"I swear it, Your Majesty," the man's voice trembled, his entire body shivering where he sat chained to a wooden chair. Each breath escaped in ragged puffs of steam. "I don't know anything."
The basement walls wept with condensation, the air thick and cold. Stripped to his undergarments, José Lopez tried to stifle his whimpers, but King Vladimir Cain Leopold II heard it all—the panicked rhythm of the man's heart, the sweat dripping along his spine, the blood rushing fast through terrified veins.
The sour stench of piss hit the King's nose. He wrinkled it in disgust. Even his men swallowed back bile, their expressions fixed and unreadable, trained not to react.
King Vladimir had grown bored of games.
In a blink, he stood before the trembling man, his shadow spilling over him like a guillotine. A slow, condescending smirk crept onto his lips. He chuckled softly, hands folding behind his back like a patient teacher.
"I believe you, Mr. Lopez. I really do," he said with mock sincerity.
But everyone knew—anyone in the same room as the King was prey by default.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "I can't afford that kind of risk."
Lopez broke, pleading now. "Please, my King, I beg you—spare me. I'll disappear. I'll never return to the Kingdom. Please... I have a family. A wife. A baby on the way... just like your own—"
The words had barely left his mouth.
The King's smirk snapped into fury.
In a flash, Vladimir lunged, clamping his hand around Lopez's throat. The shift in his face was monstrous—no longer regal, but feral. A sick gleam danced in his eyes, something primal and ancient that no horror film could capture.
"Shame," the King purred, his voice rough as gravel, vibrating the floor beneath his soldiers' feet. His pupils burned white-hot, and in them, Lopez's quaking reflection shimmered like a ghost.
"You were such a good spy."
Lopez opened his mouth to scream.
But nothing came.
With a wet crunch, the King tore out José's throat with his teeth. Bone cracked. Blood gushed. Flesh tore. The sound echoed off cement—slurp, snap, chew.
The King stood straight, gore dripping from his mouth, unbothered.
His men didn't flinch.
They'd been trained for this. Conditioned. Everyone who served the King knew the rules: never look at, speak to, or even mention his heirs. The punishment was clear and final—death.
Vladimir Cain Leopold II was many things—honorable to the loyal, monstrous to the defiant. A ruler by name, a killer by instinct. His power lay not just in his crown, but in what few had lived to see: his true, unholy strength.
And if any soul was foolish enough to touch what he loved—
May God have mercy on them.
Because the King of Crimson never would.