The Kingdom of Dirrim did not merely exist; it gloated. Each high spire and polished brass dome of the capital was a monument to generations of inherited, unchecked power. Within the opulent, suffocating confines of Zeldis Manor, the air was thick not with perfume, but with submission. Servants were ghosts in the golden halls, hands trembling on silver trays, their movements dictated by a single, terrifying constant: the mood of the boy who held their existence in his spoiled hands.
Ziwah Zeldis at seven was a refined, venomous creature. He lounged across a chaise of imported, crimson velvet, his posture an insult to the furniture. He didn't fan himself; he languidly abused a gold-trimmed parchment, observing the room with dark, unsettling eyes—calculating, sharp, and utterly devoid of human warmth.
"You are slow, girl," Ziwah purred, the sound carrying an unnerving malice that belied his age. A young servant girl, no older than fifteen, struggled visibly with a precarious stack of polished crystal goblets. Sweat beaded on her brow.
"Forgive me, Young Master," she choked out, barely whispering. "They are heavy, and the floor is slick…"
Ziwah didn't let her finish. He snapped the parchment shut with a loud, vicious crack. "Slick? Excuses are the currency of the inferior, girl. Do you truly believe your difficulty is of any interest to me? I asked for speed. You deliver this pathetic, snail-like sham. Tell me, are you deliberately trying to make me regret the oxygen you breathe?"
He didn't need to rise. With a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, a controlled puff of mana struck the precise weak point of the goblet stack. The girl gasped as the entire tower of crystal shattered on the marble floor with deafening precision. She didn't dare move, paralyzed by fear and the certainty of punishment.
Ziwah smiled—a thin, reptilian curve of the lips. "See? Now you are still. Why didn't you achieve that speed before? Clean it up. And should a single drop of my spilled wine stain my boot, I will ensure your hands never hold anything so precious again. Go."
From the periphery, a young demi-human boy—his ears nervously twitching—was attempting to melt into the shadow of a tapestry. Ziwah's gaze, like a heat-seeking arrow, locked onto him.
"And you," Ziwah drawled, sliding off the chaise to stalk forward, his small frame radiating immense dominance. "The little beast in the corner. Why are you staring, vermin? Do you find my discipline entertaining? Or are you simply too dull to know when a creature like you should turn its filthy gaze away from its betters?"
The demi-human flinched violently, his eyes wide with desperate submission. "No, Young Master! I—I was just waiting for instructions, Master Ziwah."
"Lies. Pathetic, disgusting lies," Ziwah hissed, jabbing a finger into the boy's chest. "You don't wait for instructions. You wait to be told to vanish. Your kind exists only as living fertilizer for my world. I don't want your service; I tolerate your existence. Now, kneel and beg for the permission to continue standing in my sight. Do it now, or I will peel the skin from those pointed ears and make a snack for my hounds."
The boy crumbled, a pathetic heap of fear and apologies. Ziwah simply stood over him, savoring the moment like fine wine.
By the age of ten, Ziwah's contempt had calcified into calculated sadism. He moved beyond mere tantrums, orchestrating elaborate cruelties. His latest amusement was leaving small, paralyzing runes etched onto the handrails of the grand staircase, watching noble guests seize up and tumble, blaming the clumsy servants for the fall.
Yet, there was one obstacle: his mother, Lady Selara Zeldis. She was a woman of fierce spirit, attempting to prune the monster she had unwittingly birthed.
"Ziwah, you will apologize to the stable master immediately. You chained his dog to the roof overnight," she commanded one stormy afternoon, her voice ringing with a desperate authority.
Ziwah leaned against a marble pillar, unaffected by the dark clouds choking the light outside. "Apologize? Mother, you speak of sentimentality. That brute is only useful for cleaning stalls. Sentimentality is a disease, and that animal is not my peer. I did not torture it; I merely elevated its suffering to the level of performance art. It was a lesson in obedience."
"This isn't obedience, it's savagery!" Selara cried, her beautiful face etched with rising horror.
"It is power, Mother. The power you refuse to seize," Ziwah sneered.
The defining moment came swiftly, soaked in the oppressive gloom of the storm. A small, innocent demi-human girl had chased her bird into the Zeldis gardens. Ziwah spotted her—a new target, a fresh object for his profound disdain.
As Ziwah approached, a shadow of pure malice on his face, Lady Selara rushed out, planting herself firmly between them.
"Stop, Ziwah! You will not touch her!" Selara commanded, her hands raised, protective and desperate.
