8th Century BCE – The Kingdom of Phrygia

The land was dying.

Fields lay fallow under cracked skies. The olives had turned bitter. The goats bleated with bones too sharp beneath skin too thin. Every morning, the sun rose like a coin tarnished with rot. And every night, it set on a king whose hands could no longer save his people.

King Midas knelt in the dirt.

His robes were threadbare beneath the embroidery. The gold-thread lions that once danced along his sleeves now clung like ghosts to a dying dynasty. His crown, heavy and dull, sagged across his brow like a debt he could no longer repay.

Above him, the ancient cypress swayed in silence.

Midas had no priests left. No seers. No warlocks. Only legends. And so he did what desperate men do – he whispered into the cracks of the world.

He took a basin of oil. Mixed in bone dust. Carved the runes as the old ones had written – not in ink, but in regret.

And he prayed.

Not to a god.

To anyone.

"Give me wealth. Give me riches," he said. "I will pay the price. Give me a gift that makes kings kneel. Give me glory."

Wind stirred the grass.

The Cypress groaned.

And from the shadow between its roots, something stepped forward.

A man – or something wearing the shape of one. Tall. Beautiful. Garments draped in twilight silk and jewels. Eyes molten and smiling. His voice was wine poured over coals.

"I heard your hunger, Midas."

The king stumbled back, shielding his eyes.

"Who—?"

"Dionysus," the stranger lied. "God of revelry. Patron of gifts. I've come to grant your wish."

The wind held its breath.

"What is it you desire?"

Midas's mouth was dry. His lips cracked.

"I want wealth," he whispered. "Endless. I want to turn this dust into gold. I want to touch the world and make it sing."

The stranger smiled wider.

"Then so it shall be."

He held out a scroll. Ancient. Charred at the edges. Inked in a language the king's soul somehow understood. No threats. No warnings.

Just a single line.

"All you touch shall shine."

Midas looked up.

"What's the cost?"

The stranger's smile sharpened.

"You never asked that when you begged the gods. Why ask now?"

Midas hesitated.

Then reached for the scroll.

His fingertip brushed the parchment.

It shimmered.

The scroll turned to gold in his hand.

He gasped.

His breath fogged.

The stranger bowed, stepping back into shadow.

"With every touch," he said, "you shall become more."

And then he was gone.

Only the Cypress remained.

And the king who had just bought the world – without asking what it would take in return.

…………………

It began with the chalice.

A simple clay vessel, passed to him by a servant girl too frightened to speak. His lips had barely brushed the rim before it gleamed. The red wine inside crystallised mid-pour, catching the sun in a flash of divine fire. He blinked, startled.

And laughed.

It worked.

It worked!

By nightfall, the palace gleamed like Olympus. Pillars of white marble flickered with veins of pure gold. The pool in the central courtyard shimmered like molten treasure, frozen in a moment of godhood. Statues once chipped and worn became monuments. Carpets turned to golden tapestries. Door handles. Vases. Weapons. Even the sand scattered on the mosaic floors gleamed.

Every room was a temple.

Every breath he took smelled of gilded dust.

And still – he wanted more.

Midas walked the halls barefoot, delighting in the way his footprints left shimmered imprints on the stones. He touched the columns in passing, just to hear the solid clink of wealth manifesting. He caressed the backs of chairs, ran his hands over dining plates, licked the edges of goblets. Everything that met his skin bent to gold.

They called him Chosen now.

The servants bowed lower. The generals whispered of prophecy. Foreign envoys fell silent in his presence, their knees quaking at the radiance of his court. No one remembered Phrygia's empty grain stores. No one asked about the southern raiders or the dying rivers. Gold had answered all questions.

"The gods love you," they said.

"You walk with miracles," they said.

And Midas believed them.

He sat upon a throne that no longer creaked – because it too had become metal. He hosted banquets where no one ate, for the food turned before the first bite. He still laughed. Laughed louder than ever. Who needed meat when you could feast on the envy of nations?

He wore rings upon rings, layered until his hands were cages. His robe, once wool, now dragged like a curtain of coin across polished floors. The crown had fused to his brow – a minor inconvenience. Gold was meant to cling.

Each morning, he awoke dusted in gold leaf, the bed sheets crumbling beneath his fingers. The sun rose through windows of diamond he had crushed into form. He touched the window frame and made it hum.

He named it glory.

But the dreams had started.

Late at night, his fingers twitched. In sleep, he grasped at things – blankets, bedposts, pillows – and woke to silence, everything hardened to gold.

He stopped drinking wine. It turned in his throat, thick and solid. He gnawed on bread, but it cracked into his teeth like amber. His tongue bled once, and the blood gilded the roof of his mouth.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Still, he smiled.

Even as he spat coins.

He began turning birds to gold in the garden. At first it was delight. Then it was sport. He'd hold a fig in one hand and a sparrow in the other, watching which froze faster.

He whispered to himself sometimes:

"I am the wealth of the world."

