The1above666

All the best kings are monsters.”

There are stories meant to inspire hope.
There are tales of golden heroes, bright swords, and promises of a better tomorrow.
This is not one of those stories.

This is the story of Vaelen Cross.
A being born not of love, but of hatred.
Not of hope, but of ruin.
Not to save the world… but to own it.

He was not chosen.
He was not destined.
He took.

In a universe that had long since tired of heroes, Vaelen rose — merciless, brilliant, inevitable.
He did not ask for thrones. He claimed them.
He did not court the powerful. He bent them.

And when the gods themselves dared to stand in his way,
he smiled…
and built a kingdom from their bones.

This is the story of the King of Nothing,
the Sovereign of Ash,
the Lord of the Black Garden.

And it begins with ruin.

Crowned Crimson

There are no songs for the end of empires.No poems for the fall of gods.

But there are hymns —for the King who rose after all others fell.For the King who did not inherit the ashes —but became the fire.

Tonight, the worlds themselves would sing.

Tonight, the Garden of Ruin would bloom brighter than ever.

Tonight, Vaelen Cross would be worshipped in flesh as he was in spirit.

The Tower of Flesh pulsed like a living heart beneath the blackened heavens.The Eclipse Crown burned overhead —vast, endless, absolute.

The Garden shivered in anticipation, petals trembling, rivers running faster, the air thick with unseen choirs whispering the King's name with every breath of the wind.

The final coronation not of steel and blood —but of belonging.

At the summit of the Tower, Vaelen sat upon his throne —crowned not only in shadow, but in the sighs of the world itself.

Each stripped of robe and crown,clad only in devotion,marked by the sigils of his reign seared onto their perfect flesh.

Their bodies bore the history of conquest —but their eyes bore the truth of eternity:

Because nothing else existed but him.

Their bodies trembled — not in shame,but in the unbearable ecstasy of being chosen again.

[Final R18 Scene — Sacred Union of King and Court]

Seris rose first —her wings arching wide, her breath catching as she pressed her bare body against his chest,offering herself without hesitation,without limit.

Vaelen cupped her jaw, bending her to his will with the gentlest of touches,and claimed her mouth in a kiss that shattered the last remnants of the angel she had once been.

Kaela followed —the warblade queen falling to her knees,her proud body shuddering as she bared her throat, her sword laid at his feet as a wedding gift.

He took her hand, lifted her to him —and marked her again, not with blade or flame,but with the slow, inevitable worship of touch.

Veyla came next —vines coiling around her ankles, binding her in offerings of devotion as she wrapped herself around him,weeping silent tears of joy as his hands wove through her hair and dragged her into belonging once more.

Aurelia —the brightest, the purest —came on trembling feet, golden hair veiling the hunger in her eyes,falling to him like a sun collapsing into a black hole,caught and held and remade in his arms.

Astrid —the starborn, the forbidden, the first dream of a world that never was —slipped into him like a second skin, her hands tracing the edges of his Crown,pressing kisses into his throat, his chest, his soul.

Together they gave themselves — body, breath, and soul.

Together they built a temple of flesh and devotion atop the Tower of Flesh.

Each cry, each gasp, each whispered "My King" wove into a chorus that filled the black sky.

The Garden bloomed higher, faster —petals of red and black raining from the heavens like a blessing.

The rivers ran thicker with silver,the winds carried the scent of devotion across the ends of creation.

And Vaelen Cross —the King of Nothing, the Sovereign of All —claimed them all.

Not with violence.Not with cruelty.

The kind of love that burns.The kind of love that remakes worlds.The kind of love that consumes and purifies until nothing remains but the sacred truth:

By the time the stars dared shine again,the King and his Queens lay together atop the world they had remade.

Bound by breath and oath and endless, aching loyalty.

And they would never, ever need to dream again.

Chapter 18 — The Red Wedding