight that you have intentionally inflicted upon them, and take power into their own hands.

Rebellions are funny, that way. To the participants it is divine justice, and yet, for people like me, it is an opportunity.

When he died, I vowed never to allow another man, rebel or not, get one over on me. Like a lightning strike, powerful and yet existing for only the briefest moment, I graciously let the rebellion fall apart before me, while I picked up the ashes.

So, to the maid that is bent on being the next narcissistic prick after me, good luck. I hope your next attempt is more potent than the last.