Bartok's head was bowed, his breath ragged as sweat trickled down his temple. "My lord," he stammered, his voice trembling, "I am loyal to you. I have always been loyal to you."
The throne room was an abyss of shadow, its grandeur lost in the suffocating darkness. Only the faint glow of crimson torches lined the walls, their light flickering like dying embers. Ravenor sat on his obsidian throne, his figure cloaked in a stillness that was more menacing than any outburst. His pitch-black eyes, devoid of mercy, locked onto Bartok, who knelt at the center of the room.
His voice cut through the room like a blade, low and cold. "Loyalty, Bartok, is not proclaimed. It is proven. And yet, your actions reek of treachery."
"My actions?" Bartok's head shot up, his face pale. "I have done nothing against you, my lord! Someone seeks to discredit me, to paint me as a traitor."
