You saw a throne where I built a fire,
assumed the crown was yours by right -
born to silk, to gilded halls,
while I was carved by hammer’s might.
You called me subject, called me land,
a plot to claim, a debt to collect.
But kingdoms earned in blood and flame
are not the ones men inherit, but respect.
I did not rise from velvet cradles.
I rose from tests that break the proud,
from nights so long they rewrote bones,
from choices that would drown you now.
You wanted war? Then take your spoils:
the hollow echo of your name,
the weight of ruin where you stood,
the curse of wishing you’d seen the game -
that I was never just a rival,
but the hand that could have lifted you.
Now watch your towers turn to dust,
and know: I built mine stronger than you.
The forge does not forgive the weak,
nor does the storm spare those who boast.
You played at king - now wear the cost.
I am the cost. Now that’s a ghost.