King of Envy

In the ancient city of Halemar—where cobbled streets shimmered with the dust of old gold, and grand halls echoed with the laughter of false kings—there lived a man named Elion. Not a peasant, not quite a noble, but someone in between. A scholar by training, a dreamer by soul, Elion was known for two things: his intellect, and his ceaseless desire to be someone else.

Elion had grown up in the shadow of brighter stars. His older brother, Marek, had inherited their father’s land and charisma. His childhood friend, Auren, had become the youngest magistrate in Halemar’s history. Even the artists he studied under spoke of others—never him—with awe. It was as if the world had conspired to remind Elion that he was destined only to watch greatness, never to touch it.

But envy is not a quiet disease. It grows claws, sharpens teeth, and waits patiently for the moment to strike.

Elion became obsessed. Every day he would walk past the palace of the High Regent, watching the silken curtains flutter in the windows, imagining what it would be like to sit on that ivory throne, even if just once. He devoured books on strategy, charm, manipulation. He began to mirror the behaviors of powerful men—not to admire, but to mimic and undermine.

And then came the eclipse.

Halemar’s astrologers predicted it only once every 200 years—a full solar eclipse at midday, casting the city into unnatural twilight. During such times, the legends said, fate could be rewritten.

Elion believed it.

On the day of the eclipse, Elion enacted his plan. Cloaked in ceremonial robes stolen from a royal attendant, he slipped into the palace under the guise of a guest philosopher. His voice was calm, measured. He debated the regent before nobles and courtiers with wit and fervor. When he left, whispers followed him.

Who is he?

Where did he study?

He should be offered a seat on the Council.

The seed was planted.

Over the next year, Elion courted the attention of the elite. He predicted economic shifts with precision, mediated trade disputes with uncanny intuition, and soon became a fixture at the regent’s court. But it was not admiration he sought—it was possession.

As his influence grew, so did his envy. Not of wealth or luxury—those came easily now—but of something more elusive: admiration. He wanted to be loved more than Marek, trusted more than Auren, respected more than the Regent.

He wanted to be king.

In Halemar, there was no formal crown. The High Regent ruled by consensus and influence, not blood. It was a delicate web of perception. And Elion, now its quiet spider, pulled every thread.

He spread doubt about the regent’s declining health. He whispered of Marek’s involvement in illegal duels. He unearthed an old scandal about Auren’s family and slipped it to the city scribes. Slowly, the people began to shift their loyalties. And when the regent finally collapsed during a public ceremony, Elion was the only one left standing with clean hands.

Within a month, he was appointed the new Regent of Halemar.

His coronation was simple by tradition, but inside, Elion was ablaze. He had done it. Not by strength, not by birth—but by sheer will. The throne was his.

But the throne has its own poison.

In his first week, the praise felt like wine. Sweet. Addictive. But soon, it turned thin. The court began to grow wary. Auren vanished. Marek sent no letters. Citizens began to whisper—not in admiration, but fear.

Elion noticed. He noticed everything.

He reorganized the Council. He banned all unsanctioned public assemblies. He ordered portraits of former regents to be removed—replaced by his own likeness. Still, the emptiness remained. The envy did not die with his rise; it grew fangs.

One night, as he stood before the mirror, wearing the royal robe he once longed for, Elion realized: he had no one left to envy but himself. And he hated what he saw.

Years passed. Halemar changed. It grew quieter, colder. The people obeyed, but their eyes never sparkled. In the final winter of Elion’s reign, the city’s last free poet wrote:

“We crown the envious not with gold, but silence. For kings made of envy rule empty kingdoms.” A Note for Readers

Dear Reader,

At the heart of King of Envy lies a truth many of us hesitate to admit: that comparison is a thief. Not just of joy—but of self. Elion’s rise is both mesmerizing and tragic because he reflects a mirror many fear to look into.

We live in an age where comparison is constant—where likes, followers, wealth, beauty, and success are all measured in real-time. But what King of Envy asks is this:

What happens when your desire to be someone else becomes stronger than your desire to be yourself?

Let this story remind you that true power comes not from surpassing others, but from embracing your unique place in the world. The throne you build from authenticity will always stand taller than one built from envy.

If this story stirred something in you, share it. Tag someone who needs to remember that their worth is not measured by what others have, but by what they already are.

You are already enough.

With gratitude,

– The Storyteller