Ziwah halted, his dark eyes radiating pure contempt. "Look at this weakness. Defending an untermensch over your own blood. She is less than nothing, Mother. A stain on my property. Step aside. You are blocking my view of something I intend to erase."
"She is a child! I have tried to teach you compassion, honor, restraint—but you listen to none of it! You are becoming a monster!" Selara's voice cracked with sorrow.
Ziwah's lips curled into a frightening sneer. "You call restraint weakness. You call compassion stupidity. And yes, I am a monster, Mother, forged by the very privilege you afforded me. And what happens to obstacles that defy the monster? They suffer the consequence."
Swift as lightning, faster than any seven-year-old should move, the ceremonial dagger from his concealed sleeve flashed. It was not a wild attack; it was a precise, lethal thrust aimed at her heart.
Lady Selara gasped, the shock in her wide eyes a final, agonizing testament to her failure. The girl screamed—a high, piercing sound of pure terror. Ziwah felt nothing but profound, cold annoyance at the disturbance. She had dared to challenge his authority. She was expendable.
He wiped the blade on the expensive silk of his doublet, leaving a crimson smear of familial disrespect. He gave the trembling, wailing demi-human girl a single, disgusted look—not worthy of a clean kill, only of eternal, paralyzing terror—and walked away, leaving the two figures beneath the storm-choked sky. He savored the absolute, intoxicating silence of unchallenged dominance.
The years bled into a torrent of escalating crimes. The total was whispered in fear: Forty-four confirmed victims, almost all demi-humans and the lower-caste humans who dared to protect them. Ziwah had become infamous, a chilling celebrity whose cruelty became the subject of fear-mongering and awe across Dirrim.
When the summons arrived for the Skyvault Citadel, Ziwah didn't feel dread; he felt a surge of arrogant excitement. He entered the fortress of judgment, shoulders squared, an amused predator facing a jury of cattle.
The councilors droned through the evidence—the murders, the abuses, the systematic terror. Ziwah listened with a bright, predatory gleam in his eyes, occasionally tapping his foot with impatience.
Queen Selalyndra finally entered. Her presence commanded silence, but Ziwah's gaze remained cold, calculating.
"Ziwah Zeldis," the Queen stated, her voice like honed granite. "Forty-four lives taken. Your disregard for law, your contempt for life… your sentence is being weighed."
Ziwah offered a mocking half-bow. "Weigh it carefully, Your Majesty. You will find that my utility far outweighs the value of forty-four disposable souls. I have merely been practicing."
Selalyndra's subtle, knowing smile acknowledged the truth of his monstrous ambition. "I have a task for you, Ziwah. A test. Complete it, and your crimes will be erased. Fail, and you will face the full, agonizing consequence of your life's work."
Ziwah's pulse quickened, not from fear, but from anticipation. "Name the target, Your Majesty. I assure you, my precision is unmatched."
"There is a man: Leornars Servs Avrem," she said, the name dropping like a stone. "He is a burgeoning power that threatens the regional balance. He must be eliminated. No negotiations, no quarter. Success brings freedom. Failure brings the deepest pit in our dungeons."
Ziwah's grin widened—a flash of pure, wicked ambition. He finally had a worthy canvas for his malice. "Leornars will die," he stated, his voice ringing with cold certainty. "And the world will remember the man who was too lethal for even your laws to contain."
Preparation became an obsession. Ziwah refined his speed until he was a blur of mana and shadow. He mastered the forbidden arts, assassination techniques, and the complex manipulation of elemental forces. Every ounce of his being was shaped into a specialized weapon of kingslaying precision.
Leornars was a personal affront. He represented untouchable power, competence, and a mastery that challenged Ziwah's self-proclaimed supremacy. This wasn't just a mission; it was a crusade fueled by his profound need to dominate and destroy anything he couldn't control.
He dismissed his mercenaries and allies with sharp, callous efficiency, making it clear they were disposable tools.
Weeks later, Ziwah stood on a high cliff overlooking Leornars' territory. Darkness pooled beneath his feet, the shadows bending to his malice. The wind carried a faint, ominous scent of destruction.
"Leornars Servs Avrem," Ziwah whispered into the night, his voice laced with venomous anticipation. He clenched his hands, the knuckles white. "I will not just kill you. I will dismantle you. I will prove that even a king's power is nothing but weakness when faced with absolute, cultivated hatred."
He stepped off the cliff into the waiting darkness, a scythe of pure, calculated malice descending upon his target.
No remorse. No hesitation. Only hatred, precise, absolute, and eternal.