And when he slept, he dreamed of his name on the tongues of kings.

One evening, he sat alone in the throne room. The fire had long since refused to burn – wood turned instantly to gold could not hold flame.

He watched the logs shimmer.

Listened to silence.

He was warm. Fed. Dressed in enough wealth to ransom nations.

And yet…

The echo of footsteps down the hall did not come.

The servants no longer smiled.

And his daughter's laughter – once the clearest music in the palace – had not been heard in days.

"She's probably hiding," he muttered aloud.

"Playing."

He stood, golden robes dragging, and called her name down the empty corridor.

"Marigold?"

No answer.

…………………

The corridors were quiet.

Too quiet.

Gold muffled everything. Even the smallest sounds – footsteps, whispers, laughter – were swallowed by the weight of wealth. Rugs no longer rustled. Doors no longer creaked. Nothing moved that Midas did not command.

He searched the palace for hours.

Past the atrium, through the library, behind the hanging curtains of coin-threaded silk. Servants ducked away as he passed, too afraid to speak. Or perhaps too ashamed. His hunger had grown louder than his ears.

He found her in the garden.

Marigold.

His daughter.

She was no more than ten summers old, all wide eyes and wild curls, with a spirit as fierce as any general's. She was crouched by the old olive tree, nestled in the only patch of green that remained in the palace. The garden had fought hardest against the touch – but even now, the grass glimmered where her feet had brushed it.

She turned as he approached, her smile soft but hesitant.

"Father?"

He paused.

There she was. The only person left in the world who touched him without fear. Who did not see a god. Who called him by his name, not his crown.

He opened his arms.

Reflex.

"Come here, little flower."

And she ran to him.

Without hesitation.

Without understanding.

She flung herself forward, wrapped her arms around his waist, and—

The world stopped.

He felt it before he saw it. The sudden resistance. The instant stillness. A soundless snap inside his chest.

She stiffened in his arms.

Her warmth fled.

He looked down.

Marigold was no longer moving.

Her fingers – once curled around his back – were gold. So were her shoulders. Her face. Her hair. Her eyes.

Still open.

Still wide.

Still staring up at him.

He staggered back. His knees gave out. He fell with a groan and took her with him, cradling her in his lap like a broken statue.

"No…"

He tried to shake her. Just a little. Just enough to break whatever spell this was.

"No, no, no—Marigold—wake up."

She didn't blink.

Her face was frozen in surprise. Not fear. Not pain. Just... confusion. As if asking why the world had changed.

As if asking why he had done this.

Midas screamed.

A sound that should have shaken the walls but echoed only inside himself.

He clawed at her arms, trying to rub warmth back into her hands. He kissed her forehead and felt his lips burn with cold. He wailed until his throat bled gold, until his voice cracked and croaked and vanished.

He tried everything.

Everything but letting go.

Days passed.

He did not leave the garden.

He did not eat. He could not drink. The servants eventually stopped bringing him trays.

Marigold sat in his lap, still and shining, her curls like twisted sunbeams, her dress stiff with opulence. He sang to her sometimes. Old lullabies, half-remembered. Stories of gods and stars and heroes who always made the right choice.

He apologized.

A thousand times.

"I did it for us," he whispered once. "To give you the world."

The gold did not respond.

Only the birds answered him – and even they sang from far, far away.

Eventually, when the sun sank and the moon climbed, he rose with her in his arms. He carried her to the fountain at the centre of the palace – the last place they had laughed together. He laid her down at the edge, on a bed of golden roses that cracked under her weight.

Then he walked.

Through the halls he had once gilded in triumph.

Past the guards who no longer looked him in the eye.

Past the throne that now sat too tall, too empty.

He walked until he reached the courtyard where the cypress grew. The same place he had first whispered his greed into the bones of the world.

And he fell to his knees.

"I undo it," he said, voice raw. "I take it back. I take it all back."

But the tree did not answer.

And neither did the gods.

…………………

The cypress tree had grown older.

It twisted now, bent at the base, its bark split by age and sorrow. Wind passed through it like breath through hollow ribs. No birds nested in its branches. No roots spread beneath its base. Even the soil here was dry – parched by the gold that had seeped into the world like poison.

Midas knelt at its roots.

His robes were torn. Gold flaked from his skin in dull, peeling patches – not because the gift had weakened, but because he no longer cared to preserve it. His hands were blistered and raw from clawing at lifeless faces, from weeping into the cold shell of a daughter who would never laugh again.

He hadn't eaten in days. Couldn't. Everything he touched turned to silence.

His mouth tasted like metal.

But none of that mattered.

Only one thing did.

He looked to the sky.

"Please."

His voice cracked, thin as wind through empty halls.

"Please… gods, spirits, anyone. Take it. Take this curse. Take this power. Give me my daughter."

The wind did not answer.

The sky did not shift.

But the tree… wept.

A single bead of amber sap slid from a crack in its bark. It dripped into the dust, where it shimmered faintly – not like light, but like memory.

