Vantablack
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in the heart of a vast Persian empire, there lived a king whose power had no equal. He had conquered lands, silenced enemies, and lived in unimaginable luxury. Yet, his spirit remained uneasy.
In triumph, he became arrogant. In loss, he sank into despair. His moods ruled him.
One day, after a string of bitter defeats, he turned to his most trusted advisor.
"I need something permanent," the king said. "A ring, that will steady me when I am high and when I am low. A ring that will depress me when I am happy, and lift my spirits when I despair. There is a celebration happening in three months, you have till then to find it.
The advisor bowed and left the court that night, riding alone into the dark.
For three months, he searched the far corners of the kingdom. He wandered through mountain monasteries and desert caravans. He spoke to prophets, jewelers, madmen, and monks. Most offered him trinkets. Some offered verses. None of it was enough.
In the final week, defeated and empty-handed, he passed through a quiet village. There, in a cluttered stall at the edge of a narrow lane, he met a half-blind metalsmith. The man listened to the story without speaking. Then he picked up a strip of silver and carved four words. The advisor, finally satisfied, rushed to the palace.
He arrived in the middle of the vast celebration. Dancers spun beneath hanging lanterns. Musicians played without pause. Servants moved through the crowd with silver trays piled high. The king stood at the center of it all, laughing louder than anyone, his robe heavy with gold, his goblet overflowing.
The advisor slipped through the crowd, dusty and worn, and made his way to the throne. Without a word, he knelt and held out the ring. The king took it, still smiling, amused. But as his eyes found the inscription, the smile froze.
This too shall pass.
He read it once. Then again. The music dulled. The wine soured on his tongue.
The dancers kept dancing, but he no longer saw them.
He sat down slowly, the weight of the ring settling heavier than the crown on his head.
From that day on, the ring never left his hand.
In war, when his armies lay shattered and defeat seemed certain, he would twist the ring and read the words again. And though the pain remained, it no longer owned him. In peace, when banners rose and crowds chanted his name, he would glance at it once more. And though pride tugged at him, it never carried him away.
Whether in sorrow or in celebration, in silence or in storm, he would turn the ring, read the words, and remember:
This too shall pass.
And with time, the great king who ruled much land, finally ruled himself.
In triumph, he became arrogant. In loss, he sank into despair. His moods ruled him.
One day, after a string of bitter defeats, he turned to his most trusted advisor.
"I need something permanent," the king said. "A ring, that will steady me when I am high and when I am low. A ring that will depress me when I am happy, and lift my spirits when I despair. There is a celebration happening in three months, you have till then to find it.
The advisor bowed and left the court that night, riding alone into the dark.
For three months, he searched the far corners of the kingdom. He wandered through mountain monasteries and desert caravans. He spoke to prophets, jewelers, madmen, and monks. Most offered him trinkets. Some offered verses. None of it was enough.
In the final week, defeated and empty-handed, he passed through a quiet village. There, in a cluttered stall at the edge of a narrow lane, he met a half-blind metalsmith. The man listened to the story without speaking. Then he picked up a strip of silver and carved four words. The advisor, finally satisfied, rushed to the palace.
He arrived in the middle of the vast celebration. Dancers spun beneath hanging lanterns. Musicians played without pause. Servants moved through the crowd with silver trays piled high. The king stood at the center of it all, laughing louder than anyone, his robe heavy with gold, his goblet overflowing.
The advisor slipped through the crowd, dusty and worn, and made his way to the throne. Without a word, he knelt and held out the ring. The king took it, still smiling, amused. But as his eyes found the inscription, the smile froze.
This too shall pass.
He read it once. Then again. The music dulled. The wine soured on his tongue.
The dancers kept dancing, but he no longer saw them.
He sat down slowly, the weight of the ring settling heavier than the crown on his head.
From that day on, the ring never left his hand.
In war, when his armies lay shattered and defeat seemed certain, he would twist the ring and read the words again. And though the pain remained, it no longer owned him. In peace, when banners rose and crowds chanted his name, he would glance at it once more. And though pride tugged at him, it never carried him away.
Whether in sorrow or in celebration, in silence or in storm, he would turn the ring, read the words, and remember:
This too shall pass.
And with time, the great king who ruled much land, finally ruled himself.
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