I became a king when I was twenty-seven. I’d just acquired a castle (admittedly the bankers actually owned it; the treasury was to pay a monthly tribute for some time, after which I would become the full owner) and I wanted to mark the occasion fittingly.

So I went dragon-chasing.

It started out tentatively enough, but I enjoyed the thrill it brought. Soon, though, my quarry began to bore me; I moved on to a slightly more fulfilling target. Then that grew dull, so I pursued yet another beast. And so on.

Eventually I had nearly exhausted my prospects and my treasury, but my life was, to the detriment of all else, the pursuit of dragons. I was near the end of my rope when word reached me of one final, ultimate dragon—a green, scaly terror that came from Russia. Going after it was not terribly costly, but it bit back with a vengeance, its venom disfiguring my body and rotting me from the inside out.

Within the next three years there will be an interregnum in the kingdom. I pray the next king will be worthy.