The Losing

There was a man who believed himself a mighty ruler. With brags, boasts and egocentric toasts. This was a king who didn’t understand his own power. For the blindness in him was more than in most. 

The wolves were running to the north. They passed by this kingdom and sharpened their claws. For the wolf king himself heard word of this mighty king who only cared to boast rather than celebrate the loyalty of his kin. A dreadful failure was this king. For inspiring the wrath of the cold wolf king. 

A night passed and the kingdom awoke. To broken necks, slaughtered young and torn throats. The king arose as he usually did but there was no one there to recognise him as king.

This king realised so very soon. The wolf king had left only him alive. Away from his people, high up in his room. He screamed a broken curse to the skies. Without his subjects his city walls would cease to rise.

Without this loyalty his power was naught but a pathetic disguise. He cried and searched for anyone. For without his subjects his rule was over none.