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All the beauty of this place couldn’t mask that it was still a cage. An exquisite, gilded cage, for an equally adorned occupant. To this day, he still never knew what he preferred. His years in slavery, being whipped and beaten for the smallest transgression, or this. The Scarred King. That was who he was now. Through no choice of his own, he had become a figurehead who kept the realm in a time of peace and prosperity. His years as a slave had hollowed him out so he was nothing but a shell. Perfect at following orders, and doing what he was told. But not willing, or able, to do anything himself. So he’d stand and be a perfect little puppet.