Chapter 5 The Throne and the Chain

Chapter Five – The Throne and the Chain

The cameras were being installed.

Ken could hear them-quiet clicks against the marble, whispered conversations between masked technicians, cables running like veins beneath the velvet floors. They were preparing the estate. Preparing him.

For what, he didn't know.

But Queen Lilly had said only three words that morning:

"The world watches."

He hadn't dared to ask questions.

Not since Fred vanished again-this time for good.

Not since his own reflection had stopped looking like himself.

That evening, Queen Lilly summoned him to the mirrored room.

It was an architectural illusion-tall glass panels that reflected endlessly, giving the illusion of being everywhere at once. At its center stood a throne made entirely of mirrors, angled so that no matter where you looked, you could not avoid seeing yourself.

Queen Lilly sat upon it in silver.

She wore no crown. She didn't need one.

"Kneel," she said.

Ken obeyed.

The floor chilled his skin. His reflection stared back up at him from beneath.

"Look at yourself."

He did.

"Tell me what you see."

Ken hesitated. "Obedience."

"No," she said. "That's what you give me. I want to know what's left of you."

"I... don't know."

She rose.

Walked barefoot around him.

"You were a stray when I found you. A man made of hunger and fear. Now you are watched. Admired. Tamed."

She leaned down. Her breath against his ear.

"So what happens... when I unleash you?"

That night, the announcement was made.

Velvet Crown-the Queen's entertainment empire-posted a single image online:

A black screen. One word: "Obey."

The date. The time. A single gold crown embedded in the "O".

The comments exploded within minutes.

Speculation.

Fandoms igniting.

Theories that "Obey" was a film, a performance art piece, a music drop.

But Ken knew better.

Because the next morning, he was handed a script.

And a collar. Different. Gold, white, and silver. Shimmering with small embedded lenses.

"You will perform," Queen Lilly said. "Not for applause. For loyalty."

The room was cold.

Stripped of color. All white floors and walls, flooded with artificial light.

Ken stood in the center.

A team of silent assistants moved around him, fitting the new collar, brushing his hair, applying subtle gloss to his lips.

Queen Lilly watched from a glass balcony above.

"Begin," she said.

He moved through the motions she'd trained him in.

The bow.

The kneel.

The touch to his heart, then to hers.

The obedience ritual.

He recited lines from memory:

"To obey is not to fall, but to rise without fear.

To kneel is not to lose power, but to give it purpose.

I am hers. Entirely."

He finished on his knees, arms behind his back.

She clapped once.

"Again."

And again.

And again.

Until his voice cracked. Until his knees bled against the marble. Until the words no longer felt like performance, but prophecy.

Three days before the broadcast, something strange happened.

Ken was returning to his chamber when he found a letter slipped beneath his door.

There was no signature.

No seal.

Just one sentence:

"You are not the first to wear the chain. You will not be the last."

Ken's hands trembled.

He burned the note in the hallway lamp.

But the words followed him.

Even in silence. Even in submission.

He was starting to remember what fear tasted like.

The night before the performance, Queen Lilly summoned him.

He expected silence. Commands. Maybe another ritual.

But she offered something else.

A bed.

Her bed.

For the first time in weeks, she pulled back the sheets and patted the space beside her.

Ken stood frozen.

"Don't mistake this for comfort," she warned. "It's strategy."

He nodded.

Slipped in.

Lay beside her like a fragile prayer.

She didn't touch him.

But she spoke.

"Do you remember what you were before me?"

Ken blinked. "I... was angry. Starving. Desperate."

"And now?"

"I don't know."

"Good," she whispered. "That means it's working."

She closed her eyes.

And said nothing more.

The world watched.

Across cities and screens, millions tuned in to Obey: A Live Ritual.

The feed opened in silence. A black screen. Then:

A single figure, kneeling in darkness.

Ken.

The camera moved slowly, panning around him. His collar shimmered with embedded tech, casting tiny halos on the floor.

Queen Lilly's voice echoed through the chamber:

"What you see is not a boy. He is not your idol. Not your lover. Not your inspiration.

He is mine."

Light flooded the space.

Ken rose.

Bowed.

And began the performance.

He moved through the hall of obedience-rooms designed to test posture, restraint, reflex. Cameras captured every angle.

In one room, he was told to remain still while mechanical arms circled him, brushing close but never touching.

In another, holograms of strangers appeared, shouting praise and insults.

He remained still.

He obeyed.

He endured.

The final room was the Chamber of Chains.

A golden throne stood at its center.

Queen Lilly descended the steps.

Wearing white.

Glowing like prophecy.

She raised a chain of pure silver and called his name.

Not "pet."

Not "boy."

Not "slave."

But "Ken."

And he broke.

Tears streamed down his face.

Because she remembered.

Because somewhere beneath the layers, he was still human.

She fastened the chain to his collar.

Walked around him slowly.

Then whispered:

"Now show them what worship looks like."

He crawled forward.

Not out of shame-but out of choice.

He kissed her feet.

Then her palm.

Then pressed his forehead to her knee.

The screen faded to black.

And the word reappeared:

"Obey."

The world didn't know how to react.

Some called it genius.

Others called it disturbing.

But they watched. They talked. They posted. They obsessed.

Ken's face was everywhere.

Not smiling. Not proud.

Just kneeling.

Owned.

He trended for three days straight.

And not once did he speak.