The scorching African sun beat down upon the golden savannah, where a lone figure stood atop a rock, gazing over the vast, untamed land. Dressed in loose-fitting khaki, with a well-worn safari hat shielding his face, **Prince Edward—no, King Edric of the Free Lands—**surveyed his newfound kingdom.
This was his destiny.
The world had turned its back on him. The royal family had long since cast him aside. The aristocracy no longer welcomed him. The glamorous world of film, media, and luxury had humiliated him. His lucrative contracts had crumbled into dust. His wife had left him, naturally. She had returned to the glittering cities she had always preferred, taking the children with her and marrying a hedge fund billionaire who had never even heard of her past work.
And so, with no kingdom left to rule, Edric set off for the only place that had ever made sense to him.
Africa.
It had always been there for him in his darkest moments. As a boy, struggling under the weight of expectation. As a soldier, escaping the suffocating traditions of palace life. And now, as an exile, searching for meaning.
But this time, he would not merely visit.
He would reign.
The Rise of a King
The village of Makuwa welcomed him with curiosity and mild amusement. When he had first arrived, speaking of his burdens as a prince, they had listened politely, not entirely sure what he wanted.
“I come to serve you,” he had announced, standing in the center of the village with the self-importance of a man who had never done a real day’s work in his life.
The elders exchanged glances. They had seen Westerners like him before—lost souls seeking meaning in the wilderness. Some came to hunt, some to build schools, others to disappear.
But this one was different.
He spoke of his suffering, his rejection, the weight of his bloodline. The people of Makuwa, known for their hospitality, nodded sympathetically and let him believe he was important.
Over time, he declared himself one of them. He learned to walk barefoot, carried a spear he never actually used, and practiced delivering grand speeches to no one in particular.
“The world rejected me,” he would say, gesturing to the sky, “but here, among my people, I am free.”
The villagers clapped at appropriate moments, though most had no idea what he was talking about.
But Edric had found his role—he was no longer a prince, but a king.
His New Royal Court
To complete his transformation, he took a wife—a local woman named Nia, who was half his age and infinitely wiser. She tolerated him with the patience of a saint, nodding through his speeches and occasionally reminding him that he should fetch water if he wanted to contribute to the village.
He had six children, each given grand, regal names—Alexander, Leopold, and Octavius, alongside their sisters, Victoria, Diana, and Elizabeth.
“The bloodline must continue,” he would say solemnly, though no one had asked him to continue it.
In the evenings, he would sit by the fire, telling stories of his time as a prince, of palaces and betrayals, of lost fortunes and executives who had once groveled at his feet.
The villagers nodded, though they found it odd that he spoke more of his suffering than of gratitude.
The Final Coronation
Years passed, and the legend of King Edric of the Free Lands grew.
Foreign journalists came, writing headlines like “The Exiled Prince Who Became a Tribal King!” and “From Palace to Hut: The Self-Made Monarch of Africa.”
Edric read these stories with pride, unaware that they were mocking him.
He had found his place in history, even if it was only in his mind.
And so, he ruled—not over a kingdom, but over the illusion of one.
And for Edric, that was enough.