His courtiers feed his appetites, mistaking his indulgence for destiny.
The Chimera is no dragon, no ogre, but a mirror. His towers glitter, magnificent until touched. His cruelties are paraded as strength, his thefts as triumphs. His voice blares like a bent trumpet, yet the crowd swears it is song.
Such a creature never dies. He waits in the cracks of kingdoms, slumbering until the next gathering. Then the light returns—dazzling, searing. The question is not whether he rises again, but whether we choose, this time, to see him for what he is. The choice will not belong to him. It will belong to us.