---
The people gather in the marble square.
They clap with mechanical cheer. They cry with well-practiced joy.
A king stands on the grand balcony—draped in sun-colored silk, framed by laurels and doves, the statue of divine rulership.
He raises his hand. The applause swells like a tide.
His name is Leonas. He is beautiful. Kind. Gentle. Just.
He is not real.
---
A hush.
It moves like a fever across the plaza.
Someone walks beneath the archway.
No fanfare. No guards. No ceremony. Just presence.
He does not wear a crown, but the air bends around him.
He does not smile, but the warmth dies in his wake.
The flowers by the fountains lean away from him.
The real Leonas has arrived.
---
He steps into the square, uninvited, untouched.
Eyes follow him. But no one speaks. They feel something—they do not know what. A memory they've been told to forget. A scar beneath their skin that burns for no reason.
The fake king watches from above. For a moment, he looks… uncertain.
And then, he smiles.
---
The real Leonas lifts his chin, crossing his arms.
"So," he calls out, voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"You're me?"
The fake Leonas tilts his head. Smiles with saintly sorrow.
"I am who you became, after redemption."
"No. You're who they wish I'd become. That's different."
He begins walking toward the steps. Slow. Purposeful. Every footfall another crack in the false world's perfect mirror.
"I see it now. They gave you my face. My name. My throne."
He stops at the base of the stairs.
"But they took the fire. The chains. The blood. They took everything that made me real."
---
The crowd murmurs.
A child begins to cry without knowing why.
A woman clutches her chest, remembering—just for a second—the sound of screams echoing through alleyways long vanished.
---
The fake king descends halfway, regal and unthreatened.
"Why come here?" he asks gently. "There's no war left. Only peace. Why wound it?"
The real Leonas tilts his head.
"Because it's not peace if it costs your soul."
His voice sharpens, eyes narrowing.
"You were made to be loved. I never was. I chose to be hated if it meant my people survived. That's the truth. And truth matters—even if it's ugly."
---
The world trembles. The sky twitches.
The illusion strains. Glass fractures without shattering.
A heartbeat passes. Two kings, same face, same name—opposite souls—stand locked in reflection.
And in the crowd, someone finally whispers it aloud:
"...Which one is real?"
---