"No... not again! No... not again! Gods, please help me!"
The plea cracked through the void like a whip, echoing off unseen walls, swallowed again by the silence that waited hungrily for more.
From the depths of the shadows, a voice answered. Velvet and venom.
"Ah, Alo... You're back. I was beginning to think you'd escaped me." The hooded figure stepped forward, boots silent against the unseen ground. His tone dripped amusement, laced with something darker. "Tell me—what did you see this time?"
The man tied to the throne—a crude construct of stone and pain—thrashed against his bindings. His wrists, raw and bleeding, strained against iron cords. Ankles were lashed to chair legs carved with grotesque figures, each twisted in agony.
"No! No! Not you again! What do you want from me?" he shouted, voice hoarse from countless screams.
The two stood in the belly of a forgotten abyss. Only a narrow column of star-born light fell from the heavens above, illuminating the throne of torment and the king who could not remember his crown.
"You already know what I want," said the hooded figure, circling. "I want to know what you saw. Dreams are precious, especially the painful ones. Were they vivid? Were they sweet with sorrow?"
The man—battered, broken—bowed his head. Blood trickled down his neck, dripping from his chin like a metronome of suffering. "I... I saw nothing."
The figure's smile sharpened beneath the hood.
"Why do you still resist me, my king? You know... today I feel inspired. Perhaps I'll paint your palace with your blood. What do you say?"
"I'm not a king," the man whispered, more to himself than to his captor.
The figure leaned in, voice almost affectionate. "You are now. So what shall it be, Your Majesty? A story—or a masterpiece in crimson?"
The man trembled. Then, like a marionette pulled by frayed threads, he lifted his head. His eyes were dim yet defiant.
"I... I saw my life. Before I was taken. I was the Keeper of Stories."
"Keeper of Stories? Is that what they called you? How quaint." The figure tilted his head, feigning thought.
The king said nothing. But something in him shifted.
The figure stepped away, into the black.
"Wait here. Your crown awaits."
He disappeared, devoured by the void. Time distorted, stretching thin and taut. The captive's heartbeat echoed in the dark like a war drum. Then, without sound or ceremony, the figure returned.
In his gloved hands rested a crown unlike any other—woven of thorns kissed with gold, each barb glinting with ancient malice. The crown was reverently placed atop the king's bowed head.
And at once, the man screamed.
It was no mere cry. It was the song of the dying, the betrayed, the exalted. A hymn of pain, sorrow, and an aching gratitude that made the stars shiver.
"I thought you missed your crown terribly," said the figure. "Forgive me for the delay, my king."
The man, trembling, whispered through clenched teeth, "You... you're forgiven."
The figure knelt beside him, his eyes glowing with a cruel tenderness.
"Tell me then... what name did they give you in your dream?"
"They called me Virgil," the king rasped. "I was an apprentice Keeper of Stories... before I was taken."
The hooded figure smiled with something close to awe. "Virgil... how poetic. But answer me this, my king: How can one become the Keeper of Stories when one is a story himself?"
Virgil's brows furrowed in confusion. But before he could respond, the figure straightened.
"No matter. You must be exhausted after all that dreaming. I shall prepare a proper bed for you. It may take a while... so wait here, my king. Dream a little longer."
And with that, he was gone.
But this time, the agony did not linger. The darkness did not crush him. Instead, it wrapped around him like a velvet shroud.
And Virgil—King of Stories, crowned in thorns—fell deeper into the dreaming, where memory and myth were born anew.