Bow

The people grow restless. The soil grows hungry.

A meaningless title. The crown and jewels only weigh you down, only make it harder to escape. Maybe they knew that. Maybe that’s why you’re here.

A cape as red as the blood in your knight’s veins, but far more valuable. The common folk would kill for a scrap, and die because of it. When did it come to this? Why is it so hard to move?

A comfortable chair before a crowd. They bow to it, with or without you. You don’t matter, you can be replaced. It’s only the objects they respect. The gold around your throat tightens.

They were still bowing when the flames washed over, and you were still sitting; the weight of it all holding you in place. Picturesque. What a pretty face.

The relics were plucked from your remains and given to someone else, they only get younger from here. More blood to mix with dirt and feed the crops, it ends the same. Everyone bows.