Prologue
Fingers drummed restlessly on the armrest of the throne. A big, lonely seat with a hollow title. All it caused was misery. His misery, which he, in turn, passed on because everyone knew it loved company.
Dealing with people was his curse. Especially since he hated people. Hated everyone.
Yet, every morning, he was expected to hear reports. To pass judgement on petty quarrels. To promise the lives of his soldiers to bolster worthless causes. To show interest in the spies who watched the surface world and divulged matters of import.
Important to others, perhaps. He really didn't care anymore. But apathy didn't mean he could ignore his duties.
Almost done for the day, he could have sighed when he saw the spy striding towards him, looking out of place in his bright red slacks, patterned shirt, and wavy, blond hair.
The incubus had his own sense of style. But at least he wasn't as annoying as some of the other sycophants currying favor.