(NOT REAL)

The air in the great hall of Blackthorn Keep felt heavy, pressed down by tension rather than stone. King Elias Ward sat at the head of the long oak table, his broad frame leaned forward, knuckles resting against the wood. His stern brown eyes moved from one face to the next, catching every flicker of doubt, every refusal to meet his gaze. The problem before them was no small matter—something vital to the kingdom was faltering, though no one seemed willing to take the burden of responsibility.

“The granaries (food supply) stand half-empty, though I commanded they be filled before the first frost,” Elias’s voice cut through the low murmurs like steel. “Supplies vanish, and yet not one of you can tell me where they’ve gone.”

The chamber was lined with stewards, advisors, and keepers of his household—men and women who were meant to serve the throne faithfully. Instead, they shifted uneasily, whispering excuses, their words sliding past one another like oil and water. Their disunity stoked his anger, but Elias did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Authority hung in every word he spoke, every sharp line of his jaw, every commanding look that made even seasoned men falter.

“You bicker while my people starve,” he said, rising to his full height.

At six feet two, he cast a long shadow across the table, his presence filling the room more than the crown upon his head ever could. “I will not have disloyalty in my halls. If you will not work with me to find the hand that steals from my kingdom, then I will find it myself—and woe to the one I uncover.”

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the steady strike of his boots as he paced the hall. Something was festering within his walls, something important unraveling under his very nose, and Elias knew it was no outside threat. The rot was inside his own castle.