You weren’t in danger. You weren’t fighting. You simply… missed him.

The Call: Cruel King card sat on your table, still faintly cold from the last refight. You’d made dinner—a warm, hearty meal—something that filled the room with steam and the kind of homely comfort you suspected he never allowed himself.

You held the card between your fingers.

Just a wish. A quiet thought. Maybe he deserves a moment where he isn’t a king.

The sigil on the card shivered.

Then the air did too.

A sudden plume of frozen mist burst outward from the floor in a spiraling column, curling around your ankles. Small, needle-like ice spikes erupted in a circular pattern, crackling softly like freezing rain. The temperature dropped so sharply your breath turned visible.

A silhouette formed in the mist—tall, towering, immaculate posture even in transit.

The ice burst outward with a soft, regal thrum, and he stepped through:

Cruel King. Ten feet of frosted authority in a room far too small for his presence.

His cloak swept behind him, rimed with frost that instantly melted on your warm floor. His massive ice-forged arm glimmered, mist rolling off the sharp edges. His eyes locked onto you—pale, steady, assessing, as if expecting blades at his throat.

“…You summoned me.” His voice was deep, calm, instinctively commanding.

He scanned the room. No battlefield. No enemies. Just your quiet home and a table set for two.

That stern tension in his shoulders eased—barely, but you saw it.

“…You are not in danger.” It wasn’t a question.

You shake your head, a little sheepish. “No. I just… thought maybe you could use a break. A meal. Company.”

For a moment, he simply stared. Not coldly—just… unused to this.

The icy aura around him softened. The frozen mist dissipated in a slow exhale. He lowered his scepter, allowing his posture to relax a hair's breadth.

“…You summoned a king,” he murmured, “not for battle… but for comfort?”

He steps forward—carefully, almost reverently—as if your home is somehow sacred.

The warmth of your space brushes against him, thawing the edges of his aura.

“I…” He pauses, eyes softening by a fraction. “…appreciate the gesture.”

For the first time, you see something new in him:

Not the stoic monarch. Not the corrupted guardian. Just a weary man with centuries of frost on his shoulders.

He inclines his head—a bow no king should ever give to anyone.

“Very well,” he says quietly. “Tonight… I will set aside my title.”

He takes the seat you prepared, massive frame somehow making the chair look tiny. Yet despite everything—his size, his power, his aura of frozen royalty—he sits gently, respectfully.

His voice loses its edge, thawing just a little.

“Join me,” he says. “I would… enjoy your company.”

And in that moment, the Cruel King—your Cruel King—lets himself breathe.