The Alpha King's Omega
They sipped from crystal goblets, murmured idle gossip, and smiled with empty eyes.
This was not war.
It was entertainment.
At the far end, above all others, on a high black platform... the throne.
Ragnar.
He sat like a god carved from darkness. Blood-red silk draped over his broad shoulders. His crown glinted like polished death, a cruel band of jagged obsidian and bone. The throne itself was a grotesque monument, fashioned from twisted iron and broken swords, fragments of shields, and bones bleached white with time.
He didn’t speak.
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