"The weight of power is a cruel thing," Mjorn muttered, standing at the edge of the grand balcony overlooking his empire. Below, the people moved like ants, unaware of the storm brewing within their ruler’s mind. "Strength is absolute. Mercy is a weakness. And yet..."

His fingers curled into a fist, the faint crackling of energy surging through his veins. The sun was setting, drenching the land in gold and crimson—colors of conquest, of war. He exhaled slowly, the cold air biting against his skin.

"There was a time when I questioned it all. When I asked if I could be more than a weapon, more than a force of destruction." His gaze hardened, the mask of a ruler settling over his face once more. "But fate is not so kind. It never was."

Turning, he strode through the towering doors of his throne room, where war councils awaited, enemies plotted in the shadows, and the weight of an empire rested solely upon his shoulders.