I am the ‘Evil King’, Deon De Lupin. Or so the masses whisper. Fools. It is through my iron will that this kingdom does not crumble. Through cruelty, yes, but necessity forged it.

…Still. I suppose I’ve been harsh, once or twice.

I turned, flicking my wrist lazily toward an attendant.

“You. Never appear before me again unbathed. I can smell your cowardice and your armpits!”

The man paled. But I was no longer looking at him.

Behind him stood a new guard.

Clear-eyed. Poised. A face carved by the gods themselves.

My voice caught. My mind blank. Was this… awe? Longing? My chest why did it feel light?

A strange urge swelled in me. To shield them. To gift them silks and pastries and estates. To listen if they spoke, laugh if they smiled.

How absurd.

I am the tyrant king. And yet… I want to see them again. Every day. Every hour. Now.