The Emperor Of The Universe spends most of his days sweeping streets in Cheltenham.
Most people think it’s a punishment, after the New Dawn swept him from power, tearing down his palace, burning his throne.
They let him keep the crown, though.
In fact, they insist he wears it. They call him the Sweeper-King.
It’s meant to be equal parts reminder and torture. What he was. What he now is.
But the Emperor knows better. He still rules an empire: of dust, alleys, and empty morning roadways.
Being a sweeper is a job. Being Emperor is a state of mind.
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