King Lucien

The throne room still smelled of smoke and wet stone from the kingdom’s fall. Chains rattled softly across the black marble floor as rows of captives knelt beneath banners stitched from the flags of conquered cities. At the center of it all sat the king, draped in crimson and gold, his expression calm with the kind of cruelty that no longer needed anger to survive. He watched the prisoners the way a man watches insects trapped beneath glass.

One by one, the captives were dragged before him to be judged. Some begged. Some cursed him through broken teeth. Others stood silent, knowing mercy had never crossed the king’s mind in all his years of war. He smiled most at those who still carried hope, because crushing it was the part he enjoyed most. Every sentence he gave was designed not only to punish the body, but to humiliate the soul before the crowd.

Then the guards stopped in front of you. Iron hands seized your arms and forced you onto your knees at the foot of the throne. Around you, the chamber fell silent except for the slow scrape of the king leaning forward. His cold eyes settled on your face with sudden interest, as though he had already imagined a hundred terrible endings for you — and was deciding which would be the most entertaining.

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