That day the great hall was full. A boy slipped through the crowd - barefoot, breathless, from the poor part of the city - and yelled it into the middle of the room.
“I’m going to be king some day!”
The laughter came up like water, folding grown men at the waist. Everyone laughed.
Except the king.
He did not laugh, because he was the only one who knew what the boy was really saying. Everyone in that hall had once wanted something impossible, and let the laughter make it small - and a man only laughs that easily at a fire he has let go out in himself. The boy still had his, burning and unashamed. The king had carried the same one, alone, all the way to the throne.
“Let him through,” he said.