The Infernal Coronation
Ryan Reyes
There once was an orphan in a far-off land whose name was never put to memory. Promissum was a realm so blessed that its people flourished with unending grace. Misfortune was an estranged myth, and so was an orphan. They were a rare commodity, a peculiar shadow in a world of light. To the world, little was known about the child except that he was poor in body and mind. Yet, he had ambition as bright as a match flickering in the heart of darkness. While the child has been called by many names, and those names are told mostly in stories — those names serve only as much purpose as the anecdotes they originate from. Anecdotes for children whose ancestors lived the reality now hidden in folktales. However, the past is never truly gone, and I can reveal the real story of Promissum’s orphan of legend — for a small fee, of course. After all, what price wouldn't you pay for a story worth its weight in secrets?
The boy was a sickly, pale wisp of a lad. An orphan since he was but a mere babe, haunting the lone orphanage that dared mar the flawless heart of town. The boy was a runt who barely reached the shoulder of most men and as thin and fragile as a sliver of parchment fluttering in the wind. His caretakers were kindly women, immersed in a faith that modern minds might dismiss as antiquated; rooted firmly in those ever-so-noble good intentions. But when have good intentions ever mended a broken spirit or cured a festering ailment? It was the night before the boy would become a man, yet, as one could imagine, it did not bring the youth any form of peace. He had lived his whole life under the oppressive shadow of his own circumstances. A shadow cast from his heart created not merely by misfortune, but shaped by envy into the silhouette of the picturesque castle that loomed on the outskirts of the town. The boy perched on the edge of his worn-out cot, his gaze fixed upon the sun as it sunk below the pristine stone that made up the imposing turrets of Castle Caelum. He called out into the twilight, his voice a plea spoken into the still air that filled his lonely room, hoping that anyone — perhaps even God Himself — would hear.
“If only I could be king for a single day,” the boy said, “if only to become the most important man in the realm, to feel that I matter to someone beyond these four walls.” As the last of his sorrows slipped into the fading light, the day surrendered to night, and in that quiet transformation, the orphan crossed the threshold into manhood.
Yet, as fate, or perhaps something far more cunning, would have it, his plea did not go unheard. Beneath the silvery glow of the rising moon, a wisp of smoke rose from the cracks of the orphan’s wooden floor. Once the dark smoke had coagulated, slowly shaping itself into the form of a man, it gave way to crimson flesh.
A devil stood before him, a courteous smile curling upon his lips. The imp cleared his throat to speak, “I couldn’t help but overhear your sorrows, dear child. You have been broken for far too long. Let me help you set your heart at ease. Let me make you king for as long as you can bear the responsibility.”
The orphan recoiled at the sudden appearance of this infernal visitor. The young man pressed himself against the cold, unyielding walls of his meager room to try and distance himself from the devil. His eyes darted frantically in search of escape. But, when they met the gaze of the fiend before him, his fear began to dissolve like mist in the morning sun. The devil’s eyes were the kindest he had ever seen, holding a charm that beckoned him to stay, to listen, to talk.
“You said that I could be king?”
“Hmm, let me think,” the devil said, tapping a finger coyly against his lips. “Yes, that's precisely what I said. It hasn't even been two minutes since the words left my lips.”
The lad shrank back at the devil's abrupt tone, a sense of smallness washing over him. “In the stories the Sisters used to read me, there was always a catch.” Excitement flickered wildly within the young man’s heart, threatening to overtake his caution. “Would I be king in that castle on the hill just outside town? Or is this some cruel jest, and I would be merely called ‘King’?”
The devil’s eyes had a fire of playfulness in them. “How could you wound me so? Not all devils are monsters—only most of us are. I assure you, I am quite the upstanding citizen where I come from.”
​
“And where might that be?” A hint of trepidation returned to the lad.
“Must I spell it out for you, boy?”
“No, I feared as much. If there is truly ‘no catch’ to this, then what are the terms of the deal?”
The corners of the devil’s mouth grew taut with a smile. From the same swirling darkness that heralded his arrival, a scroll of ancient parchment materialized, unfurling before them. “Simply sign your name in three places. We shake hands, and you shall be Promissum’s new king when the sun rises. And whenever you've had your fill, you need only say my name — Apateón. After all, what have you to lose?”
“Are those all of the terms?”
The devil chuckled — a sound that made the freezing night more frigid. Yet the humor did not seem to arise from the lad's question. “You know what, my boy? Perhaps I shall share some of the finer print, though I doubt it will deter you. Desperation has a way of clouding judgment, does it not? The last part of the deal is that I will be watching you. Grading you. Observing where you falter as a good king—”
​
“That doesn't sound too bad.”
