Beneath the sky sat the king—ruler of the land, father to seven daughters.

  All of his daughters stood before him now, each one an embodiment of what man feared and hid most above all:

  Sin.

  The king didn’t smile.

  He didn’t utter a word.

  He only watched and waited.

  The first of the daughters to step forward was Lust.

  Her eyes gleamed like polished gems.

  “Father,” she cooed, “I love you. I love you for your power, your wealth, your chivalry.”

  She continued, unwrapping parchment inked with words of admiration. Yet love to her…

  Was hunger. An unsatiable thing.

  She would love a peasant if they walked into the room.

  Then came Envy, her fingers twitching at her sides. “I do not love you,” she admitted, voice hushed. “I want to be you.”

  Her list was long.

  A tally of all she wanted for herself.

  His strength. His power.

  Her adoration for her father went beyond flattery.

  “I watch you. I study you. I am you—if only you would fall.”

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  Gluttony was next. Her hands full. Her eyes fuller.

  “Father,” she began, as the others did,

  “I love you—but I love what you give me more.”

  Her neck was covered in jewels.

  Her wrists frozen in rings.

  Her dress shimmered with gold.

  She talked for a while.

  She would have gone on for hours—

  Had Sloth not drifted in.

  Before she spoke a word, she exhaled a sharp sigh. “I love you,” she murmured.

  And that was it.

  Effort was a foreign thing.

  Her love was distant. Long-distance.

  Greed followed.

  “Father, you are the wellspring of all I desire. I am your rightful heir. The oldest to the throne.”

  Her fingers curled like claws. Reaching. Taking.

  Her love was a blade—cutting, grasping, never satisfied. Then came Pride, her chin high, her voice even.

  “My king, I love you because I am your child.

  Because I am great, as you are great.”

  She added nothing more. In her eyes, she needed say nothing else.

  And then, the last.

  Wrath.

  She did not kneel. She did not smile. She stormed into the hall, eyes burning like cast iron, fists curled tight.

  “I do not love you. I hate you.”

  The air itself trembled.

  “You gave me only war. I return it in kind.”

  The silence that followed was heavier than her fury.

  The king looked upon his daughters.

  Measured them.

  Weighed their words, their hearts, their truths.

  And one by one—

  He cast judgment.

  Lust, Greed, and Sloth were the ones to fall.

  Their love was selfish and hollow—desire that consumed them.

  Pride was sent to fight in the war.

  Envy was made the King’s Right Hand.

  Gluttony was made the royal cook.

  But Wrath...

  Wrath had taken the worst of him and wielded it against him. She had burned every bridge before it was ever built.

  She did not ask.

  She did not beg.

  She did not want.

  She only destroyed.

  And so—He cast her out.

  But as she left—

  As the great doors slammed shut behind her—

  The king did not feel triumph.

  Only the weight of a throne,

  Surrounded by daughter.

  Who would never love him as he wished.

  And the knowledge that Wrath—his Wrath— Would return one day.

  His queen was long dead. His kingdom soon to ruin. A king with seven daughters—Yet none could be his successor.

  He wrote books,

  Understanding that by raising them the way he had, He had doomed the capital,The kingdom, The world.

  You may think the daughter embodying Wrath was cruel—

  But what if I told you.

  That she and her father

  Were fighting wars—

  Externally… and internally…

  That we may never understand.