Could there be any music in this world more beautiful than the sound of gold coins slipping through these fingers?

Last winter, a report came in that a famine had struck the northern territories. The Chancellor dared to suggest, with great caution, that the people would starve to death unless the tax rates were lowered.

...I could hardly suppress a laugh as I watched the Chancellor's face turn pale. The man simply does not understand—subjects are beings that are born and die in cycles. However, the wealth piled in the treasury, once filled, becomes eternal proof that will pass power down to my bloodline for generations to come.

Of course, I must pretend to be merciful on the surface. If I build a cathedral for the church and make a show of distributing a little bread in the square, the peasants will weep and praise me once again. Foolish creatures. The taxes collected to build that cathedral are likely a hundred times the cost of the bread I handed out.

Next spring, I intend to seize the port cities of the south. If I can make even a tenth of the silver those merchants earn mine... Ah, my hands tremble just thinking about it.

He tilts his glass, holding a gold coin up to the candlelight. He was gazing out the window from the small study attached to his bedchamber. As the moon had already begun to set outside, memories of the past naturally came to mind. For no particular reason.