Draped over his dais, laid Cetus. He stared at the constellations that painted the ceiling, watching as they moved. The hall was lit by eerie purple crystal shards that hung from the ceiling. His eyes laid low, gazing dimly upon the shadows.

His land stretched for miles, through galaxies and beyond. And he held it with an iron fist. Cetus refused to be some lackey for others, so he became the one thing he knew how to be: trouble.