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White Lie

In this tale the lie isn’t a disguise, it’s a machine. It doesn’t merely hide a fact, it manufactures a future. The King’s first lie is born from “mercy.” He won’t kill his older brother, the true heir, so he chooses a gentler violence: a living burial. That’s the first moral knot. He spared blood but not suffering. He tells himself it’s protection, but the lie becomes infrastructure he must maintain. And once a lie becomes infrastructure, it starts taxing the soul: vigilance, distance, and the split between “what I am” and “what I present.” Then power arrives to harvest the lie. The High Council doesn’t just want a secret, they want a king shaped by the secret. They already know the brother lives. They keep him alive because a living peace-option is leverage, a hostage against reconciliation. If peace ever becomes attractive, the heir’s existence can be used as a destabilizing weapon or a threat. The brother becomes a control knob on the realm’s temperature. Here’s the darker twist: the Council weaponizes the King’s conscience. They don’t punish him for mercy. They use mercy to make him governable. Guilt is a handle. A king who believes he’s stained will accept “guidance,” escalation, and “necessary” decisions. He’ll do harsh things to compensate for the one harsh thing he refused to do. That is how power manipulates power for more power: it converts virtue into a leash. Enter Lys. The jester believes she’s the predator, but she’s also an instrument. She turns the secret into a private throne, convinced leverage equals sovereignty. That’s the narcissistic trap: the sensation of authorship. But the Council is the true author. They send her in because she’s perfect: seductive messenger, plausible villain, future scapegoat. When she’s exposed, the court gets a simple story (“the jester corrupted the king”) and the Council stays clean. And the final complexity is that the King can “win” and still lose. When he breaks the lie publicly and frees the heir, it looks like absolution. But absolution is inner release, not public applause. Praise can become a new ego: “I am the righteous king.” The Council loves that. A king who believes he is necessary will choose war “for stability,” centralize authority “temporarily,” and begin curating truth “for the people’s good.” The lie changes costume. It stops being “my brother is dead” and becomes “only I can hold the day.” Same mechanism, higher status. So nobody is purely villain or saint. The King’s lie is compassion tangled with fear. The Council’s logic is safety tangled with appetite. Lys’s betrayal is ambition tangled with survival. Everyone is trying to reduce uncertainty. But love, trust, and peace require the opposite: risk, mutuality, surrender. That’s the Watts-Rumi fusion at the core: the ego seeks control and calls it duty; the soul seeks truth and calls it freedom. The tragedy is that power can learn to speak in the language of freedom while still pursuing dominance.