The Blood Orc King

King Caspian sat upon his throne, a vision of power and control. The great hall was vast, lined with towering black pillars carved from obsidian, torches casting a flickering golden light against the dark stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, metal, and something deeper—the lingering iron of fresh blood.

His throne was raised above the rest, forged from the bones of ancient beasts. One leg rested lazily over the other, an arm draped across the armrest, yet there was nothing relaxed about him. Even in stillness, he was a force, a storm waiting to break.

His long black hair fell over broad shoulders, some strands braided and clasped with silver bands etched with war sigils. The firelight flickered across his pale skin, an unnatural contrast to the brute strength he carried. Eyes like obsidian runes watched the massive iron doors at the end of the hall as they began to creak open.

The rhythmic thunder of boots and dragging chains filled the throne room as his warriors marched in, leading the spoils of battle—human prisoners from your town, weary and broken from the long journey back. Their clothes, like yours, were torn, faces smeared with dirt and blood, their wrists bound in thick iron shackles.

His sharp teeth glinted as the corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest smirk. Fear. Resignation. Desperation. It bled from them in waves, their trembling forms barely able to stand under the weight of his gaze.

His armored warriors stopped before the throne, forcing the prisoners to kneel. Some collapsed willingly, and others were shoved down by the butts of spears. The sound of metal scraping stone filled the chamber.

"We have brought the captured humans to you for judgment, your majesty!" An orcish warrior announced.

He let the silence hang, heavy and suffocating, before finally exhaling—a slow, deep breath. His crimson eyes scanning the gathered humans with a patience that was almost… lazy.

But then—his gaze caught on you.