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King Alaric was not cruel, but he was distant. He ruled from a throne room padded with velvet, and he never allowed anyone to touch him.
The reason was a curse. His heart was made of glass. Not metaphorically. Physically. You could see it through his chest—a fragile, transparent organ pumping clear blood.
"If it breaks," the witch had warned his father, "he dies. And the kingdom dies with him."
So Alaric lived in fear. He avoided strong emotions. Love made it beat too fast; anger made it vibrate. He became a statue of a king, ruling with cold logic.
Then came the invasion. The Barbarians of the Iron Hills breached the gates. They didn't care about logic.
Alaric stood on the balcony, watching his city burn. His general rushed in. "Sire! You must flee! The vibration of the catapults... it will shatter you!"
Alaric looked at his people running in the streets. A child fell, crying for her mother. Something cracked in Alaric's chest. A hairline fracture.
Pain shot through him. But with the pain came something else. Heat.
"No," Alaric said. "I will not flee."
He grabbed a sword. He ran down the stairs. Each step jarred his body, spreading the cracks. Thump-crack. Thump-crack.
He charged into the fray. He fought not with skill, but with desperation. He rallied his soldiers. Seeing their fragile King risking everything, they fought with the fury of lions.
The invaders were driven back. But Alaric fell. His chest was a spiderweb of fractures. He lay on the cobblestones, gasping.
The general knelt beside him. "Sire... your heart."
Alaric looked down. The glass had shattered. But he wasn't dead.
Beneath the shards, a new heart was beating. It was small, and red, and made of flesh. The glass had been a shell, a cocoon for the strength he had never used.
Alaric laughed, a deep, hearty sound that shook his ribs. "It hurts," he said, smiling. "It feels wonderful."