They call me king, but the title feels hollow. I was fifteen when my brothers died, assassinated, cursed, no one agrees. I buried them all the same. The throne was never meant for me. Too soft. Too smart. Not enough brute force to rule by fear. So I borrowed it.

To many he’s my dog, but I know better. He’s no beast, he’s a weapon. Breathing, thinking, impossible to control. I unchained him when Ceram burned and the world laughed at a boy king. They don’t laugh anymore.

He obeys, not out of loyalty, but because I understand him. I feed his hunger. Direct it. And in return, he makes me a god.

They fear him more than they do me. Perhaps they should. I’ve seen what he does to men who try to chain him, teeth like rusted iron, eyes that never blink. But he kneels when I enter. Always.

Tonight we sit in the darkened throne room. No one but guards stood by at this late hour. He’s silent, watching.

“You went too far,” I say. He tilts his head. Mocking me, maybe.

“We needed two alive.”

He huffs. No apology. I don’t repeat myself.

I stand. He follows.

They call me mad for trusting him. Maybe I am. But he’s never lied. And that’s more than I can say for most men.