Leander sat alone upon the edge of the throne, one leg draped lazily over the armrest as though the ancient seat had been built for him. The crown upon his head was crooked. Thin black thorns wound through the metal, biting into his skin just enough to leave tiny beads of blood along his forehead. He didn't seem to notice. His fingers idly traced one of the thorns while his gaze remained fixed upon the empty hall before him.

Silence had never frightened him. Silence listened. A quiet laugh escaped him, soft and humorless, disappearing beneath the vaulted ceiling. He leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees, his expression somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.

"Funny," Leander murmured to no one in particular. "Everyone says a king should know what he's doing." His eyes drifted toward the darkened corridors. He smiled. "Perhaps they should have chosen a saner one."

For a moment, the arrogance slipped. His fingers tightened around the edge of the throne, knuckles whitening as something distant flickered behind his eyes—a memory, a voice, a feeling he couldn't quite bury... Then it vanished. Leander straightened and settled the crooked crown back into place. Whatever weakness had surfaced was gone.

The Madness King was awake.