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Once upon a time, because all shady, legacy-altering stories must start that way, there lived a King.

But not just any King. King Aldric.

No, no. This King was different. He wasn’t throwing gaudy parties or parading around with a jewel-encrusted scepter.

No, this man built the land from scratch.

Calloused hands.

Dirt under the nails.

He found the people. He built the homes. He laid the foundation, both literal and metaphorical.

And while he could have sat on a throne made of solid gold and smug grins, he chose something else: modesty.

He was a King who never flexed his wealth. Never bragged. Never once dropped a "Do you know who I am?" at the village pub. Instead, he chose privacy. A kingly game of "let's not embarrass ourselves in front of the peasants."

But deep down, oh, deep, deep down, he had a dream.

Not just any dream. A legacy.

To build a dynasty. To share the wealth with his family. To bless future generations with what his tired hands had earned.

The King had two Princes.

Prince Alaric: The elder. Sharp, disciplined. The kind of guy who alphabetized his scrolls and scheduled bathroom breaks.

And Prince Cassian: The younger. Bright-eyed, lionhearted, and, well, a little too confident in his own invincibility.

Cassian, a young father, adored his baby boy, Evander. And one fateful day, determined to visit his son, he mounted his trusty steed, locked eyes to cross the a ravine, and made… a choice.

The Great Ravine.

Everyone knew the rule: When it rains, you do not cross The Great Ravine.

The ravine, calm by day, became a raging, frothing monster during a storm. Waves taller than a man and his horse combined. Currents that dragged full-grown trees under like matchsticks.

But Cassian, bless him, thought he could outrun a storm.

He cracked his spurs. His steed lunged forward. Rain began to fall, the first warning shot from the heavens, but he pressed on, eyes locked on the distant light. Determined to reach his son.

The clouds turned black.

The rain pelted down.

The river swelled.

Still, he pressed on.

Cassian never made it out.

When the waters receded, they found him, and his loyal steed, claimed by the very land he had tried to conquer.

A noble act. A tragic end. And decision, his, and his only. 

Cassian was honored, as he should have been, not only for his courage but for the undying love for his son that spurred him into that storm.

But Alaric? Prince Alaric never quite recovered.

Grief turned to turmoil. Turmoil turned to workaholism. And a kernel of resentment festered. If only his brother hadn’t been so foolish. If only there was no Evander to rush to.

Alaric buried himself in duty. In papers. In law. In "getting things done."

And in time, the old King passed, as Kings tend to do.

The New King.

Alaric received his crown and control of the kingdom.

Vision of "sharing the wealth equally among all bloodlines"? Not so much.

You see, Alaric had… other plans.

The old King’s dream was noble, sure. But Alaric was the one running the kingdom now. He was the one doing the hard work. Not his deceased brother, nor his family.

So why shouldn’t Alaric's family, his immediate line, be the sole inheritors of the kingdom?

From Alaric's view, the math was simple: he was the one who had stayed. When others faltered, he endured. He had buried his brother, helped raise his nephew, and carried the burden of the kingdom’s fortunes on his shoulders. For years, he sacrificed, toiled, and fortified the land without applause or parade. Bloodlines were sentimental; survival was not.

Why divide the kingdom’s fruits among those who hadn't plowed its fields or mended its broken fences?

Legacy was not owed, it was earned. And Alaric, by every rational calculation he could summon, had earned it.

So, Alaric secured the kingdom’s wealth for his branch of the tree. And if the old King rolled in his grave?

Well, he was already there.

Evander, the son of the fallen Prince, the boy Cassian died to see, grew up looking to Alaric as a father figure, a role model.

Years passed.

Alaric fought battles of his own. The biggest yet: A battle, a sacrifice, that left him contemplating, at long last, his mortality.

In the dark days of recovery, when kings and commoners alike reflect on life, Alaric faced a question:

“What will the people remember about me?”

Would he be King Alaric who hoarded the legacy? The King who cut family ties in favor of gold bars?

At first, Alaric believed he was securing his rightful place in history, the savior of the kingdom, the protector of his line.

A King remembered for his cunning and fortitude.

But over time, as seasons shifted and the halls grew quieter, he realized something deeper: that such a legacy would be hollow. That the true immortality wasn't in vaults of gold, but in carrying out the dream of his father, King Aldric. In honoring the same values that had built the kingdom in the first place.

Aldric, much like the great Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, understood that power was fleeting, and ego was the enemy.

In his court, Aldric kept close to him a trusted servant whose sole purpose was to whisper a simple truth each day:

"Remember, you are only a man."

It wasn’t grandeur or riches that defined greatness, it was humility. It was legacy. It was the knowledge that kings rise and fall, but what they build can outlive them all.

Aldric lived, and ruled, by that creed. In honoring the same values that had built the kingdom in the first place.

If he continued alone, he'd be remembered as a man who clung to power.

But if he fulfilled the old dream, he’d be remembered like King Aldric himself, the builder, the dreamer, the founder.

Not merely a king, but the King who chose legacy over ego.

And slowly, he chose the harder path.

Enter: the Traveler.

Leander.

Not just Evander’s son.

Not just a chip off the old block.

An old soul, reincarnate. Walking proof that...some legacies refuse to die quietly.

Leander grew up hearing whispers of the old King’s dream, not just wealth, but legacy.

And he remembered: to win their hearts and minds.

He approached Alaric, King Alaric, the uncle, not with accusations, but with admiration.

With humility.

With a reminder:

I look up to you.

I have followed your path.

I want to carry the torch, just like you once carried it for the old King.

And something shifted.

Maybe it was the battle scars.

Maybe it was the ticking of the clock.

Maybe it was the way Leander resembled the fallen Prince Cassian, in the tilt of his chin and the fire in his heart.

But Alaric, the meticulous, iron-willed Alaric, his hard outer shell softened.

Transformation wasn’t instant.

It took days.

Months.

Years.

Of conversations.

Of forgiveness.

Of remembering what it means to build, not just to own.

Until finally, the crown began to shift.

From King Alaric.

To the Traveler.

Leander was slated, as the next King of the land.

He took up the old lessons.

He stepped into responsibility.

He didn't just dream of legacy.

He lived it.

The kingdom was once again alive with the spirit of its founder, privacy, modesty, and an unwavering commitment to building something that lasts beyond one lifetime.

The Traveler didn’t just inherit wealth.

He inherited the dream.

And this time, he wasn’t crossing a ravine.

He was building a bridge.

For generations to come.

Long Live King Alaric

Long Live Evander.

Long live the Traveler, Leander.

Each reunited and aligned. Each working together. Each carrying out the legacy. The dream.

As it ought to be.