He'd recognized the man to be his champion the moment he'd laid eyes on him. Well, truthfully he would have liked the pair, but luckily the one he wanted was the one desperate to please the shell of the king he wore.
The boy was radiant, only a child and yet obviously the stuff from which the greatest of knights were made. His purity of purpose, resolve, even appearance sang out, declaring him to all.
Perhaps it was the purity, most of all, that made him want to paint the boy in blood. He wanted to strip him down and have him kill and kill and kill, until red on white became white on red and blood soaked hands could no longer be washed, only hidden along with the light blotted out of cold eyes.
Or perhaps it was the similarity in appearance to his own master that caused him to delight in the boy's pain. For he had been a king too, once, in his own right, not an impostor as he was now. Perhaps he missed being his own lord, and having his own vassals to groom as he wished. And the boy's obvious and unsolicited admiration was simply intoxicating.
His elation had come from somewhere deep and forgotten when the boy had so eagerly accepted his appointment. The king (because here, he was king), had allowed the boy, his soon-to-be champion, a small smile, and had reveled in the sight of that radiance, much as he might once have marveled at the pearly silhouette of a city before crushing it in a tidal wave. The beauty was his, as final viewer and destroyer.
His goal was to craft a weapon, he knew, one that would unquestioningly carry out his every order and whim. He could have accomplished such a task any number of ways, but he would take pride in molding his prize, soaking the blood so deep as to stain the very soul. His master would have his champion, but the in the craftsmanship Cagnazzo too would have something of his own.