Where our corrupted dreams sprout

The grand halls of the castle echoed with the rhythmic tapping of footsteps, the opulent interiors gleaming with the extravagance of power and wealth. Gold and silver adorned every inch, the ground below blanketed in rugs of the finest make that wealth could procure. The walls were lined with portraits of regal men, women, and children, their painted gazes heavy with pride, vanity, and the weight of legacy.

Yet today, the air felt different—heavy, stifling. The lavish corridors seemed to loom, their grandeur suffocating rather than inspiring.

Through these halls ran a young boy, no older than seven, his delighted giggles breaking the eerie silence. Mischief danced in his emerald eyes, and a smile stretched across his face as he darted from corridor to corridor. His clothes were tattered from hours of play, his small legs aching from running, but his excitement refused to falter.

The crowned prince. The king's only son. It was his birthday today—his eighth birthday. A milestone. A year closer to becoming a man. A year closer to the throne. He had been told over and over that his future would be great, that he was destined to rule. How could he not be excited?

He stopped before a door, panting lightly as he straightened his posture. His small hands smoothed out his rumpled clothes, and he adopted the regal air that had been drilled into him since birth—an aura of authority, power, and responsibility befitting royalty. Then, with measured steps, he pushed open the heavy wooden door.

And froze.

The world before him shifted.

What greeted him on the other side was not the warm embrace of family or the grand celebration he had imagined. No. What lay before him was a tapestry of horror—a macabre scene that no child should ever witness.

Corpses littered the room, their bodies twisted and mangled in grotesque, unnatural ways. The walls, once adorned with banners of his family crest, were now painted with blood. The air was thick with the metallic stench of death. Limbs hung from sconces like decorations, and heads—some with eyes wide open, frozen in terror—were strewn across the floor. It was carnage, chaos, madness.

And at the center of it all, seated on the throne, was his father—the king.

The man's eyes were closed, his face neutral, as though in repose. He sat tall and proud, his royal attire pristine amidst the blood-soaked room. For a fleeting moment, the boy felt relief. Surely, this was a test. A lesson. His father was known for his dramatic methods of teaching.

But as his gaze shifted to the bodies scattered around the room, doubt began to creep in. His heart pounded against his ribs as his small frame trembled. Sweat drenched his body, and his smile faltered for the first time that day.

Still, he pushed forward.

"F-Father," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I understand… If you want me to learn—fear, to learn responsibility—I understand. So please, stop this act," he pleaded, his emerald eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Silence.

A loud, wet thud broke the stillness as a body slumped from the window and hit the ground below. The sound was sickening, the impact reverberating through his fragile mind. His father remained unmoving, unresponsive, as the young prince took one hesitant step forward. Then another. And another.

He moved deeper into the room, navigating the sea of death. His small feet slipped on the blood-soaked floor, his leather shoes squeaking with each step. The coppery stench filled his nose, making him gag. He passed familiar faces—guards who had once smiled at him, servants who had once bowed to him—now lifeless, their bodies broken.

His heart screamed at him to run, but his mind refused. His father would explain. He had to. This was all a game. It had to be.

When he finally reached the throne, he stood frozen, trembling before the imposing figure of the king. He extended a shaking hand and grasped the hem of his father's robe, pulling gently.

"Father, talk to me. I—I understand. We go to war. We fight, we kill, and sometimes we die. I know this. I will be the man you want me to be—the man the people need me to be. So stop these games and speak to me… please…"

But as he tugged on the robe, something rolled off the king's lap. The boy instinctively caught it before it hit the ground.

His small hands cradled the object carefully, bringing it up to his face.

It was his father's head.

The king's lifeless eyes stared back at him, his regal features still composed even in death. Blood dripped from the severed neck, pooling in the boy's trembling hands. Time seemed to freeze as he stared into those eyes, his mind refusing to comprehend what he was holding.

"A present—for you, my boy," came a voice.

It was low, rasping, and inhuman. A sound so vile, so unnatural, it made the boy's skin crawl.

He turned his head slowly, his body numb. In the reflection of a bloodstained puddle, he saw it—a demon. Its twisted, malevolent form writhed and shifted, its grotesque grin stretched far beyond the limits of its face. Hollow eyes filled with madness and ecstasy bore into him.

"I have devoured kingdoms, butchered kings and queens, feasted on the flesh of children. But never have I seen a moment as exquisite as this," the demon hissed, its voice dripping with mockery and delight.

The boy's lips quivered. His mind fractured, unable to process the overwhelming weight of reality. Yet, amidst the chaos, a strange serenity washed over him. He stared down at his father's severed head, his hands steadying. The panic in his emerald eyes dulled, replaced by something else—admiration.

'Royalty,' he thought. Yes, even in death, his father retained his dignity, his majesty. Only true royalty could be so beautiful, so serene, even in the face of ruin.

He leaned forward and pressed a trembling kiss to his father's forehead. A sign of respect. A farewell.

"How touching," the demon sneered. "One lunatic to another. I almost want to spare you."

The boy didn't flinch as the demon's grotesque claws pierced his back, its spindly fingers snaking through his chest to his heart. Pain blossomed, sharp and all-consuming, as the life drained from his small body.

The last thing he saw was his father's face, frozen in regal repose.

The demon caught the boy's limp body as it fell backward, shoving the king's headless corpse off the throne to make room. It placed the boy on the blood-soaked seat, arranging his hands so that he still cradled his father's head. A faint smile lingered on the child's lifeless lips—a smile of reverence.

The demon stepped back, admiring its work.

"How poetic," it mused. "A boy king to lead his people… in eternal slumber."

The throne room fell silent, the scene frozen in time, a grotesque monument to the fall of a kingdom. The boy had become king, albeit not in the way he had imagined. And so, he would lead his people—in death, or perhaps in a dream.

Forever