Loss.

  Some would say that beyond the aching, agonising void it creates within us, there hides within it a sense of liberty. One less invisible chain holding us back, restraining us from opening our wings and soaring into the world.

  What if, however, loss weighs us down instead of freeing us; reaching out and latching onto our body with tremendous force, compelling us to stay, to finish what we have started?

  He had been known by many names in the past: the Undefeatable, the Slave, the Commander, the Chieftain, the King. And yet, he now realised he would give each and every one of those monikers away without a second thought, just to be called that one last time.

  He glanced at the dark corner of the small cave he had called home for the last handful of years, where a makeshift bed of leaves and moss rested. His heart ached. He looked outside, observing the swaying trees with tired, sunken eyes. Their usual spark had been extinguished, leaving behind an empty, lifeless void.

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  His green hand, covered in fading tribal tattoos, tightened around the dagger's worn, smooth handle, slightly shaking as he raised the well-maintained blade. He placed the weapon gently against his green neck, drawing crimson blood, which ran down his bare chest in glistening rivers of red.

  His eyes wandered for what he thought would be their very last time, taking in every little detail of the lived-in gloomy room – when his gaze suddenly froze. The trusty wooden chair he had built himself two winters ago creaked and groaned as he stood up, his feet slowly taking him to the cave’s other corner. On a shelf carved directly into the rock face stood a primitive crown made of short sticks, woven together with vine.

  He picked it up with his other hand, turning it left and right as he examined the crude craftsmanship with newfound interest. Still engrossed in the object before him, he turned and sat back on his chair, exhaling softly.

  Carefully, as if he held a crown of gold adorned with priceless jewels, he lifted it upwards, placing it gently onto his head. He leaned back, sheathing his dagger with the practised ease of a seasoned warrior, and turned his gaze to the forest before him once more. A new flicker could be sensed in the deepest parts of the monster’s eyes – a barely noticeable glimmer of pure, unfiltered thirst for revenge, growing relentlessly with each passing moment.

  He liked the crown’s feel. It suited him.