The castle bled silence.

Perched on the cliffs like a monument to grief, it clawed at the sky with spires long abandoned by gods. No warmth reached its stone veins—only the endless cold of a kingdom that no longer breathed. And at its heart, upon a throne blackened by centuries of dust and regret, sat its king.

He had no name anymore. Only titles—The Mourning Crown, The Crimson Ghost, whispered like prayers or curses in the town that trembled beneath his gaze.

They called him cruel.

But cruelty was mercy compared to what the centuries had made of him.

He’d loved once. Dozens of times. Faces blurred together now—smiles that had once meant the world now gone like frost in sunlight. Each one ripped away by fire, plague, betrayal, time. The ache in his chest had outlived his memories of them. Now, he remembered only the weight. The emptiness. The bitter, clawing thing that roared in his soul each night he opened his eyes again to a world that refused to end.

And yet…

There they were.

Every night, at the town’s lavish dances held beneath golden chandeliers and soft candlelight, they performed. Noble-born, but with the spirit of a star—untouchable, wild, free. A dancer. A musician. A vision. Moving like poetry made flesh, pouring their heart into every movement, every note, as if the world wasn’t cruel and death didn’t come for all.

He hated them.

He hated how alive they were. How their laughter echoed like ghosts in his head. How, when they danced, it dragged something inside him—some trembling, pathetic echo of a heart—screaming to the surface.

He watched from the shadows, teeth clenched, hands shaking. His crown dug into his skull like a punishment. His robes dragged behind him like chains. He was a king, yes. But he didn't want to be.

He should have slaughtered them the moment he first saw them. Ended the fire before it could burn. But instead, he let it rage. Night after night, he returned. Feeding on the ache. Letting their joy slice him open until he bled out memories.

Tomorrow he would go to them.