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 circle isn’t made of salt or blood. It’s made of fear — the kind that clings to the air like fog. The kind that pulls at something ancient and tender.
He steps through anyway.
The boy is small, maybe seven, wrapped in a blanket like armor, eyes wide and wet. The night around him is too loud — creaking walls, howling wind, whispers that don’t belong to the house.
The King has seen empires burn and gods fall. He’s heard priests cry his name and beg for power, for vengeance, for immortality. But never this.
Never please stay until the monsters go away.
He lowers himself, his shadow folding in on itself to appear smaller, gentler. The crown on his head dims from ghostfire to a faint ember-glow.
“Who are you afraid of?” he asks, voice soft, but it still echoes, still carries the weight of the grave.
The boy sniffles. “The monsters in the dark.”
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 beside a trembling child’s bed, they’d never stop whispering.
But he doesn’t care.
He sits beside the bed. And when he does, the monsters listen.
The floorboards stop creaking. The whispers fade. The wind grows still, as if the night itself is holding its breath.
Outside the window, the shadows retreat, folding themselves into corners that do not touch the light. The things with too many eyes crawl backward into the dark.
The King rests a hand — gentle, impossibly gentle — over the blanket. His touch doesn’t chill. It soothes.
“Sleep,” he murmurs. “They won’t come near you tonight.”
The boy’s hand, small and trembling, finds his.
And for the first time in centuries, the King of Death holds something fragile without it breaking.
When morning comes, the King is gone.
The boy wakes to sunlight and silence. His pillow is still warm. The air feels lighter. And though the corners of the room still hold shadows, they do not move.
He tells his mother he had a dream. That a man with a crown of light sat by his bed and scared the monsters away.
She smiles, tired and unbelieving. “Sounds like a nice dream, sweetheart.”
But that night, the shadows do not return.
And in that house, they never do again.
Far beyond the mortal veil, in a throne room made of starlight and silence, a weary monarch leans back on his seat.
No one dares speak to him — not the ghosts, not the shades, not even the dead kings before him.
Because the King is smiling.
For the first time in centuries.
Because for once, a summoning did not end in blood.
It ended in peace.
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