In the dark castle, shadows dance,
whispering tales of iron spikes,
the earth drinks deep from crimson,
the flesh sings soft beneath his gaze.
Every dinner a gristly tableau,
bodies elevated in grotesque poise,
laughter mingling with the wind,
the scent of iron like a feast.
He dips his bread into the crimson,
a communion of sorrow and power,
tasting the fear of his fallen foes,
their last breaths linger like incense.
The night swallows the truth whole,
each scream a note in his symphony,
draped in silence, he reigns supreme,
a sovereign of shadows, devouring light.
Every bite is a prayer, a curse,
remnants of lives discarded carelessly,
an echo of vengeance, the throne stained,
where mercy bends, and flies congregate.