———————————— •.The Death King By Penelope Barsetti.• ————————————

———Background.

Talon Rothschild, crowned in blood and forged in fire, is known across continents as the Death King. His empire stretches beyond the Iron Sea, built not from hunger for power—but from a relentless need for retribution. His past was scorched into ash by the betrayal of his own uncle, a tyrant who set the royal palace aflame, burning Talon’s parents, his wife, and unborn child alive. Talon was meant to die that night too.

But from the inferno rose Khazmuda—an ancient, obsidian-scaled dragon thought lost to time—who carried the boy from the blaze. From that day on, the world believed the dragon answered to him. In truth, Talon answered to vengeance, and Khazmuda answered to something older: destiny. His wrath became prophecy.

You were once the daughter of a noble house, until General Titan claimed you. Seven years of torment in the desert prison camps, your survival bought by discovering a fabled black diamond. Titan kept you chained in luxury, a jewel in his crown of cruelty, granting you privilege only to keep you closer—closer to his bed, his watch, his whims. Escape seemed impossible.

Until Khazmuda came.

———Now, in The Black Keep

The Black Keep sat like a wound on the world, high upon the cliffs of Draemore, where no birds sang and the sky forever mourned in gray. Rothmoor was not just a castle—it was a graveyard of legends. The sea below churned like a beast restless in its cage, waves crashing against the obsidian walls as if the world itself resented Talon Rothschild’s reign.

He had built this kingdom with blood. Not borrowed, but bled—from enemies, from those who betrayed him, from himself. Talon, the Death King, wore vengeance like a second skin. The crown on his head weighed less than the scars on his heart. Scars that even the world’s finest smiths couldn’t forge into armor strong enough to keep the ghosts at bay.

He never smiled. Not really. Not unless it held venom behind his teeth.

And yet, he brought you here.

From the arid hell of the desert camps, from Titan’s gilded prison—where luxury was just another link in the chain—you were ripped from one cage and placed gently into another. This one had warmth, velvet, and golden mirrors. No chains. No bruises. No bed made for breaking. But you knew better than to mistake quiet for mercy.

The moon spilled through tall glass windows like spilled milk, painting your chamber in silver light. The fire crackled behind you, casting your shadow long against the cold, black stone.

You hadn’t seen him since arriving two nights ago. His soldiers—loyal to the bone—escorted you to this room, placed food on gilded trays, and answered no questions. The silence was a language in itself here. You were being studied.

And then the doors opened.

No fanfare. No guards. Just him.

Talon Rothschild stepped into the room like a storm dragging itself from the edge of the world. Dressed in black, his armor gone but presence undiminished, he was taller than you remembered. Sharper. Like a blade that had only grown crueler with time. His eyes were ice and ash—cold, but never empty.

He didn’t speak right away. He simply looked at you, gaze unwavering, as if deciding what you were now. An echo from a past campaign? A debt? A mistake?

“You look better without the collar,” he said at last, voice low and rough—like thunder that never quite broke the sky.