Shadows in the throne room

The throne room was an expanse of cold grandeur, a place where power loomed like an unseen force in the air. Towering marble pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, their surfaces carved with the stories of past conquests. Massive chandeliers hung above, their iron frames holding hundreds of flickering candles, casting long, shifting shadows across the polished stone floor. The walls were adorned with deep crimson banners, each bearing the empire's sigil—a black serpent coiled around a silver sword. The scent of burning torches mixed with the faint, lingering traces of incense, a constant reminder of the rituals performed for the gods of war.

Twenty elite soldiers stood in formation, their presence a testament to the emperor's paranoia—or perhaps his wisdom. Each was clad in armor that bore the marks of experience. The plates of their cuirasses, polished to a dull gleam, were etched with the insignia of their respective divisions. Some bore fresh scratches from recent skirmishes, while others had the telltale dents of past battles. Chainmail peeked from beneath their segmented pauldrons, and thick leather straps secured their arm guards. Their helmets, though currently tucked under their arms or resting at their feet, gleamed under the dim lighting, their visors designed to cover everything but the sharp eyes beneath.

And yet, despite their fearsome presence, an unease rippled through them, subtle but undeniable.

Kevin, a battle-hardened soldier in his thirties, adjusted the fit of his gauntlet, his scarred brow furrowing. He was no stranger to standing guard in the throne room, but tonight felt different. Something unspoken weighed on them, though no one dared to acknowledge it aloud. His gaze flicked to Nok, the burly soldier beside him.

Nok was an oddity among them. His expression was always vacant, his face unreadable, as if the world around him simply failed to interest him. He stood motionless, his massive arms crossed over his chest, the dull metal of his armor reflecting the glow of the torches.

Kevin leaned in slightly, keeping his voice low. "Hey, Nok, what do you think about the alliance?"

Nok barely reacted. He blinked once, then turned his blank gaze toward Kevin. "What alliance?"

Kevin frowned. "You're joking, right?"

Nok shook his head, his tone devoid of concern. "No. Was it something I was supposed to know?"

A scoff came from behind them.

Roland, a tall soldier with long, unkempt hair and a jagged scar running down his cheek, stepped closer. His breastplate bore the emblem of the Fourth Division, and unlike the others, his armor was decorated with subtle, personal embellishments—small notches on the edges of his pauldrons, a leather cord wrapped around his left vambrace. He smirked as he regarded Nok with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"Why waste your breath on him?" Roland said, his voice laced with mockery. "You should know by now—he's a complete idiot."

Laughter rippled through the surrounding soldiers, though Nok remained as still as ever. He neither flinched nor frowned. It was as if the words never touched him at all.

Then, a younger voice, hesitant yet curious, broke through the lingering chuckles.

"But who was that man in black armor?"

A soldier barely past his teenage years shifted uneasily, his polished breastplate still free of the wear and tear that marked the veterans. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened as he glanced toward the grand throne at the end of the hall. The massive chair, crafted from dark iron and inlaid with streaks of gold, sat on an elevated dais. It was empty now, but hours earlier, a stranger had stood before it.

A man clad in black armor.

Kevin exhaled sharply, his irritation flickering to the surface. "How the hell should I know? But His Majesty was practically licking his boots."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the air in the room seemed to shift.

Nok's expression, usually unchanging, hardened. His gaze snapped to Kevin, and this time, there was something in his eyes—something cold.

"Watch what you say," Nok warned, his voice low and firm. "If His Majesty hears that, you'll be swinging from the gallows—with your whole family."

The laughter died instantly. A heavy silence settled over them, the flickering torchlight casting deep shadows over their faces. Some of the soldiers looked away, their expressions suddenly guarded. Others shifted uncomfortably, as if realizing just how fragile their own positions were.

Then—

A scream tore through the air.

It came from the prisoners' chamber—a sound so raw, so unnatural, that it sent a cold shiver through even the most hardened warriors. It was not the cry of a man in pain. It was something worse.

The soldiers stiffened, their hands flying to their weapons. The younger ones paled, their eyes darting toward the massive iron doors at the far end of the hall. Even Roland's smirk vanished, replaced by something wary, something calculating.

Kevin's face darkened, his jaw tightening. His grip on the hilt of his sword was so tight his knuckles whitened.

"What the hell was that?"

No one answered.

A second scream followed, more agonized than the first.

Instinct took over.

One by one, the soldiers unsheathed their swords, the sharp ring of steel echoing through the throne room. Eyes sharpened, jaws clenched, they turned toward the prisoners' chamber.

And then, without hesitation, they rushed forward, their armor gleaming under the dim torchlight as they moved toward whatever horror awaited them beyond the iron doors.