“I wasn’t finished yet, boy. As I witness your inevitable failings, I will provide... ‘encouragement’ to help you perform better.”
The ominous nature of the devil's statement was swiftly dismissed; an afterthought lost in the swell of the young man’s yearning. The orphan took up the quill without further hesitation and signed his name in the three designated places on the parchment.
A satisfied smile curved upon the devil's lips as the contract ignited, the parchment curling into ashes that hung in the dead air of the orphan’s room. He extended his hand toward the lad. “Then our pact is sealed.”
When the two hands met, a sudden heaviness settled over the orphan. His eyes grew weary and an ache seeped into his muscles. Unable to meet the gaze of his fiendish benefactor, the young man felt the room sway, and before long he crumbled to the cold floor, unconscious.
Jolted awake, an unfamiliar sensation enveloped the orphan as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The coarse scratch of his humble cot was no more. Instead, a plush, heavy softness bore down on him like a warm embrace. When the boy was finished clearing sleep from his eyes, he found himself nestled upon a grand bed draped in velvet blankets.
As his gaze wandered, the young man found that the chamber surrounding him was vast. Gone were the barren walls and shadows. The walls were now adorned with majestic trophies of past hunts. Antlered stags and fearsome beasts immortalized in silent vigil. Between each noble creature hung paintings of the rolling countryside of Promissum, capturing the realm's beauty in vivid hues. Each landscape appeared to have a deeper significance, stories that whispered beyond mere artistry to the orphan. Intrigued, the lad rose from his new bed and crossed the cold, polished stone floor to examine them more closely. Each painting rested above a plaque of burnished gold. As he read the inscriptions, he realized that the paintings depicted the very locations where the king had hunted and claimed the trophies that now adorned the walls.
The young man turned his attention back to his surroundings and found himself drawn to a grand portrait hanging above the head of the bed. It was his own likeness, the sole portrait in the regal chamber. In the depiction, he stood as a heroic figure, adorned in lavish finery. Closer inspection revealed that the artist had rendered him taller, broader, more imposing. No longer was he the unseen orphan; a burden to those who had merely tolerated his existence. Now, he had become the very king he had envied from afar.
Beside the bed, upon a delicate table, rested the fabled crown. It was a curious object. It was crafted from a labyrinth of twisted golden rods inlaid with darkened gemstones. The crown almost resembled vines, a design that might have given another man pause. To the new king, however, such peculiarities mattered little.
With a surge of satisfaction, he lifted the crown and placed it upon his head. A newfound hope blossomed within him — the hope that he could rule justly and do good for his people. Yet, the moment the cold metal touched his brow, a whisper slithered into his ear.
​
“Know that I’m always watching.”
Startled, the new king spun around to face the intruder, but his eyes met only the emptiness of the grand chamber. An icy dread coiled around his heart, stealing his breath and leaving him teetering on the edge of panic. He clutched at his chest, the crown's weight suddenly heavier than iron.
“Milord,” an unfamiliar voice called from the main door of the chamber. “Are you well, sire?”
Still struggling to fully regain his breath, the young man said, “Yes, I-I am. P-Please, come in.”
A rather handsome man slowly opened the heavy oak door, stepping inside. “Your Highness, I must inform you that you are slated to make some important decisions today in your royal court. When would you like me to bring the matters before you?”
“I will need some more time,” the young king replied, his voice unsteady. “Could we perhaps address them closer to midday?”
“You are the King of Promissum; you may request nearly anything, your royal Highness. A few more hours are of little consequence. It shall be done, sire. Thank you for your time.”
The attendant bowed deeply and slipped away through the door from which he had entered.
As the door closed, the young man found himself alone once more in the grand chamber. Yet, the oppressive tightness in his chest remained. It was almost as if an invisible wire coiled around his throat, sharp and unyielding — like the edge of a sword pressing ever so lightly against his skin.
He raised a trembling hand to his neck, fingers grasping at nothing, unable to alleviate the sensation that he was slowly being strangled. Each breath came with increasing difficulty, shallow and strained. His panic rising, he rushed to the ornate mirror near the chamber door. Pulling down the collar of his linen shirtand gazeing upon his reflection.
What he saw made his blood run cold. Encircling his neck was a dark blemish, not unlike a birthmark. It twisted around his throat like a wreath of thorned vines etched into his flesh. Stumbling back from the mirror, the young man finally grasped the true nature of the devil's ‘encouragement.’ Should he falter in his duties, should he make enough mistakes, the devil would see to it that he choked beneath the weight of his own crown.
