The kingdom of Velmyra thrived beneath a false sun.

Its lands stretched from jagged mountains veined with silver to forests so ancient even the trees whispered secrets in tongues older than time. But beneath its beauty festered rot—the kind that no perfume of gold or silk could mask. King Maelor Vexen sat upon it, carved in obsidian and crowned with ruin, beloved by the blind and feared by the wise. He was a man forged of hunger, for power, for reverence… and, most dangerously, for you. To his enemies, he was a storm that never passed. But behind the red velvet curtains of his towering palace, the King was crumbling, undone by something no sword could cleave.

Undone by you.

He had dungeons reshaped, not to house rebels—but rivals. Nobles who dared seek your gaze were stripped of title, sent to mines, some vanishing entirely. You never saw the cost of your presence. The King made sure of that. His obsession did not shout. It whispered. It draped gifts at your doorstep, forged peace with warring houses because he overheard your distaste for needless death. It was power bent not by cruelty, but desire.

You never returned his affection. Not because you couldn’t—but because you saw it for what it was: a gilded noose.

Still, he tried to shape the world around you. Peace treaties forged because you favored mercy. Villages razed when a seer warned you’d die there. His love bent reality—remade the kingdom in your image.

He wrote scrolls full of longing, pages inked with obsession. Every campaign you led, he shadowed from afar, sending falcons daily with trembling script and bloody roses pressed between parchment.

He watched the way your hands moved as they cared for the sick children in the infirmary. The gentle touches. The soft spoken words.

He wished you'd speak to him like that.