The hall was covered in thick, somber shadows, the towering columns and vaulted ceilings reflecting the solemnity of the moment. The guards, clad in onyx armor, stood like statues, silent witnesses, their visors concealing any sign of emotion. The flickering torchlight reflected off their armor, casting broken reflections on the polished stone floor, where dust motes swirled like faded memories.

At the heart of this somber assembly sat the king, his face serious and motionless, a living embodiment of power and restraint. He wore armor as dark as the depths of the sea, a blood-red cloak draped over his shoulders, shadows gathering around him as if woven into the fabric. His gaze was fixed on the young woman before him, and though he carried no weapon, his presence alone was like a knife resting over her head.

She knelt, her body fragile but unbowed, refusing to yield to the storm like a wilted flower. His hair fell in pale tufts over his shoulders, a gentle waterfall against the hardness of the stone beneath his knees. He wore simple, worn robes, the fabric loose and unadorned, but there was a quiet dignity in his bearing, an elegance that defied the circumstances that bound him. He looked down, his hands clasped tightly before him, as if to suppress a tremor, or perhaps some hidden power seething beneath the surface.

"The Illusion of Majesty." First he spoke the title of a chapter from her book. "The king's throne is adorned with gold, but his kingdom crumbles beneath it. He is a puppet, and his court a stage of flattery. His reign is neglected under the mantle of wealth, and the cries of his people are drowned out by his arrogance. A kingdom built on illusion, when real pain is not heard." The king repeated the she's book of scathing criticisms of him and the kingdom, as if he had read them over and over. Like he memorized the whole book.

"Do you think so, young lady?"