Henry and Luther's heavy footsteps echoed through the dim and frigid corridors of the castle. The flickering torchlights casted long shadows beneath their feet, warding off the encroaching ice threatening to cover the walls and the floor tiles.
"Was that truly necessary, my liege?" – Luther questioned, his fixed on Henry's back, which had become unrecognizable.
Over the past two years, Henry had gone through a great mental and physical transformation, which Luther found hard to adapt. He had ripped off the tainted image of an arrogant and imbecile good for nothing king, replacing it with a royal image that reverberated in the mind and hearts of his subjects. That foul image felt like a collective delirium of the whole world.
