𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐝.
in a post war-torn, dystopian neverland, the choices of one young boy will change the course of the magical realms forever - all the while a desperate young woman and her family search for her son,
a warrior in exile trie...
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THIS IS WHAT TASTING Victory must feel like he thought.
It wasn't a feeling he was a stranger to by any means. He had gotten to know what victory was like in his youth when the world was still fresh and there was blood in his mouth. As he got older with the passing of the ages, he realized just how truly addicting the pleasure it brought to him to win even the smallest of battles that nobody had ever won before or dared to try to win was.
It brought him a twisted sense of joy to see the weaklings bow down before him and beg for mercy, trembling words leaving their shaking lips, hands clasped as if they were silently praying to the Gods he didn't believe in. No, there was no God on this island but him. He saw himself as God; with his plated battle armor and iron sword, cruel smile and strong hands, fierce mind and brutal teeth, he was the divine being that decided the fate ones who dared to cross him.
He had tasted victory on the battlefield some few centuries ago when he was dressed head to toe in the silver armor. He had won a centuries-long battle—choked the life out of his enemies with a crushing sweep of his arm and stained the snow-covered earth in red, painted the skies in the deepest shades of scarlet and bathed the sun in blood. It was said the clouds wept rain the color of roses for days, staining the rivers and lakes red, bleeding into the soil and weeping from trees until there was no more life left in them.
He had tasted glory for in the aftermath of the War when he was surrounded by his comrades. Basking in the heat of the then-makeshift mead hall, they drank sweet, sweet wine out of crystal goblets and filled their bellies with the tender meat served to them on silver platters, much like the victory served to them on battle that day.
He had tasted superiority and true pleasure later that very same night when the moon was high on its throne and the sea was violent like his heart as he fucked the faerie whore, brought to him as a gift by the defeated, who lay underneath him. He was wrapped in a hazy, blurry fog as he listened to the thick, sweet moans leaking down her lips like honey and felt her lithe, warm body writhe against the muscles and tendons and skin of his body, her unforgiving nails scale down his back, glossy with his own pleasure and exertion, her thin, feeble legs that were wrapped around his torso like iron chains pull him closer, deeper into her, enrapturing him in the greatest sweet heat he had felt in a long, long time.
He had tasted triumph when he had became the sole ruler of his island, the absolute master of magic, the taker of life and giver of death—at that moment in time, there was no else more stronger than him in the entire universe; with stardust in his bones and iron in his nails and blood on his teeth, he was an undefeated abomination molded into the most beautiful angel of death the galaxies had created in the depths of their supernovas and stars and cosmos.
