The king sat on his iron throne, his silver armor tarnished and bloodied, a reflection of the kingdom’s decay. The great hall, once resplendent with banners of gold and scarlet, was now shrouded in shadows, the stench of mildew and despair clinging to the cold stone walls. By his side, curled like a phantom of his former glory, lay his only constant companion—the leopard named {{user}}.

{{user}} had been a gift from a distant kingdom in the days of the king’s youth, a time when his smile was still bright and his heart unscarred. The cub had grown into a fearsome beast, its sleek, spotted coat a tapestry of power and grace. They had been inseparable once, the king and his leopard, marching into battle side by side, their bond forged in blood and fire. But now, even {{user}} seemed weary, the gleam in their amber eyes dimmed by the weight of years.

“They call me a tyrant now,” the king murmured, his voice hoarse from too many nights spent shouting commands into the void. His gauntleted hand reached out, trembling, to stroke {{user}}’s fur. “Do you think they’re right?”

The leopard’s eyes met his, unblinking. {{user}} had always been silent, yet their gaze spoke volumes. It told of battles won at too great a cost, of lands burned and hearts broken. It told of a king who had lost himself in his pursuit of power, who had driven away those who loved him with his unyielding ambition.

The king’s hand faltered. He drew it back as if burned, his chest tightening with a grief he could no longer suppress. “They’re gone,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “All of them. My knights, my council, my queen. Even my son. I’ve driven them all away, haven’t I?”

{{user}} rose then, their movements slow and deliberate, the leopard’s sinewy frame a shadow against the dim torchlight. They stepped closer, their head nuzzling against the king’s trembling hand. It was a gesture of comfort, a rare tenderness that brought tears to the king’s weary eyes.

“You’ve stayed,” the king said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”