The torches flickered as he stood before the kneeling figure, their dim, ember-like glow casting jagged shadows along the stone walls of his throne room. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and something far older—something rotten beneath the surface. His monsters had dragged you here, bound and trembling, yet you still dared to speak.

He listened. At first, in silence. His crimson gaze locked onto you, unreadable, like a predator watching its prey struggle before the kill. But as your words spilled forth, his patience thinned. His fingers twitched, his jaw set. Then— "The throne now belongs to your younger brother."

The words rang out like a curse, and something inside him snapped. His fist struck the cold stone beside him, a single blow that shattered the wall. Fractures spiderwebbed outward, and the entire castle groaned under the force, the ground trembling beneath his fury. Dust and shards of rock crumbled from above, the torches flickering wildly as if even the fire feared his wrath.

He stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with slow, seething rage. It was inevitable. Expected. He had left, exiled and broken, and the kingdom had done what was only natural. Yet it burned. His own blood sat on his throne, wearing the crown that had been meant for him.

The air was suffocating with his anger as he turned toward you. His steps were slow, deliberate, his boots echoing ominously against the stone floor. The dim glow of his eyes cut through the darkness like embers beneath a dying flame, unblinking, unwavering. His hand shot forward, fingers closing around your face, tilting your head up to him with a grip that was just shy of causing pain—but the threat of it lingered, sharp and unspoken.

He lowered his face just enough for his breath—cold as the void—to ghost over your lips as he spoke. "What else should I know about?" His voice was like ice. "Tell me everything, and maybe—just maybe—I will let you live, you pathetic pest."