Unwanted Guest

She stepped into the throne hall, heart pounding in her chest as the grand doors closed behind her. The room was vast and opulent, its luxury undeniable. Golden chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their soft glow illuminating the rich, dark wood panelling that lined the walls. Tall, arched windows let in streams of pale light, casting intricate patterns on the polished marble floors. Every detail, from the lavish tapestries to the ornate carvings on the columns, spoke of wealth and power.

But the grandeur of the room couldn't distract her from those stares. The moment she entered, the chatter and arguments that had filled the hall came to an abrupt halt. Every head turned in her direction, and she could feel the weight of their eyes on her, scrutinising her from head to toe.

The room was filled with older noblemen, their faces stern and authoritative. They wore fine, tailored clothing, adorned with rich fabrics and gleaming jewels. Their expressions are a mix of curiosity and judgement. Their gazes were cold, piercing, as though they were silently appraising her, trying to place her within their world of privilege and power.

Her face flushed with embarrassment as she became acutely aware of her appearance. She was wearing nothing but a thin, tattered camisole, now dirty and torn from her time in the prison and the rough treatment she had endured. Compared to the opulence surrounding her, she felt exposed, out of place, and painfully self-conscious. Her arms instinctively wrapped around herself, trying to shield her body from their disapproving eyes.

At the far end of the room, the throne sat elevated on a grand platform, but it was empty. The king, it seemed, had not yet arrived, leaving only his court of noblemen to pass silent judgement on her. But his absence didn't lessen the tension that hung thick in the air.

She stood there, feeling vulnerable and small. Her eyes wandered across the room, and she spotted a familiar face. Among the group of noblemen, the man who had stormed into her cell earlier stood glaring at her with the same look of disgust. His lip curled slightly, and for a moment, their eyes locked before he turned away, dismissing her with a sneer.

The tension in the room only thickened as one of the noblemen broke the silence. "Why are we even having this discussion?" he scoffed, his voice sharp and impatient. "We all know the king will behead her. What's the point of delaying the inevitable?"

Another man, older and more composed, raised his hand in protest. "We need her alive," he said firmly. "There's more to this than meets the eye. She could be a spy, sent to infiltrate Wolfstadt. We can't just execute her without gathering information."

"She's clearly a spy," the first man shot back, his voice thick with disdain. "No interrogation is needed. Look at her—she's a Drachen." He spat the word like it was venom. "I can smell that bloody lizard stench from here."

The room buzzed with tension as the noblemen continued their heated debate, their voices rising as they argued over her fate. But as she stood there, frozen, the meaning behind their words slipped through her grasp. The terms—spy, Drachen—were foreign to her, their weight lost in the fog of confusion clouding her thoughts. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what they were accusing her of, but it was useless. Their anger, the suspicion in their eyes, made her feel like a trapped animal.

The weight of their stares pressed down, heavy with judgement. She tried to remain calm, but her exhaustion and bewilderment overwhelmed her more. It seemed they were speaking in a dialect she only partially understood, catching fragments of meaning but never the whole picture. Whatever they were discussing, it was clear that her life was teetering on the edge.

"I've had enough of this," one of the noblemen growled. He stormed toward her, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist. His grip was harsh, bruising, as he yanked her closer. "Are you a spy sent by that mad king?! Answer me!"

She winced in pain, trying to pull away, but she was too weak. "Lam adzh..." It hurts, she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her words were soft, desperate, but the man only tightened his grip, his face twisting with impatience.

"Stop mumbling and answer the question!" he shouted, shaking her violently.

"Nir!" No! she cried out, trying to protest, the word slipping from her lips in a language she only understood.

"How dare a mere slave raise her voice at me," the man sneered. His hand came down swiftly, slapping her across the face with brutal force. The sharp sting echoed in her ears, her vision blurring from the impact.

With a vicious yank, the nobleman tore at her camisole, ripping the fabric down to her torso. She was left half exposed, trembling in a mix of shame and pain. Her heart pounded in her chest, panic surging through her veins as she tried to remain conscious. Her body, bruised and weakened, had no strength left to resist. She clutched the torn fabric, trying to cover herself as best she could, and collapsed to her knees, the agony overwhelming her.

The nobleman sneered down at her, his voice dripping with cruel mockery. "Maybe if you spread your legs, our Majesty might spare you."

Her eyes burned with rage, defiance igniting within her despite her broken state. "Lam nay shidbihar," I'm not for sale, she spat through gritted teeth, her voice trembling but filled with contempt.

The nobleman's face twisted in fury. "How dare you look at me like that!" he snarled, his hand flashing out again, striking her across the face. The force of the blow nearly sent her to the floor. "Speaking rubbish that I don't understand."

Before the man could strike her again, another voice cut through the tension. "If you had half a brain, you'd know she's speaking Götter."

The nobleman paused, turning toward the speaker. It was the man who had visited her in the cell earlier, his voice calm yet cold as he watched the scene unfold. She blinked, her vision blurry, but she recognized the disgust in his eyes.

"Götter?" The first nobleman's face paled, shock and disbelief washing over him. The room erupted into murmurs, the other noblemen exchanging astonished glances.

"How can someone like her—a slave—speak the language of God?" one of them whispered.

"This slave?" the man sneered, pointing at her with disdain. "Impossible, Marquis Thornhowl!"

But the murmurs only grew louder, doubt and suspicion rippling through the hall as the weight of the revelation took hold. The noblemen exchanged uneasy glances, their voices hushed as they debated what they had just heard.

"How can a slave speak the language of God?" one of them muttered. "It's only taught to royalty and those chosen by the Goddess Aeon."

The disbelief hung thick in the air, and the once-confident arrogance of the nobleman who had entered her cell began to falter. He clenched his fists, clearly angered but unable to shake the growing uncertainty in the room.

"Well, that's exactly what we need to find out," another voice cut through the murmurs. His tone was calm but sharp, carrying the weight of reason. "Instead of harassing the prisoner and making rash judgments, why don't we wait for His Majesty to deliver the verdict?"

The nobleman's face darkened, his pride clearly wounded by the suggestion. "Are you trying to lecture me, Duke Wolfhart?" he snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

Wolfhart's expression remained composed, though there was a flicker of disdain in his eyes. "No, Count Greyfang. I'm just saying," he replied evenly, "no one wants a dog that barks louder than it thinks."

The tension between the two men was palpable, their exchange drawing the attention of the entire hall.

Their arguing ceased abruptly when the sharp sound of a guard's voice echoed through the hall. "His Majesty is entering!"

The noblemen fell silent, their postures stiffening as they turned toward the grand doors. She was still trembling on the cold floor, clutched her torn camisole tightly, her heart racing. Her thoughts were a swirl of confusion and fear, but there was no time to dwell on it. The air in the room shifted as the heavy doors slowly creaked open.

As the doors parted, a figure appeared—tall, regal, cloaked in dark, imposing robes. The king stepped into the hall with a commanding presence, and her breath caught in her throat. But it wasn't just his stature that sent a chill through her. It was his eyes.

Golden. Piercing. They locked onto her immediately, cold and unblinking, as if seeing through her very soul. His gaze was intense, detached, and in that moment, she felt a wave of goosebumps rise across her skin, the weight of his scrutiny chilling her to the bone.

The king moved forward with deliberate, measured steps, the room falling into an eerie silence as everyone awaited his next word. But she could feel it in the pit of her stomach—this was a man whose judgement could seal her fate with a single glance.