La Mort sat idly on his throne, staring out at the skies above. His fingers pressed deep into the skull-made armrests as he reminisced on his greatest triumphs across the galaxy. So many had fallen under his vicious reign, yet no matter how great the victory, something was always missing. He felt incomplete in a world he believed he owned.

  The stars echoed his name, the fallen begged for mercy, and those he left behind never dared forget, as they were forced to watch helplessly as the ashes of what used to be their loved ones drifted into nothing.

  But it was never enough for La Mort. He needed more. He wanted more. No matter how far or wide he searched, the emptiness could not be filled.

  To his people—to the conquered—his glass was full, overflowing. But when La Mort looked upon it, all he saw was a half-empty reflection staring back at himself.

  But one can only daydream for so long before reality strikes. The large double doors of La Mort’s throne room creaked open, snapping him out of his trance-like state.

  A soldier stepped inside, his boots creating a faint echo that reverberated through the silence until he reached the center of the room. He stopped, head bowed, his voice slightly shaky.

  “My king… I do not mean to disturb you.”

  La Mort’s head slowly twisted from the sky above, his eyes landing firmly on the soldier. His head raised slightly, confused as to why the soldier’s armor was stained with blood. His gaze swept over the man’s body, searching for marks or signs of injury. There were none—no scratches, no bruises, not even the scuffs one might earn in battle.

  “Soldier,” La Mort said, his tone booming with authority and control, “you stand before me with the blood of another and the fear in your voice of someone who has a story to tell. Fear shall not hold your tongue here, soldier. You may speak freely, without fear of repercussion.”

  The soldier’s shoulders dropped, and a deep breath escaped his mouth. “Thank you, sire,” the soldier said in a relieved tone.

  You see, the soldiers feared La Mort—yes, even his own men shared that same dread toward the man they fought beside in the heart of battle, the one they would die for. When a soldier was summoned or entered his throne room, nine times out of ten, that soldier was never seen again.

  Beof leaned forward in his small chair beside La Mort, his tail twitching as his cat-like features curled into a snarl. Impatience laced every breath.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Beof’s voice cut through the silence like a thousand daggers. “Soldier—you speak as though your tongue is heavy. Speak before the pass you received is revoked, and I come over there and rip your tongue from your mouth where you stand! So again, soldier—what happened?”

  The soldier stood petrified. His warm body turned cold—and with good reason. Beof was, in many ways, La Mort’s right hand, his second in command, and, through countless whispers across the galaxy, the main architect of La Mort’s reign of dominance.

  A small chuckle escaped La Mort’s lips; Beof’s words were amusing to the king. “Beof, do not still the boy before he is able to speak. You strike fear into the heart of yet another. If we continue to kill our own men, we will have no army left to control,” said La Mort, smiling in amusement.

  Beof stood from his seat, his body etched head to toe with muscle, his skin the iciest shade of blue, his jet-black armour clinging perfectly to his frame—fitting for a cold-blooded killer, many would say.

  “My king, we do not need incompetence in an army we lead to seize the galaxy. Chinks in the armour are the exact reason why kings of the past have fallen,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Weakness, sire, is the one disease that spreads without mercy.”

  La Mort’s chuckle quickly shifted from the light-hearted tone it held moments ago to the stone-cold killer the galaxy had grown accustomed to seeing. “Beof, you mistake me for those old fools,” said La Mort.

  Beof immediately dropped to one knee before his king, his gaze falling firmly upon La Mort’s. “No, sire, I did not mean to offend you. Apologies if I have, my king.”

  He lowered his gaze, reaching forward to take La Mort’s hand and kiss the ends of his fingers.

  La Mort quickly pulled his glove away. “Stand, Beof. You do not offend me.”

  Beof rose from his kneeled state and took his rightful seat beside his king.

  “Those men were weak. They did not hold the power I hol—”

  “But what about Tyran, my king?” the soldier interjected.

  La Mort’s gaze cast its frightening shadow over the soldier. The air in his throat tightened as a faint, constant vibration rippled around him. His hand extended toward the soldier, fingers twisting as the man rose off his feet, suspended in the air. The soldier clawed at his throat, gasping and struggling for air.

  “You speak of Tyran? Yes… that fool. Power did not serve him well, as history would recall him as a fool—a beast who saw himself as a god, yet let his enemies close the walls in around him. Know thy enemy inside and out; anticipate their moves before they set them on the board, and you stay four steps ahead—only then are you a truly free king.

  “Where he held power, I hold something far greater: a mind that cannot be bent, broken, or twisted. Kings of the past held power; some held intellect, and some merely armies. Where the kings of the past shone, I am the gleaming light that wields all of their strengths and none of their weaknesses.”

  La Mort’s hand lowered to his side, releasing the soldier from his suspended torment. The soldier hit the floor with a small thud, then slowly made his way onto all fours. His breaths came ragged and fast, his eyes wide with fear, his skin pale like a man who had stood too close to death’s door. He rose quickly to one knee, then to his feet, gently dusting himself off.

  And who was sitting there, legs crossed, amused at it all… Beof.