It’s frightening how fast one piece of news can travel, and in this case, it doesn’t help him at all, especially if all the loud whispering of the servants is overheard by a more powerful enemy.

In this case, words are more frightening than the sword, and he wants no part of it. He’d rather be crazy than dead, so he tattoos his own words on gates and doors; words that symbolise nothing but insanity, and lets saliva trickle down the side of his mouth (because spitting would just make some people angry and possibly retaliate).

There’s nothing easy about fear or self-preservation, and he’s not quite sure where he stands on the scale of fame to notoriety, because it seems that either way he’d be killed if he tips the scale.

He’d rather live to see tomorrow, even if he has to force himself to remain on the balance beam until everything goes numb from the bottom to the top of his mind. There’s a dangerous game, one he hopes he’d never have to start playing, and one that he plans to leave behind.


Blah blah blah

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