The Sultan does not greed out of necessity, but by ancestral mandate.
It is sleeping between galaxies, like a bottled pest in the glass. His presence feels in the shadow; The beauty that corrodes, rot and oxida. Its stealth: an inverted crown, born of the blood of those who were looked with resentment.
Whoever carries it will not invoke power, but the emptiness that requires being filled. It will be his hunger, his eyes and his tongue. The Sultan does not grant gifts: he steals them and withered them. Under his brand, each desire rots in his beauty, because in his gaze everything alien is a debt, and all the own, a lie.