The King's Judgment

"Kneel down!" One of the guards barked, his gloved hand shoving my shoulder unceremoniously. I stumbled, my knees slamming into the cold, marble floor of the throne room—sharp pain shooting up my legs. The air smelled of incense and polished wood, and tall, tapestried walls loomed around us, depicting scenes of werewolf battles. King Nick sat high on his gilded throne, his golden crown glinting under the chandelier’s light, his hands resting heavy on the carved arms of the chair. His right palm propped up his head, elbow on the throne’s edge, and only his eyes were closed—long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks—as if he were either asleep or drowning in deep, unreadable thought. A few silent nobles stood along the walls, their gazes sharp as they watched me, and a page fidgeted near the door, avoiding my eyes. "Your Majesty, the prisoner has been brought in!" the guard announced, his voice booming through the quiet room, echoing off the stone. "I'm not a prisoner!" I pleaded loudly,