The King’s Proxy : A Story of Control, Propaganda, and the Machinery of Fear

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King Lamongna was not just a ruler—he was a performer.

He understood that power was not about laws or armies, but about belief.

If people believed he was their savior, they would gladly build their own chains.

Every week, he stood on the grand marble balcony to deliver his addresses to the nation.

The cameras rolled. The crowd was carefully selected—actors, soldiers, civil servants—each trained to clap at the right moment.

 “We are one nation,” Lamongna proclaimed, his smile sharp as glass.

“Our loyalty is our strength. Our unity is our destiny.”

Applause.

Confetti.

The illusion of harmony.

But outside the palace walls, the city buzzed with another kind of noise—fear.

Behind every broadcast, Lamongna had his Proxies—a network of men and women who never appeared in public.

They operated online, in markets, in schools, and even in temples.

Their job was simple: to control the narrative.

They flooded social feeds with slogans.

They whispered lies in taverns and meetings.

They made enemies out of anyone who hesitated to cheer.

“If they don’t clap, they’re against the King.”

“If they question, they’re ungrateful.”

“If they stay silent, they’re dangerous.”

And so, silence became a crime.

The King called them his Flying Butterflies—beautiful in motion, deadly in effect.

Their wings spread propaganda, gossip, and fear in perfect synchronization.

Not all were fooled.

A few citizens began to notice patterns—the same words repeated in different mouths, the same rumors appearing on different walls.

A teacher was arrested for “mocking the King” after reading a poem about caged birds.

A merchant disappeared after refusing to hang the royal banner on his shop.

The message was clear: obedience was safety.

Lamongna watched from his throne, sipping imported wine, feeling the pulse of fear beneath his fingertips.

It thrilled him.

Control was intoxicating.

“They don’t need to love me,” he told his advisor.

“They just need to fear losing me.”

But like all poisons, fear spreads beyond its intended target.

One of the Proxies—a man named Corven—grew ambitious.

He began to use the network not to serve the King, but to build his own influence.

He twisted rumors, redirected blame, and positioned himself as the loyal one who could fix everything the King had broken.

Within months, whispers changed tone.

“The King has grown soft.”

“The real power now lies with Corven.”

“Maybe the throne needs new blood.”

Lamongna noticed, but too late.

His own machine had begun to devour him.

One morning, the King awoke to silence.

No applause outside the palace.

No loyal messengers in the hall.

Only the sound of paper wings fluttering through the corridor—hundreds of small notes scattered on the floor.

Each bore the same phrase:

“The butterflies have found a new flower.”

Lamongna rushed to his balcony and looked down at the square below.

The banners were gone.

The crowd was gone.

Only a few of his soldiers remained, unsure whom to obey.

In his desperation, he tried to speak again—his golden voice trembling.

“My people, do not be deceived! I am your protector!”

But no one listened. The microphones were off.

The cameras pointed elsewhere.

And somewhere in the distance, a new voice began to rise—Corven’s—smoother, stronger, rehearsed.

Lamongna felt a cold truth settle in his chest:

“You can control the story for a while…

but stories, like people, eventually turn against their author.”

The King of Propaganda became the victim of his own illusion.

And the butterflies kept flying—

searching for their next king.

“Fear builds thrones faster than love.”