The Epic of The Tyrant King's Chosen One

Tiresias' words seemed to reproach—almost condemn—yet he laced his next words with kindness.

"A wise king," he murmured, "is a man of calculation, of restraint. He weighs the lives of his people against his own desires and chooses accordingly." He then paused. "A good man, however.. He does not hesitate with the one he loves."

Ceremus' grip tightened around the armrest of his chair. "And which do you think I am?"

Tiresias smiled, a quiet thing, more amused than mirthful. "You are young," he said simply. "Still learning what it means to bear the weight of a crown." He tilted his head slightly, studying Ceremus as if peering into the depths of his soul. "I wonder... in time, will you remain as you are? Or will the weight of responsibility shape you into something else?"

Ceremus did not answer. The question unsettled him in a way he did not like.

Tiresias, like usual, did not press him. He simply exhaled, setting his cup down with a soft clink. "Your father—this man you speak of—would he be proud of you? Of the man you've become? Of the means you've used to rule over his people? Or would he grieve the son who has tarnished his name and his legacy?"

A sharp pang lanced through Ceremus' chest. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but the old man's words lingered like a whisper in the back of his mind.

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Would his father grieve?

Would he be proud?