Once upon a time, in a valley cradled by blue mountains and silver rivers, there stood a golden kingdom called Aurendor. Its fields were wide, its orchards heavy with fruit, and its people were known for their laughter that rang like bells in the morning air.
But upon the throne of Aurendor sat King Midasar the Third—a man whose heart beat not for his people, but for gold.
King Midasar loved coins more than sunshine, jewels more than justice, and taxes more than triumph. Each morning, before speaking to any soul, he would descend into his treasury. There he would run his fingers through piles of glittering gold, smiling as the coins slipped between them like sand.
"Gold," he would whisper, "is the only true power."
At first, the kingdom prospered despite him. Farmers worked diligently. Bakers rose before dawn. Blacksmiths shaped iron into tools and horseshoes. The land was generous, and so were the people.
But King Midasar was never satisfied.
One year, he doubled the taxes.
"The kingdom must grow richer," he declared from his marble balcony. "And since I am the kingdom, I must grow richer."
The people murmured uneasily, but they obeyed.
The next year, he tripled them.
When the royal advisor, an old and cautious man named Cedric, warned him, the king waved him away.
"Sire," Cedric said softly, "a tree cannot bear fruit if you strip its branches bare."
"Nonsense," snapped the king. "If they have enough to eat, they have enough to give."
So the soldiers went from village to village, collecting grain, coins, livestock—even winter firewood.
Slowly, laughter began to fade from Aurendor.
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As seasons passed, the kingdom changed.
The once-bright marketplace grew thin and quiet. Where vendors had once shouted cheerfully about ripe apples and fresh bread, there were now only a few tired stands with wilted vegetables and small, hard loaves.
In the countryside, fields that once rolled green and gold were planted with less seed. Farmers kept some harvest hidden—not from greed, but from fear of starvation.
King Midasar noticed none of this.
He was too busy building a second treasury.
"I shall have the largest vault in all the world!" he proclaimed. "No king shall rival my wealth!"
He ordered marble floors, golden doors, and walls lined with silk tapestries embroidered with his own face. Meanwhile, in the northern villages, children shared single bowls of soup between families.
One winter, the snow came early.
It blanketed the fields before the last of the crops could be gathered. Livestock grew thin. Wood supplies ran low.
The people pleaded with the palace for relief.
But the king refused.
"If I open the treasury once," he declared, "they will expect it again and again. Hardship builds strength."
Cedric, pale with worry, tried one last time.
"Your Majesty," he said, "a kingdom is not its gold. It is its people."
King Midasar frowned.
"You speak treason."
Cedric was dismissed from court that very day.
That winter was the coldest in living memory.
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Spring finally came—but it did not bring hope.
The snowmelt revealed fields poorly planted and poorly tended. Too many farmers had been forced to sell their tools. Too many hands were weakened by hunger.
When harvest time arrived, the crops were thin.
The royal collectors arrived with their wagons.
There was little to take.
Enraged, the king raised taxes again.
"If they produce less," he reasoned, "they must give more of what they have."
But this time, something had changed.
The people did not argue. They did not protest.
They simply stopped producing.
Why labor from dawn to dusk if the fruits of that labor would be seized? Why plant orchards if the apples would never reach their own tables?
Work slowed across the kingdom.
Blacksmiths closed their forges. Bakers baked only for their families. Farmers planted just enough to survive.
The flow of gold into the treasury slowed to a trickle.
King Midasar stormed through the palace halls.
"Why is my vault not filling?" he roared.
A young guard, trembling, dared to answer.
"Your Majesty… there is nothing left to take."
The words echoed in the silent hall.
For the first time, the king felt something unfamiliar—fear.
He rushed to his treasury. The gold still gleamed. The coins still sparkled.
But outside those walls, the kingdom that created that wealth was fading.
Weeks passed.
Trade routes closed. Neighboring lands no longer sought Aurendor's goods, for there were none to buy. The once-busy docks stood empty.
And slowly, even the treasury began to empty—not from generosity, but from necessity. The king had to pay soldiers. He had to buy food from distant lands at high prices.
Gold flowed out faster than it came in.
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One evening, King Midasar stood alone in his vast treasury.
The room that once filled him with pride now felt hollow.
He picked up a coin and turned it over in his fingers.
It was cold.
Colder than the winter wind.
He thought of the silent marketplace. The abandoned fields. The faces of his people—once bright, now weary.
For the first time in his life, he understood.
Gold was not wealth.
The baker's bread was wealth.
The farmer's harvest was wealth.
The blacksmith's hammer striking iron was wealth.
A kingdom's strength was not measured in coins, but in the well-being of its people.
The next morning, the palace gates opened.
The king called an assembly in the central square. The people gathered, cautious and thin, uncertain of what would come.
King Midasar removed his jeweled crown.
"My people," he began, his voice quieter than ever before, "I have been blind."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"I believed gold made a kingdom strong. But I see now that it is you who make it strong."
He ordered the treasury opened.
Grain was distributed. Tools were returned. Taxes were lowered—then reduced again.
Cedric was invited back to court, and this time, the king listened.
Recovery was slow. Trust, once broken, does not mend overnight. But as seasons passed, green returned to the fields. Laughter returned to the marketplace.
And the king?
He still visited the treasury—but not every morning. Instead, he walked the farms, spoke with bakers, and listened to blacksmiths.
He learned that a greedy ruler can empty a vault of coins—but wiser still is the ruler who fills the hearts of his people.
For in the end, a kingdom's greatest treasure is not gold locked behind doors, but prosperity shared in the open sun.
And Aurendor, once nearly lost to greed, became richer than ever before.