A booming voice echoed, "May the next one please enter!"
The guards, clad in black iron, stood ramrod straight, their expressions unreadable.
Pillars, thick as trees and adorned with cryptic symbols, were obscured by a tattered crimson banner,
casting long, ominous shadows across the opulent throne room.
The air hung heavy, not with anticipation, but with a subtle tension that made the stranger's throat tighten.
He forced a calm mask over his churning emotions. Escape was a fleeting fantasy; behind that door lay only a return to the cruelty he'd desperately fled.
Each step on the plush velvet carpet felt like a thunderclap in the stifling silence.
Finally, he stood before the imposing figure on the throne.
The king, eyes glowing like embers, surveyed him with an intensity that threatened to melt his resolve.
The stranger sank to one knee, his voice a touch ragged around the edges, but firm nonetheless.
"Your Majesty," he began, "I stand before you not as a supplicant, but as a contender. I offer my service – as your next personal butler."
The king rose with a thunderous thud, his crimson armor, a chilling gradient of yellow to red to black, seeming to drink in the light from the high windows. The helmet with its demon-horn design offered no glimpse of the king's face, only the fiery embers of his eyes that glinted down at Fulkan. He stalked towards the stranger, each step echoing in the vast hall. As the king loomed closer, Fulkan couldn't help but notice a flicker of something in those eyes – was it amusement, or perhaps a hint of begrudging respect for a man who dared to approach the throne in such a state?
The king's examination was thorough. He noted the calloused hands, strong but worn, the hint of a silver glint on a hidden dagger strapped to Fulkan's thigh. His gaze lingered on Fulkan's face, etched with exhaustion but holding a steely resolve. The king's own armor, though imposing, bore the marks of countless battles – nicks and scratches that spoke of a warrior's past. The crimson chestplate, polished to a dark sheen, seemed at odds with the fire-colored robe that billowed behind him, adorned with the same cryptic symbols as the tattered banners.
Fulkan straightened his back, forcing a confident tone. "My name is Fulkan Strader, and I—" His voice, however, betrayed him. It started strong but sputtered, dropping to a breathless rasp. "I have… come a long way…" He reached out a hand, his fingers trembling, but before he could complete his sentence, his arms gave way.
The exhaustion from the long journey has made Fulkan crumpling to the ground, the world blurring around him. He caught a glimpse of the king – those fiery eyes, wide with a flicker of… worry? Then, darkness claimed him.