Long ago, in a wealthy and effective kingdom known as Aurellia, there dominated a king named Alexander — once loved, once wise, however in the end remembered for only one thing: his greed.
Alexander was born into greatness. His father, King Dorian, had dominated with justice and mercy, and when Alexander took the throne at just twenty-one, the human beings rejoiced. He used to be handsome, charismatic, and full of dreams. At first, he expanded the roads, fed the poor, and raised monuments that touched the clouds.
But the style of electricity is candy — and dangerous.
Soon, Alexander began to prefer more. More land. More gold. More glory. He taxed his human beings past reason, sending troopers door to door to acquire coins, livestock, and even household heirlooms. “For the greatness of Aurellia,” he claimed. But the wealth never reached the humans again.
Instead, Alexander filled his vaults with gold, his halls with jewels, and his temples with statues of himself. He waged wars in opposition to peaceable neighbors, stealing their treasures and forcing their youngsters into his army. His name echoed across the land — now not as a hero, but as a devourer.
His advisors warned him. The monks begged him. Even his very own wife, Queen Elira, wept before him, pleading, “My king, your starvation will swallow the very throne you take a seat upon.”
But Alexander only laughed. “A king who stops achieving becomes a slave to the past.”
Then got here the curse.
One night, a terrible beggar regarded before the palace gates. Covered in rags and dust, he asked for a single coin. The guards struck him, however Alexander, staring at from the balcony, ordered them to convey the man ahead — for his own amusement.
“What will you supply me in return for my gold?” the king mocked.
The beggar regarded up with eyes like burning coals and whispered,
“Everything.”
That night, a ordinary fog rolled over the kingdom.
By morning, the royal treasury had became to dust. The vegetation blackened. The rivers dried. The human beings grew sick. And when Alexander stormed into his vault, he observed solely bones the place gold as soon as rested.
His allies deserted him. Rebellions rose. The army, unpaid and starving, became towards him. Queen Elira fled with their infant in the night.
Within weeks, the kingdom of Aurellia — once the jewel of the world — had crumbled into ruin.
And King Alexander?
He wandered the land in filthy robes, begging for food in the very villages he had once drained. No one recognized him. Or if they did, they became away in cold silence.
He died by myself beneath the broken archway of his palace, where weeds now grew and owls nested.
Above him, etched in the stone that once bore his royal name, any one had carved a single word:
"Greed."
And so the world remembered no longer the king who built towers,
Not the king who conquered,
But the king who lost it all chasing what he ought to in no way hold.
King Alexander the Golden —
The king who turned his kingdom into ashes.
