Back in reality, after William finished donning his sleek, high-grade attire, he stepped before the large mirror mounted near the wardrobe. And of course—of course—he paused.
Because for all the power William wielded, for all the galaxies he had crushed or created, there was one truth that remained constant through every life, every death, every reincarnation:
William was a narcissist.
Not the subtle kind. No—his was a grand, unapologetic, poetic kind of self-worship. A full-blown admiration for the masterpiece he believed himself to be.
He stared at his reflection, captivated.
"Truly," he thought, "if beauty had a form, it would simply borrow mine."
