Crowns Made of Cardboard and Icing

Crowns Made of Cardboard and Icing

15th Day of December, the Year of Our Source 2025

There is a particular species of vampire I have encountered far too often over the centuries. They are not ancient, nor particularly powerful, nor especially wise, yet they walk as though the world ought to bow simply because they have stitched enough titles onto their own skin. Apostle. Infernal. Sovereign of Nothing. Baron of Empty Rooms. They collect names the way some collect trinkets, not because the names mean anything, but because without them there would be nothing left to hold themselves upright.

These are the vampires who wear crowns not to serve, but to be seen wearing them. They drape authority over themselves like costume jewelry, flashing it in every room, demanding reverence while offering none. They hunger not for blood, not even for power, but for validation. For someone to kneel, to flinch, to acknowledge them so they might briefly forget how small they feel beneath the regalia.

And somehow, always, they are seated comfortably. Eating cupcakes. Frosting on their fingers. Sugar on their lips. Perfectly content to indulge while demanding others bleed for their comfort. There is something almost obscene about it, this juxtaposition of self-proclaimed infernal gravity and childish excess. A tyrant with crumbs on their chin, insisting they be taken seriously while licking icing from their thumb.

What fascinates me most is how quickly the mask slips when authority answers back. How swiftly the grand titles curdle into petulance. How eager they are to sneer at servants of law, to dismiss process, to question legitimacy, all while insisting they themselves be treated as sacred. They demand glorification, then foul the ground beneath others’ feet. They cry persecution the moment they are corrected, mistaking restraint for weakness and courtesy for permission.

There is something deeply narcissistic about the way they orbit themselves. Every interaction becomes a mirror. Every disagreement an insult. Every boundary an attack. They cannot conceive of systems larger than their own reflection, because to do so would require humility, and humility is the one discipline no title can grant.

True authority does not need to announce itself. It does not need to be flaunted or defended or screamed into the void. It does not panic when challenged, nor lash out when ignored. Power that is real is quiet. It is composed. It knows who it is without demanding applause.

The sad truth is this. Titles do not make monsters. Fear does. And those who cling most tightly to their crowns are often the ones most terrified of being seen without them. So they sit, they snack, they posture, and they preen, insisting the world revolve around their comfort while contributing nothing but noise.

I have little patience left for such creatures. The realm does not need more posturing tyrants wrapped in borrowed names. It needs fewer mouths demanding reverence and more hands willing to bear responsibility.

If you must wear a crown, learn to carry its weight. Otherwise, take it off before it crushes you.

Z