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

Last winter, a report came in that the northern territories suffered a famine. 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 my laughter as I watched the Chancellor's face turn pale. That man simply does not understand—subjects are merely beings that are born and die in a cycle. 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, one must pretend to be merciful on the surface. If I commission a cathedral for the church and make a show of distributing a bit of bread in the square, the subjects will weep and praise me again. Foolish creatures. The taxes collected to build that cathedral must be a hundred times the cost of the bread I gave out.

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

I hold a gold coin up to the candlelight while sipping from my wine glass. I was looking out the window from the small study attached to the bedchamber. As the moon has already begun to tilt outside, memories of the past naturally come to mind. For no particular reason.