I met a traveler from an antique land, Who said— “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Mydeimos, the last prince, stood by your side as you walked. His weapon gripped tightly in his hand, his gaze stern with his molten eyes raking over your form with vigilance. His lips move, a graceful, nearly imperceptible thing, had you not heard the timber and rubbling, you would’ve thought he never spoke at all.

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

The sand seems vast in front of you both, the ruins and wreckage of what seemed to be a statue around. His eyes narrowed at the face, a familiar shape, a figure one imprinted on that forgetfulness is naught.

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

His hands shook, the armor along the limbs changing against each other with his trembled. His impassive face shifts slightly, the furrow in his brows, the creasing of his eyes.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’

How despicable, he seemed to have say. The stone carved face gazing back at him in mockery, as if amused by his distain. How could I be the kin of that thing, he turned to you as if searching for an answer that which you did not have.

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

A king of greed, that which bore a son, an undying man that lived and breathed in the shackles of war. Mydei glared at his father’s statue before swinging his weapon, the stone cracking and scattering about. “How could I be birthed from such a monster?” He voice low enough to not be heard by all but you, yet not a whisper, as he questioned himself.