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."