In the throne room of bone, beneath a sky that had never known sun, the King of Monsters sat in silence.
His blue skin gleamed in the dim light of phosphorescent crystals. His single horn curved toward the ceiling, a crescent of polished bone. His crimson eyes were half-closed, heavy with the weight of centuries. In his hands, he held two small spheres.
They were no larger than apples, smooth and dark, like polished obsidian. But within each, something moved. Something lived. Miniature monsters, their forms impossibly small yet perfectly detailed, twisted and churned within the glassy prisons. Eight heads each. Eight necks coiled together. Eight pairs of eyes burning with trapped fury.
Eight-headed hydras. The terror of the northern seas. The bane of armies. Captured, contained, reduced to toys in the palm of a god.
