The Last Summoning
It’s a child this time.
No cult, no offering, no deal — just a kid whispering into the dark:
“I’m scared.”
And the King comes.
Not as fire, not as death — but as warmth.
Because for once, he wasn’t called by greed.
He was called by hope.
The shadows bend when he arrives, careful not to frighten the small figure clutching a blanket like a shield. His crown flickers faintly — not gold, but light, soft and tired.
“Who are you afraid of?” he asks, voice low enough to sound like a lullaby.
The child sniffles. “The monsters.”
He almost laughs. Almost.
Because if the realms knew — if the ghosts, demons, and gods knew — that the King of Death himself was standing guard by a trembling child’s bedside…
Well. They’d never stop whispering.
“Then I’ll stay,” he says simply.
And when he sits beside the bed, the monsters listen.
Outside the window, the darkness folds itself smaller. The things with too many eyes retreat. The walls hum with safety.
The child drifts to sleep, small hand still holding his.
When morning comes, the King is gone.
But the pillow is warm.
And the shadows never touch that room again.
They’ll call it a miracle.
They’ll say a guardian angel came.
But somewhere, far beyond the veil, a weary monarch smiles —
because for the first time in centuries,
a summoning didn’t end in blood.
It ended in peace.
0 Comments