The Shadowed King

The Inner Sanctum awoke to an eerie silence. The usual sounds of the palace—the clinking of armor, the murmur of advisors, and the rustling of silk robes—were absent. Instead, an oppressive stillness blanketed the golden halls. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their hands gripping their spears tightly as they stood outside the grand doors of the King’s chamber. Something had changed in the night, though none could say what.

Inside, the transformation was complete.

King Armand stood before a tall, cracked mirror, his gaze fixed on his reflection. The figure staring back at him was both familiar and alien. His once-tired eyes were now pools of darkness, swirling with shadows that seemed to shift and writhe. His face, though still human, bore streaks of black that pulsed faintly, as if his very skin was corrupted by the power coursing through him.