The Fable of the Throne of Shadows: The Reckless Race of the Contenders

Once upon a time, in a vast and fractured kingdom, there was a gigantic creature known as the Leviathan. This monster was not made of flesh, but of institutions, laws, rituals, signed decrees, and decisions powerful enough to shake the lives of millions. People said that whoever sat on its throne would gain control of it. But the truth, known only to the wisest, was very different: it was the Leviathan that controlled whoever dared to sit upon it.

Each generation saw contenders rising for the throne. They jostled, argued, insulted each other, and sometimes even killed to obtain it. The people watched, torn between fascination and weariness. For everyone knew that the victor would become a prisoner rather than a king, a cog rather than a master. Yet no one ever learned from past mistakes. The race always began again.

The contenders

One day, several figures came forward to seize the reins. They were very different from one another, but each carried within the fire of ambition.

The first was named Domitius. He was a general with a swollen chest, convinced that ruling a people was no different than commanding an army. For him, power was simply an extension of domination. He saw the throne as the promise of control, possession, command, as one commands soldiers. He dreamed of walking across the stage of History with his name carved in marble.

Among them was also Lucan. He was a fragile man hiding behind pompous speeches. All his life, he had feared humiliation, blows, and the manipulation of the stronger. He believed that by rising to the top he would face only a few adversaries — rare, distant, certainly powerful, but at least fewer in number. He saw the throne as a refuge, a fortress where his fear would finally cease to suffocate him.

There was also Erina, an ambitious woman who neither knew her people nor their faces. What intoxicated her was the idea of towering above millions of strangers, of feeling the social altitude, of floating above an anonymous sea. She did not aspire to govern but only to feel taller, greater, more visible. Her passion was nothing more than the dizziness of height.

Another was Phorbas, the poet of his own destiny. He dreamed of entering the books of History, of hearing his name spoken a thousand years later by children learning of his exploits. For him, a war, a reform, or a monument mattered more than human lives. History had to immortalize him, and the throne was nothing more than the springboard to that intoxication.

Then came Megaron, who longed not so much for History as for prestige. He dreamed of banquets, crowns, and exchanges of greetings with other powerful figures. For him, ruling meant attending receptions, shaking gloved hands, receiving coded respect through titles. His quest was not justice, but the recognition of a closed circle.

Finally, there was Cyrenia. She proudly presented herself as a woman of the people, but deep down, what drove her was a primitive pride. She wanted to show that it was she, and no other, who would command. She saw the throne as a tribal trophy, a high place where she could display her triumph as warriors once exhibited the severed heads of their enemies.

The absentees

Yet everyone knew that the wisest, the most benevolent, and the most just of the kingdom never presented themselves. They knew all too well the infernal mechanism of the Leviathan. They knew that even with the best will in the world, they would be nothing but pawns tossed about by ravenous wolves. They refused to run toward the abyss, choosing instead to live in the shadows rather than burn on the throne. The people sometimes despised them, believing they lacked courage. But in truth, they possessed the lucidity that others denied.

The race for the throne

On the day of the selection, a great assembly was convened. The contenders were to face public trials meant to prove their worth. But each used the trials to reveal their true obsession.

Domitius paraded his soldiers through the streets, with raised swords and beating drums. He wanted to show that he already commanded order and strength. But many shivered: what they saw was not a guide, but a conqueror ready to crush.

Lucan, trembling beneath his toga, delivered a tearful speech. He explained that only the summit could protect the kingdom from predators. But his words sounded less like a promise than a plea. The crowd understood he sought power not to serve, but to escape his own fear.

Erina climbed the tallest tower of the city and, from its balcony, saluted the crowd like a goddess. She wanted to be seen, admired, exalted by acclamations. Yet down below, some wondered: how could she rule those she never even looked in the eye?

Phorbas had a massive stele carved where he had already engraved his own name, surrounded by heroic scenes he had never lived. He promised glorious wars, dazzling reforms, eternal monuments. But the wise whispered: “He who dreams of History always forgets the living.”

Megaron held a banquet before even winning. He invited merchants, ambassadors, foreign nobles, handed out gifts, and surrounded himself with luxury. They drank, they laughed, they sang his name. But everyone knew that this extravagance was funded by the wealth of citizens he had not even begun to serve.

Cyrenia organized a great procession. She demanded that everyone chant her name, that every public square be decorated with her portraits. She spoke not of the future or of justice, but only of victory over her rivals. Her pride roared like a primitive totem.

The illusion of power

Amidst the clamor, an old woman stepped forward. She was neither rich, nor noble, nor powerful. But she was respected as a sage. She addressed the crowd:

“Look at them, your contenders. Each believes they control the Leviathan, but it already controls them. The one who seeks to rule to dominate becomes the slave of his own violence. The one who seeks to rule for safety becomes captive of his fear. The one who seeks to rule to be seen blinds herself. The one who seeks to rule for History no longer sees the living. The one who seeks prestige feeds on smoke. The one who seeks power out of pride returns to savagery.”

A silence spread across the assembly. But the contenders laughed. “Old fool,” they said, “the people want masters, not lamentations.” And the race went on.

The final trial

It was then announced that each must enact an immediate measure to prove their ability to govern. The throne would be given to the one whose act seemed greatest.

Domitius proposed sending the army to conquer a neighboring city to demonstrate the kingdom’s might.
Lucan decreed total surveillance of the people to shield them from unseen threats.
Erina wanted to build a tower even higher to overshadow nearby realms.
Phorbas signed a treaty of war, simply to have his name recorded in the book of centuries.
Megaron held a sumptuous reception for foreign kings, offering the kingdom’s riches as gifts.
Cyrenia demanded a colossal statue of herself in the heart of the capital.

Each act seemed grand, but each sowed the seeds of disaster: war, fear, vanity, waste, pride. None sought to protect the innocent or lighten their burdens. Each saw only their own reflection.

The flight of the just

Meanwhile, the wise, the just, the benevolent, stayed away. They murmured to each other: “Perhaps we could do better. But in the midst of these wolves, what could we truly accomplish? The institutions would devour us, the rivalries would break us, the illusions would corrupt us.” So they chose to remain on the margins, refusing a throne that was nothing but a trap.

The coronation

At last, after heated debate, it was Phorbas whom the assembly crowned. His war treaty had impressed with its “historic” aura. His name was shouted, his stele engraved, he was hailed as savior. But the very next day, thousands of men were sent to war, and thousands of families wept for their children. The Leviathan had chosen its new prey.

The moral

So ended that race, like so many before. Power, disguised as glory, was nothing but a moral abyss. Those who desired it were already unworthy. Those who shunned it knew its true weight. The ordinary madness of men is to believe that assuming the impossible is a dignity, when it is almost always an injustice. Peoples cheer their rulers, but should mourn their fall. Contenders fight to reign, but should tremble before the abyss they seek.

And in that kingdom, as in so many others, the lesson went unheeded. For already, new contenders were raising their hands, believing the abyss to be a balcony, and not a cliff.

Conclusion

The fable teaches us that desiring power is already a mistake of perspective. The Leviathan never crowns victors; it devours willing victims. The true sages never fight to sit upon it. They know that ruling is not a privilege, but a voluntary burden. They choose lucidity over pride, withdrawal over a fatal glory.