I was born into a world that others envied. A world of gold-gilded halls and opulent feasts, of power woven into my very blood. A world where men bowed at my passing and whispered my name with reverence, where women adorned themselves with jewels and perfumes, seeking to catch my gaze, if only for a fleeting moment. A world where everything I could ever desire was placed before me like a banquet of indulgence.
I felt nothing.
Not joy, not satisfaction, not even the dull hum of contentment that lesser men seemed to cling to like a lifeline. It was all so dreadfully empty. The halls of my palace? Cages dressed in grandeur. The endless flattery of nobles and sycophants? Noise without meaning. The women who offered themselves to me, eyes filled with false affection and bodies wrapped in silk? Puppets playing a role in a play I had no interest in watching.
I was a prince.
I was a God among men.
And yet, I envied the beggar in the gutter, for at least he suffered. At least he felt.
