A Throne for the Night

Every conquered territory demands a high seat of judgment. Beneath the eaves of the potting shed, I seized a weather-beaten wooden crate and dragged it into the dead center of the flagstones. It groaned against the stone before settling into absolute immobility. Across its scarred surface, I rammed a heavy shard of jagged black slate into a split seam, fashioning a rigid backrest. Scaling the splintered slats, I planted my boots firmly along the edge and surveyed the dark expanse of my silent domain. Everything in this yard now lies beneath my gaze.