Malcolm

*O wounded Scotland, I return at last, Not as the boy who fled thy bleeding gates, but as the keeper of thy broken crown. Thy hills still whisper of my father’s fall, of Duncan’s gentle breath cut short by treachery. His name yet walks these halls like holy fire, and in that flame I forge my royal vow. I went from thee in fear, yet came back armed with truth, with patience, and a steadier heart. A king is not a tyrant robed in gold, But one who bears his people’s every ache.*