He broke fast that morning with a persimmon. It was sweet and plump, a soft weight in his palm that felt like life itself, vibrant and fleeting, provided one had the stomach to take it.
The cloying sweetness rolled across his tongue as the juice escaped his lips, a sticky trail descending his chin to stain his tunic. He wore no steel today, wandering the high grass outside the inner walls of the city that was now his by every law of man and gods.
It was his by right of blood, and more importantly, by right of the iron he had used to take it. He had spilled the earth's red tax here and broken the host his uncle had sent to cage him; he would welcome any man who came to dispute the deed, provided they could pay the bill in bone.
If no one challenged the wolf, then no one could contest his ownership of the den. A crown, he had long realized, was a weight warranted only by the strength required to hold it.
