There is a kingdom no map remembers building. A throne assembled from inherited weight rather than earned ground. A crown that was never made of metal — only the accumulated debt of every favour granted, every silence kept, every story told about a golden child who grew into something else entirely.
The faint musings of a song about empires that exist only because everyone agreed, once, not to question them. About a ruler whose power was always borrowed — from blind faith, a reluctance to look too closely, from the simple fact that nobody said no soon enough.
And it is a song about what happens after. After the walls reveal themselves as nothing but timber and bluff. After the decrees lose their weight. After the only remaining language — the threat, the tirade, the carefully aimed cruelty — runs out of rooms to fill.
Some kingdoms don’t fall. They’re simply walked away from.
What’s left behind is light. The kind that was always there, waiting on the other side of a shadow someone else built.