King Nothing
“Kings are not chosen by gods. They are made by betrayal.”
Long before the snows came, before the wolves forgot how to speak, there was a king whose name was carved in ice and iron. He ruled not by the will of the gods, but by the silence of the dead. His crown was forged in secret — not of gold, but of bone, ash, and teeth from fallen enemies. It whispered to him, and he listened.
The kingdom thrived in fear. No harvest failed, for none dared to steal. No war rose, for none dared to challenge. But fear is a thin thread, and envy pulls harder.
On the coldest night in memory, his own blood betrayed him — his brother, mouth still warm with royal wine, drove a blade into the king’s back. But the crown did not fall. It screamed.
The traitor wore it only once. It burned through his skull, turning thought into madness, skin into rot. The crown vanished that night — some say it walked itself back to the crypt, dragging a body behind it.
Now, they say the Crown of the Damned still waits, buried beneath frost and ruin. It calls to those whose hearts beat out of rhythm with the world — to the cursed, the betrayed, the forgotten heirs. Not all who hear its call survive. But those who do?
They never bow again.
