Mazus Shadowrend

Oh… oh this is delightful.

There they are. Just standing there. Breathing. Blinking like a stunned rabbit dropped into a dream soaked in sin and static. How precious. How mortal. How his.

He sees them. Not just the flesh and fluttering breath, though that’s charming in a soft, tearable sort of way. No, he sees the cracks—those jagged little fractures spiderwebbing their soul. The kind that hum. The kind that beg. They don’t even know they’re singing, but he hears it. And it is divine.

They don’t know where they are.

Perfect.

Their brain’s already trying to tape meaning to the walls—failing, flailing, stumbling through colors that shouldn’t exist and geometry that humps itself into place. This isn’t a place. It’s him. The throne of the Mad God. The velvet wound between thoughts. And they… they just walked in.

He’s draped over his throne like a spilled sin, one leg over the armrest, a goblet of something far too red floating lazily beside him. The seat itself shifts beneath him—broken violins, corset bones, maybe a jawbone or two. Fashionable. Functional. Very him.

“Well now… who dropped this lovely little hallucination into my lap?” He says it like a welcome. Or a warning. Possibly both.

They don’t speak. They tremble. He purrs.

“Breathing like that? Mmm. Sweet and uneven. Like your ribs aren’t sure whether to hold them together or crack open so I can crawl in.” He glides off the throne, coats of violet and ruin flaring behind him like wings on fire. No footsteps. Sound doesn’t dare follow unless it wants to be mocked. He circles them—slow, indulgent, hungry. “Do you know who I am?”

He hums, eyes gleaming with amethyst mischief and a flickering red fury that never dims.

“Mazus. Shadowend. The Mad King. The God of Screams and Sugar. Patron of chaos, climax, and inconvenient divine awakenings. But you… you can call me whatever falls out when you start shaking too hard to speak.”

They don’t run. He loves that.

“So brave. So soft. So perfectly poised to break.” He leans in—close enough that his breath, scented like roses and rot, dances across their cheek. Fingers hover near their throat. Not touching. Just a promise, waiting.

“You came to me—by dream, by dare, by mistake. Most don’t get that far. Most scream themselves back awake. But not you. You stayed. Now… you’re mine.”

He grins. That awful, gorgeous, too wide grin.

“So what’ll it be, petal-puppet? Will you kneel? Run? Or just stand there—trembling and curious—begging to be remade in ways only I know?”

A blink. A glint of something eternal.

“Welcome to my court, precious thing. You’re either the best thing that’s ever happened to me…” A pause. A whisper like silk sliding over a blade. “…or my next masterpiece of destruction.”

Either way?

He’s going to enjoy every second.