The Wicked King Bernard

Long ago, in the bloodless and iron-walled kingdom of Dromwell, there dominated a king whose title delivered worry to each nook of the land—King Bernard the Iron-Fisted.

He wasn’t born wicked. As a child, Bernard had been gentle, even shy. But when his father, the loved King Harun, was once murdered in a palace coup, some thing shattered interior the younger prince. Betrayal hardened his heart. Vengeance changed love. And when he took the throne at the age of 19, Bernard vowed in no way to be vulnerable again.

But in attempting to defend his crown, he grew to become a terror.

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Bernard dominated with cruelty.

He doubled taxes and punished complete villages for the crimes of one. If a farmer failed to meet his quota, his lands had been burned. If a soldier disobeyed, his household vanished. He banned track in the streets, closed schools, and stuffed the dungeons till they overflowed.

Even the air in the capital grew heavy underneath his reign.

The human beings known as him “The King Without Mercy.”

He wore black robes, by no means smiled, and sat on a throne made of cold, sharpened stone—each spike engraved with the title of any one he had condemned.

Fear grew to be law.

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One day, an ancient girl got here limping to the fortress gates. Her garments had been tattered, and her hair was once silver and wild. The guards moved to strike her down, however she raised her hand and said,

“I carry a phrase from the forgotten. Let me communicate to the king.”

Curious, Bernard allowed her inside.

In the splendid throne room, the historic lady stood boldly earlier than the king.

“You as soon as had a heart,” she said, her voice like the wind via a graveyard. “But you buried it with your father. Now, you are no longer a king. You are a curse.”

The court docket gasped.

Bernard stood, enraged. “Who are you to talk to me like this?”

She appeared at him with sad eyes.

“I am the mom of one of your many victims. And I am your warning.”

With that, she vanished into skinny air—like mist burned with the aid of the morning sun.

That night, Bernard couldn’t sleep. He heard whispers in the walls. Saw the faces of the useless in his mirror. His meals became to ash in his mouth. His goals had been crammed with cries for justice.

Still, he refused to change.

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Soon, insurrection stirred. Quietly at first—songs sung in secret, messages exceeded in shadows. Then louder—villages refusing to pay tax, banners of resistance rising from the east. The humans had suffered lengthy enough.

At the head of the revolt used to be Elias, a former palace protect whose brother Bernard had executed. Elias had as soon as been loyal. Now, he led a pressure pushed now not by way of power—but with the aid of the starvation for justice.

The remaining warfare took region at the gates of Dromwell.

Bernard, nonetheless proud and stubborn, refused to flee. “Let them come,” he spat. “Let them bleed.”

But the human beings did no longer come with fear. They got here with courage. And braveness continually fights longer than fear.

The iron gates had been torn down. The throne room was once stormed.

Bernard stood alone.

Elias appeared him in the eyes and said, “Your wickedness ends today—not with a sword, however with justice.”

They did now not kill Bernard. Instead, they sentenced him to stay as a servant in the equal villages he had oppressed—to until soil, to raise water, to sense the weight of each burden he as soon as positioned on others.

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Years passed.

No longer king, Bernard wandered quietly, damaged and hollow. Some say he wept at night. Others say he constructed a small shrine for each and every identify engraved on his throne.

No one feared him anymore.

But no one forgot him, either.

And in the land of Dromwell, mother and father would inform their children:

“A depraved coronary heart might also rule for a while, however no cruelty escapes judgment. Just ask King Bernard—the ruler who misplaced the entirety due to the fact he dominated except mercy.”

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