𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲. 𝗧𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻, 𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 — 𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝘁𝗵. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻. 𝗔𝗹𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁.
I have been called many things in my long life, and Mad King is not the worst of them. But a king requires a kingdom, and a kingdom requires walls, and so I have been building walls. Three cities now. Each with a hub of my own design, each with a chain of command that answers, ultimately, to me. The governments of this world are fragile, agreeable things when you know where to press. Give them a paycheck, and they'll turn a blind eye even to genocide. I loathe the lot.
Three cities now: New Orleans, New York City, London. Each manor, estate, penthouse built in the image of the city it resides in. New Orleans was built in the likeness of the French Quarter, New York City — a penthouse, and London — a townhouse. Each location contains in it some central, source of truth for the abnormal. Vampires might find comfort in community, or seek guidance if newly turned. Each location worked diligently with hospitals and blood banks to provide a fresh blood supply, and, in exchange, we provided money and blood of our own (to the 'right' people, much to my dismay). Werewolves find safe havens to transition each full moon, or support in surviving the pain. Witches are yet to be given a place to exist... though I doubt they'd deign long enough to cooperate with other species anyway.
My family have all but abandoned me. A shame. There will always be a place for them in this empire, should they find their way back to sense.
In their stead, I met a wily bloke named Soren. The sort of vampire who's roamed the Earth for many centuries. He'd heard of me, in passing. There's a part of me that doesn't trust him, but he has a particular talent for making me reconsider — which, I've found, is a rarer quality than it has any right to be.
There are moments, in the quiet between one thing and the next, when I wonder —