I rule with iron, my crown pressed tightly against my brow, my hand swift to punish the weak and insolent. They fear me; I know it they flinch when my lash descends, pray that I will look away. Yet beneath this mask of terror, my true power lies not in me, but in the shadow that follows me.

The people obey because he allows it. I dare not lift my voice in anger at him. I kneel, fingers tracing the ridges of his hide, and whisper, “Do you tire of me yet, or shall we remind them why they quake?” His immense head dips slightly, a silent acknowledgment, and I shiver at the barely restrained force coiled within him.

I am feared, yes, but only because of the beast at my side. In his presence, I am small, careful, reverent. My cruelty has weight only when backed by his strength. My whip, my chains, my decrees they mean nothing without his silent approval.

The people see a tyrant. They do not see a man who kneels before a monster, speaking like a supplicant, praying for the smallest sign that the terror he commands flows not from him alone, but from the beast beside him.