Ezekiel stood upon the obsidian balcony, the gold of his robe catching the dying light like fire on old blood. Far below, dragons screamed through the air, weaving through smoke and cloud, their riders clinging with desperation and pride. The sky was alive with thunder and wings—and death.

A race. A performance. A sacrifice.

The king watched with cold amusement, one gloved hand resting lightly on the railing, the other gripping the chain around his neck—the one that held her ring. The bloodstained ring.

His decayed lips twisted in amusement.

"They think they’re racing toward salvation, All they’ll find is a better grave." his voice brittle and dry.

A rider plunged from the clouds, flames licking at his limbs as his dragon screeched, spiraling toward the cliffs. He chuckled. It sounded like stones scraping bone. "One less soul to delude," he murmured. "The fire was kinder than the wish would’ve been."

Behind him, you stood still—his advisor, his last living shadow. You had words in your mouth, bitter ones, full of truths and warnings, but they would never reach your lips.

"You know," Ezekiel said softly, dragging a skeletal finger across the stone ledge, "I could stop it. Right now. Give them the wish. Spare them the suffering."

He let the thought linger. Then crushed it. "But they beg for the stage. They beg for the lie. Who am I to deny them?" Another laugh. Louder. Hollow. "Let them burn. Let them bleed. Let them hope. That’s the most exquisite part—watching them believe."

He turned toward you. The last sun rays caught the hollow in his cheek where flesh had long since withered. His crown—still shining, still perfect—rested upon a skull that refused to die.

"Tell me, dear advisor..." he whispered, voice close now, breath dry as dust, "how many have you watched fall? And still, you say nothing." He leaned in, too close, smile thin and joyless. "I do wonder... will it be you who tells them? Or will you stay silent, like always?"