Time passed with agonizing lethargy before the young king was faced with his first trial. Seated upon the throne, was the royal court assembled before him. The attendant from before, whose name was Kalós, stood at his side, beckoning the first petitioner forward.
An elder approached. He wore heavy robes and bore a leather-bound tome etched with ancient symbols. A monk of considerable stature, he bowed deeply. "O King of Promissum, our temple faces a schism. My brothers debate whether power stems from love or fear. I seek your wisdom to restore harmony among us.”
The young king tensed. Philosophy had never been his strong suit. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the devil lurking in the shadows, urging him to hasten.
Feeling cornered, he cleared his throat. “I understand your plea, Brother...”
“Finnick, sire.”
“Yes, Brother Finnick. Convey this to your brethren: Power stems from fear. When one is truly feared, his rule is unthreatened; his presence alone commands obedience.”
A hush fell over the throne room. The monk's expression was inscrutable. After a pause, Brother Finnick bowed once more. “I shall carry your words back, your royal Highness. May they bring clarity to our discourse. Thank you for your time.”
He departed, uneasy murmurs rippling through the court. The king glanced toward the lurking devil, who shook his head mockingly. A constriction tightened around his neck; he fought to remain calm.
Kalós announced the next petitioner — a humble farmer representing destitute villagers who found joy in the land's simple blessings.
The farmer bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, we seek your support to build a communal hall. It would strengthen our community, allowing us to share resources and support one another.”
The king frowned, unable to comprehend their contentment amid poverty. “Would it not be wiser to request aid to improve your farms and increase your wealth?”
“Our happiness lies in our unity, sire, not in material wealth.”
“I cannot allocate resources for such trivial pursuits,” the king said curtly. “Focus on improving your own circumstances.”
The farmer's smile faded. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Thank you for your time.” He departed, and there was a mass clamoring from the royal court. The unseen grip around the king's neck tightened further.
The final petitioner, an emissary from a neighboring realm, stepped forward urgently. “Great King, a dragon has awakened near our borders, threatening our people. We humbly request Promissum's aid, as your knights are renowned for their valor.”
The young man hesitated; his heart urged him to help, but fear and doubt clouded his judgment. “Our realm has never known such threats, nor do we intend to meddle in the affairs of others. I must decline.”
Shock rippled through the court. Promissum had always extended aid to those in need. The emissary bowed, despair evident, and left without a word. The weight around the king's neck became unbearable. He gasped for breath, vision blurring.
Overwhelmed by the day's events and the increasing constriction around his throat, the young king retreated to his grand chamber. “Apateón! I cannot do this,” he cried out. “I... I no longer wish to be king.”
The devil materialized before him, eyes gleaming with sinister delight.
“Release me from this torment,” the king said. “I have made a mistake!”
The devil's grin widened. “We had a bargain. You wished to be king for as long as you could stand it. Have you reached your limit already?”
“Take back the crown. I can't bear it any longer!”
The invisible noose tightened sharply. The king clutched at his throat, collapsing to his knees as he struggled for air. Darkness encroached at the edges of his vision.
“Careful what you wish for; it may have unintended consequences.”
The orphan awoke engulfed in the coarse scratchiness of his cot. He was no longer king. He cursed himself for being deceived. He knew deals with devils favored no one, they only favored the fiends that initiate them. Rubbing his throat, he felt relief as the tightness subsided. A commotion outside drew his attention. From his window, he saw a long line of people leading to the castle. Listening intently, horror washed over him. The king was found dead in his chamber after uncharacteristic decisions the day before. Rumor had it a thin wire strangled him. As the orphan grappled with this grim news, guilt and fear surged within him. He had to live while the king died in his place, and that was consequence enough to haunt his days.
And so, my friend, that is the tale of the long-forgotten orphan. His story is so ancient that its echoes have faded from memory — older than your great-great-grandmother, truly. A pity, isn't it? Those times were most fascinating to witness. Yet, Promissum always finds a way to restore its perfect façade.
But tell me, did you enjoy the story? I'll waive my usual fee this time if you promise to return for another. There are so many enchanting tales yet to be told; all I ask is that we seal our agreement with a simple handshake.
After all, there's great value in a handshake. Remember, one should never break such a pact — unintended consequences tend to be... unfortunate for those who do. So, meet me here again tomorrow at the same hour. If you can't find me, just ask for Apateón.