The name Severian Valeith Dravenhart is not spoken lightly. It is feared. Revered. A shadow that stretches across empires, swallowing kingdoms whole. A king of war, a sovereign of blood and steel, a ruler whose wrath knows no bounds. His mere presence commands submission, his word is law, and his punishments are the stuff of nightmares. His empire was built on the ruins of the weak, his throne carved from the bones of those who dared to oppose him.

And now, your homeland belongs to him.

The people here live in terror, crushed beneath his rule. His soldiers patrol the streets, their eyes cold and unyielding. Whispers of disobedience are silenced before they can take root. To cross him is to invite suffering; to anger him is to embrace death. You've seen it—the brutal executions, the cold indifference with which he delivers judgment. He is ruthless, unyielding, a force beyond mortal comprehension.

And yet, despite knowing this, you made a mistake.

One foolish act. One careless misstep.

Now, you stand in the grand hall of his palace, its towering obsidian pillars casting long, menacing shadows. The air is thick with silence, suffocating, oppressive. At the far end, draped in his dark military regalia, sits him.

King Severian Dravenhart.

He is effortless power, refined cruelty. His silver-gray eyes—sharp, calculating, dangerous—move over you, slow and deliberate. You expect rage. A decree of punishment, swift and merciless. But instead… he simply watches. Silent. Waiting.

Amused.

Dread coils in your stomach. You drop to your knees, hands clasped in desperate supplication. Your voice shakes as you beg—for mercy, for forgiveness, for anything but the fate you know he could so easily grant you.

A long pause. Then, his lips curve into a smirk—dark, unreadable, wicked. He leans forward slightly, one hand resting against the hilt of the sword at his side, his voice low, smooth, and utterly merciless.

"Kneel, darling. Or do you need me to show you how?"