Στελιοσ οφ Αντονισ
It is a curse to be a second son. To never measure up. To never be first. To always fall upon the lips as an afterthought. What place is there in this world for one who would set it shaking upon the shoulders of Atlas but must first scale the impossible heights of a father's lofty legacy? I was not given the gift of life to squander it upon idle pleasures or the peaceful tranquility of home.
Like a sword I was honed for war, and as with that blade I am double-edged, sharp both sides, nothing tender or kind. I am a weapon simple.
I cannot afford faults in the uncomplicated alchemy of the instrument you see before you. They provide openings for enemies ... of my house; of Athenia; of the values which found their punctuation in every bruise and laceration that training bestowed. Glory in battle is purchased by loneliness beyond it. Gods willing I'll die upon a sword rather than old and grey in bed. A mausoleum of marble would be greater comfort than an empty couch with no one to mourn me. At least, that is what gets me through the nights, allays my fears, and stills my mind until black oblivion overtakes me. Nothing. That's what I dream of. Because that's all that's left for second sons.
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