The King was not born cruel—he learned it. Betrayed by kin, scarred by war, he trusted no one, loved nothing.

Mercy was weakness. Loyalty, a leash.

He made pacts with darker things—old gods beneath the earth, nameless ones that whispered through the roots of the palace. In exchange for power, he gave them what they craved: silence, blood, and the slow erasure of hope.

His people suffered. Crops failed. Children vanished. 

The sun rarely rose, and when it did, it rose cold.

Still, the King ruled.

He sat alone in his throne room, speaking only to the shadows. They flattered him, fed his madness, told him he would rule forever. 

One night, he asked them, "Why do you serve me?"

A long pause.

Then they answered:

“We do not serve. We wait.”

His bones grew heavy. His servants disappeared. Time blurred. 

He stopped eating, yet never starved. 

Centuries passed.

No kingdom. No people. 

Just a man, old and withered, fused to a throne of blackened iron, whispering to things no longer whispering back.

He cannot die.

Because they won’t let him.