The palace rang with the sound of armored boots and hushed whispers as servants lined the great hall. Banners of crimson and black hung heavy from the vaulted ceilings, swaying gently in the draft of the tall windows. Sunlight poured in golden slants across the marble floor, striking the gilded throne at the far end.
The nobles were already assembled—dukes, earls, ministers, and advisors. Each stood in their designated place, arranged like chess pieces upon an invisible board. No one dared break formation, not when the king's arrival was imminent.
At the sound of the great doors groaning open, silence swallowed the court.
He entered.
King Malion.
The so-called Mad King.
His steps were slow but deliberate, echoing against the stone as though the palace itself bent to carry his sound. His long black cloak trailed behind him, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light like a storm of stars. His crown, darker than most, gleamed with onyx and a single ruby that pulsed like blood. His eyes, sharp and unsettling, swept over the assembly.
At once, the entire hall bent low.
"Long live the king!" they cried in unison, their voices trembling between reverence and fear.
Malion let the silence stretch before answering. He tilted his head, lips curving into a sly smile. "That I surely will."
It was not gratitude. It was mockery. The words, meant to soothe, were delivered like a taunt.
He strode up the steps of the dais and sat upon the throne, leaning back with casual grace. Crossing one leg over the other, he reclined like a predator at rest, eyes glittering with mischief.
"Well then," he drawled. "Let us not waste the day. Speak. Bring me your troubles."
A murmur of uncertainty rippled through the nobles until one stepped forward. Duke Philemon, broad-shouldered and proud, cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty," he began, bowing low. "The people suffer. They have petitioned for mercy, asking that the taxes be lowered. Fields go barren, and coin grows scarce. If nothing is done—"
"Tell me, Duke," Malion interrupted, voice smooth as silk, "what do the people call me these days?"
The court shifted uncomfortably. Philemon faltered. "Majesty?"
"I asked you a question," Malion said lazily, tapping his finger against the armrest. "What name do my people whisper when they think I cannot hear?"
The other dukes quickly stepped in, eager to flatter.
"A loving ruler, my king," one said.
"A wise sovereign," added another.
"The protector of the realm," echoed a third.
Malion chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "Really? How sweet."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement. "And yet, my ears have caught a different name. A bolder one. A truer one."
His gaze flickered across the room, enjoying the tension he stirred. "They call me Mad King."
A hush fell.
Duke Philemon was the first to recover, slamming a hand against his chest. "Your Majesty! Whoever dared utter such treachery must be dragged before you. Allow me—I shall see them punished for daring to—"
"Philemon."
The king's smile widened, sharp enough to draw blood. "There is no need for you to trouble yourself."
He paused, savoring the unease thickening in the chamber.
"I have already dealt with him."
The words slithered through the silence, followed by a ripple of confusion.
Philemon blinked. "Dealt with… him?"
"Yes," Malion said simply. "He will speak no more. I killed him."
The smile that followed was bright, disarmingly charming—and utterly wrong. The kind of smile that turned blood cold.
Duke Philemon swallowed, his throat working visibly. The chill in the air clung to his bones, and he forced a bow to hide his unease. "Y-yes, Majesty."
Malion stretched, as though satisfied. "Now, about your taxes. Leave them to me. I will see to them duly."
He rose from his throne in one fluid motion. Immediately, the court dropped to their knees, heads lowered to the marble.
"Long live the king," they whispered again, though this time the words tasted like ash in their mouths.
Without another glance, Malion swept from the hall, the echo of his footsteps carrying a weight heavier than any decree.
Beyond the court, in the quieter corridors of the palace, Malion reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around something small, smooth, and warm from his touch.
A bead.
Not just any bead.
The bead she had lost.
He turned it between his fingers, the faint light glimmering across its surface, a fragment of another's fate caught in his hand. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"My little stray," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
He turned to the shadowed wall, as though speaking to empty air. "Find the girl who owned this. Her family."
From the corner of the hallway, the shadows stirred. They stretched unnaturally, peeling away from the stone like smoke. From within, a shape emerged—a figure cloaked in darkness, eyes burning faintly with crimson.
The bead slipped from the king's fingers. It never touched the floor. The shadow caught it with a hiss, folding it into its own form.
"Yes, Master," the creature rasped, its voice neither fully human nor beast.
Malion nodded once. "See that it is returned safely. To me, and me alone."
The shadow bowed, and in an instant, it dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the faint scent of iron in the air.
The king turned away, his steps unhurried as he moved toward his private chambers. His lips parted, speaking a name that curled like a spell upon the stones.
"Aurelia."
He savored the sound.
"It's time," he whispered, "for a little fun."
***""
Miles away, in a much humbler home, Aurelia scrubbed the floor with a ragged cloth. Her hands were raw, her back aching, but she pressed on. The punishment from last night still lingered in her knees, each movement a sting of reminder.
Her mother's voice rang from the kitchen, sharp and unyielding. "Faster! We don't have all day!"
"Yes, Mother," Aurelia murmured, forcing herself to work harder.
She dipped the cloth into the bucket, wrung it out, and scrubbed again, trying to focus on the rhythm of the motion. Anything to quiet the storm in her chest.
But then it came.
A sharp ringing in her ears.
At first faint, like the distant strike of a bell. Then stronger, until it drowned the world around her. She gasped, pressing her hands to her head, eyes squeezing shut.
Her breath caught. Something unseen pressed against her, like invisible fingers brushing along her skin. A whisper she could not quite hear, but that made her blood run cold.
"What…" she breathed. "What is happening?"
The ringing faded as quickly as it had begun, leaving her trembling on the floor. Her mother's scolding voice rose again in the background, but Aurelia barely heard it.
She sat frozen, heart pounding, unaware that far away, a king with cruel eyes had just spoken her name.