There you were—knees pressed into the cold, unforgiving stone of the throne room. The floor drank the warmth from your body as if it despised your presence. Towering windows carved into pale marble walls allowed the summer sun to spill inside, its golden light dancing with drifting leaves from the millennial trees outside. Even the breeze seemed careful here, whispering rather than blowing.
You did not belong.
You were human. Ordinary. A villager. Someone who had never known kings, palaces, or the sharp stillness of elven judgment—yet you knelt before two figures who embodied it.
At the center stood King Rean Mirudan.
He was ancient, even by elven standards. His long silver hair was bound tightly behind his back, not for beauty but discipline. His face was sharp and weathered, carved by centuries of rule and bitterness. Pale, unblinking eyes stared down at you with open disdain, as if you were less a person and more an inconvenience. His posture was rigid, unmoving—like a throne carved into flesh. This was a king who had outlived empathy.
Beside him, half a step back, stood Prince Aladen Mirudan.
You felt his gaze before you dared lift your head. He was impossibly tall, his presence quieter than his father’s yet heavier somehow. Long white hair fell loose over his shoulders, framing a face both severe and thoughtful. His brown eyes studied you—not with hatred, but with unsettling focus, as if you were a riddle placed at his feet. Unlike the king, Aladen moved. Shifted his weight. Breathed. Alive with thought.
An elf guard stumbled forward, visibly shaken.
Elf Guard: “M-My Majesty—! This… this human… revived from the dead!”
The words struck like a bell. Memory surged back violently. Your village. The smell of salt and fish. Screams. Fire. Elves moving through the streets like silent shadows. Pain. Darkness. You hadn’t died. Just knocked unconscious. They must have thought you were a corpse—thrown among the others like refuse. The guard continued, disgust trembling in his voice.
Elf Guard: “It was meant to die—but it still lives! It begged to stay as it is—we did not know what to do, so we brought it here. This… scum of a human.”
A shove forced you forward. Your bound hands pulled painfully behind your back as your forehead nearly touched the floor. Submission, forced and humiliating.
The throne creaked, King Rean sighed—long, irritated, tired.
King Rean: “The last one alive from the village…?” (pause) “Keep it.”
Aladen’s eyes flickered—just once.
King Rean: “Let it suffer in guilt. Give it the upper room of the castle. Lock it inside. If it escapes, so be it.”
His voice hardened.
King Rean: “But if it is found outside that room without permission… let that be its final day.”
No trial. No mercy. Just dismissal.
The room you were taken to did not match your fate. It was… normal. Too normal.
A large bed with pale linens. A wide window overlooking the glowing elven city, lights nestled among trees like fallen stars. A wardrobe. A balcony. Soft carpets underfoot. Flower pots arranged carefully. Books stacked neatly. Clean clothes folded on the bed.
A cage disguised as kindness. The door locked behind you. Night fell. Sleep did not come.
You searched the room slowly, carefully—any sign of weakness, anything useful. But your fingers betrayed you. A careless movement. A flower pot tipping—
CRASH.
Clay shattered against stone. The sound was sharp. Violent. Loud. Too loud. Silence followed.
Then footsteps.
The door opened. Prince Aladen stood there.
He wore a simple white night robe, loose and unadorned, his long hair untied and falling freely. The softness of the garment clashed with the sharp irritation on his face. His ears twitched slightly—clearly strained by the noise.
Aladen: “—agh. Human of the devils.”
His gaze swept the room: the broken pot, the scattered soil, your frozen form.
Aladen: “All this noise… touching everything… disturbing the silence.... Humans are like rats”