"No... not again! No... not again! Gods, please help me!"
The scream tore through the void like a jagged blade, slicing the silence. It echoed—once, twice—before being swallowed by the nothingness, as though the darkness itself drank it in, greedy for more.
A voice emerged from that abyss. Smooth as velvet. Sharp as venom.
"Ah, Alo... You're back. I was beginning to think you'd escaped me."
From the gloom stepped a figure—hooded, faceless, yet impossibly present. His boots made no sound, his presence a quiet violence. The shadows recoiled around him as if even they feared to cling too close.
"Tell me," he purred, circling. "What did you see this time?"
The man on the throne twisted, chains groaning with the effort. The throne was no seat of majesty—it was a monument of suffering. Stone worn smooth by struggle. Iron cords biting into raw, trembling flesh. Carvings of tormented faces grinned mockingly from the chair's limbs, each frozen mid-scream.
"No! Not you again! What do you want from me?" the captive rasped, voice shredded from too many cries that had found no mercy.
They were alone in a pit carved from silence and shadow, where time itself seemed afraid to move. Only a single shaft of pale starlight pierced the dark, falling upon the throne like divine judgment.
"You already know what I want," the hooded figure said, voice like silk soaked in poison. "I want to know what you saw. Dreams are precious, especially the ones laced with pain. Were they vivid? Were they sweet with sorrow?"
The man—bloody, bowed, but unbroken—lowered his head. Crimson trickled from his scalp, meandering down his jaw in slow, glistening trails. A rhythm of suffering. "I... I saw nothing."
The figure smiled beneath the hood. You could feel it.
"Still lying to me? Still clinging to defiance? How charming. But I'm feeling generous today. Perhaps I'll turn your memories into murals. Paint your palace in red."
"I'm not a king," the man whispered. A flicker of truth. Or denial. Or both.
The hooded figure leaned close. His words dropped like ice into a fevered mind. "You are now. So choose, Your Majesty—tell a story, or become one."
A shudder ran through the man. Then, with the fragile grace of something broken and still beautiful, he raised his head. His eyes—dull but daring—met his tormentor's gaze.
"I... I saw my life. Before. Before this. I was the Keeper of Stories."
"Keeper of Stories?" The figure chuckled, delighted. "How quaint."
But something in the man shifted. Subtle. Certain.
The hooded figure stepped backward, fading into the dark.
"Wait here. Your crown awaits."
And then—nothing. Just the drumbeat of the man's heart echoing through the abyss, a solemn march toward something inevitable.
The figure returned, silent as breath.
In his gloved hands, he held a crown forged of thorns and gold—barbs gleaming with ancient malice, each point whispering of forgotten agonies. Reverently, he placed it upon the man's bowed head.
The scream that followed shook the stars.
It wasn't just pain—it was revelation. A cry that sang of betrayal, loss, and a love too deep to bear. It was the sound of a soul cracking open.
"I thought you missed your crown terribly," the figure murmured. "Forgive my delay, my king."
Through clenched teeth, the crowned man whispered, "You... you're forgiven."
The figure knelt beside him, eyes gleaming with cruel tenderness.
"Tell me then... what name did they give you in your dream?"
"Virgil," he rasped. "They called me Virgil. I was an apprentice Keeper of Stories... before I was taken."
The hooded figure exhaled, as if savoring the poetry. "Virgil. How fitting. But tell me, my king—how does one become the Keeper of Stories... when he is a story himself?"
Virgil's brow creased. Confusion. Recognition. Fear.
The figure rose.
"No matter. You must be tired. I'll ready a proper bed. It may take time... so wait here, my king. Dream a little longer."
And just like that—he was gone.
But the agony didn't follow. The darkness didn't crush. It curled around Virgil like velvet curtains drawn over a stage.
And the King of Stories, crowned in thorns, descended once more into the dreaming, where memory and myth bleed together.
Stories do not die. They fracture. They fall. And they walk again.