Midas reached for it with shaking fingers.

And a voice said:

"You've learned nothing."

He froze.

The air thickened – not with cold, but with weight. As if every coin ever minted had gathered in the space behind him. As if the world was being measured, and found wanting.

From the far side of the cypress, a figure emerged.

Not a man.

A shape made of silk and silence. Shadows wrapped in velvet. Veins that pulsed with gold beneath translucent skin. His smile had no warmth. His eyes gleamed like polished drachmae – flat, perfect, and utterly empty.

It was the man from before.

But Midas no longer called him Dionysus.

He simply whispered:

"What are you?"

The thing tilted its head.

"I am what waits at the end of every wish."

Midas collapsed forward, his forehead pressed to the dirt.

"Take it back. Please. Take this gift. This curse. Take me, if you must. Just… give her back."

The figure stepped closer.

His voice was soft. Almost tender.

"You misunderstand."

"I'm not here to bargain."

Midas looked up, eyes hollow.

"Then why?"

The figure crouched. Touched his shoulder.

"Because you asked."

A hand settled on Midas's chest.

Not with force.

With claim.

Gold bloomed from the point of contact, spreading like a fever beneath his skin. Midas gasped but no sound came. His mouth opened and released only dust. His body spasmed as the veins in his neck turned rigid, then molten. His spine arched. His eyes filled with light.

"You begged to be more," said the figure. "And now you will be nothing else."

Midas clawed at his own flesh – tried to stop the burning. But the gold was not killing him.

It was replacing him.

His memories bent. Names twisted. Faces blurred.

He tried to think of Marigold.

Her laugh.

Her voice.

Her hand in his—

But even that was fading. She slipped from him like water between gilded fingers.

His last breath escaped as a ragged whisper.

"I'm sorry…"

The figure leaned down.

And devoured what remained.

Midas did not fall.

He simply stopped being.

And where he had knelt, something else stood.

Tall. Immaculate. Wrapped in gold-lined robes. His skin glowed like polished treasure. His mouth was still smiling.

But his eyes—

His eyes were voids ringed in teeth.

…………………

Midas was gone.

What stood in his place was a man – yes, but only in silhouette. Skin flawless, gilded like temple marble. Fingers long and elegant, heavy with rings carved from the bones of ancient bankers. His robe flowed like molten bullion, stitched with thread pulled from the dreams of dying emperors.

He stepped into the throne room of Phrygia.

Guards dropped to their knees.

Priests wept.

Slaves turned their faces to the floor, unaware that the man they served had already died screaming beneath the roots of a forgotten tree.

He sat on the throne.

And smiled.

History bent.

Empires rose, and Mammon walked among them.

In Babylon, he was a merchant prince who sold salt for sapphires. In Persia, he whispered to Darius behind gold-plated walls. In Greece, they called him Ploutos and carved statues in his name. In Rome, he was both banker and beggar, slipping coins into the mouths of corpses as if they'd buy their way across the Styx.

He never wore the same face twice.

But he always wore the same eyes.

Coins without depth.

Vaults without end.

Wherever greed bloomed, he thrived.

He turned merchant guilds into cults. He made kings sell their daughters for marble statues and poets drown their rivals in molten silver. He taught men to carve wealth from war, to trade truth for coin, to hunger not for food but for more.

And the world listened.

Every century, he changed masks but never names.

Mammon.

The Lord of Wealth.

The Mouth That Counts.

The Hunger That Knows Your Price.

He never forgot Marigold.

Not her face. Not her fear.

Not because he loved her.

But because her silence was the first thing he ever truly owned.

He wondered, briefly, if the girl in the coma would scream the same way.

And as the centuries passed, he grew stronger.

While other demon lords fed on wrath, lust, or suffering, Mammon feasted on desire – refined, measured, transacted. He did not demand pain. He demanded price.

And humanity paid in full.

Contract after contract, soul after soul – they came to him with open palms and empty hearts, begging not for love or vengeance, but wealth. Always wealth. Gold, status, ownership, legacy. It made them easy to mark, easy to hollow out.

Their signatures and golden husks became his altar.

And every coin minted in greed was another heartbeat added to his name.

Demon Lord Mammon.

In the present—

Lightning cracks.

Somewhere, the soulfield groans.

Lord Mammon opened his eyes and turned them toward a remote farmhouse.

Gold gleams beneath his skin – not surface, but structure. His bones glitter. His blood pulses like molten ore. He is not in a palace now. He walks beneath a sky of smoke and stars, through the ruins of a burning world.

He has felt a tremor.

Kimaris is gone.

A gate has opened.

Something – someone – has dared to take power without a contract.

Mammon smiles, slow and perfect.

"How quaint."

He turns his hand.

Gold blossoms from his palm – a delicate lotus. It blooms, then curls inward, crushing itself beneath the weight of its own perfection.

"Time to remind them..."

He steps into the breach between realms, his cloak dragging trails of coin-shaped light behind him.

"Who still owns the world."

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