The painting on the wall was a better reflection of royalty than the sight before our eyes.
A grand portrait of the King dominated the room. He sat upon his golden throne with regal poise, a crimson cloak draped dramatically over one shoulder. His body, carved with the muscles of a seasoned warrior, bore the crown of a ruler with grace. The sharpness in his eyes and the set of his jaw projected the image of power—of a sovereign shaped by battles and born to rule.
But what sat before us now was no king. At least, not the kind who commanded admiration.
Blurp.
A disgusting sound echoed from the figure's swollen belly, inflating and deflating like a punctured bladder. His abdomen rose and fell as if it might pop at any moment. The silken robes meant to clothe him clung awkwardly to his frame, stretched thin over the distended gut. Even then, it was not enough to cover the disgrace. Crusted stains of previous meals painted his tunic, spots of gravy and grease scattered like rain across dry earth.
One grubby hand reached up and wiped itself on the fabric, smearing the already-stained material into an even darker shade of revulsion. He belched again, loudly and with no shame, followed by a gurgling sound as if the very contents of his stomach were protesting.
A silk handkerchief, once white, was dabbed against his lips—too late to stop the trail of spit slithering down his cheek. The handkerchief bearer, a stern-faced maid with a stone gaze, performed the task with mechanical precision. This was not her first time tending to the beast who wore a crown.
The King's body was a far cry from the image in the painting—but his face, perhaps, was the greatest betrayal.
Gone was the proud jawline and noble features. What remained was a bloated caricature, cheeks puffed like a hamster hoarding grain, a pinched mouth barely visible beneath the fat. It was as though his features were being swallowed by his own flesh.
The maid who had cleaned his mouth turned slowly to us, her eyes narrowing.
She glared at the butler and the head maid who stood behind us, her stare sharp enough to cut silence. Though dressed in the uniform of a servant, her posture and presence made her feel more like a queen than the King's actual consort. A silent command passed from her gaze to theirs.
She folded the soiled handkerchief carefully and gestured for us to proceed.
And so, we did.
Our cart wheels creaked against the marble floor as we pushed them into the grand hall that served as His Majesty's private dining room. A monstrous dinner table dominated the space, so wide it nearly blocked the entrance. The King lounged on a gilded couch at its edge, awaiting the next course with gleeful anticipation.
Other maids scurried about, clearing empty plates to make room for more food. The King burped again, licking his lips at the scent that followed us into the room.
His eyes sparkled—not with wisdom or command, but hunger.
We approached with caution. As we lifted the lid off the main dish and placed it before him, his mouth fell open in visible delight. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned forward and sniffed at the food like a hound finding a hidden bone.
He did not reach for the silver spoon resting beside the plate.
No.
He dove in with bare hands, fingers digging into roasted meat and honeyed vegetables, tearing it apart without pause. This was not the golden age of barbarian kings, and yet here he was—eating with the grace of a swine.
His personal maid remained at his side, ready with water in case of choking and a handkerchief to wipe away messes. She moved with rehearsed efficiency, cleaning his face, patting his neck, and feeding him water as if he were an overgrown infant.
We remained at the edge of the room, just beneath the pillars, barely daring to breathe. The other maids mirrored our posture, hands clasped, heads down. No one spoke.
The King grunted as he reached for the next plate.
He didn't stop. He never did.
And we—couldn't say a word. We simply watched. Watched and endured.
From there, our vision moved, slipping away from the grotesque display and out through the slowly closing doors. As they sealed with a dull thud, we flew through the palace halls like a whisper, unseen and weightless.
We passed through corridors, soared past sweeping staircases and gliding maids, until we reached the training grounds.
The clanging of steel against steel rang through the air.
Soldiers clashed with purpose, their blades meeting in practiced rhythm. Some parried with skill, others faltered, falling back under relentless strikes. Dirt and sweat mixed into the earth, the field scarred by combat and scattered with shields and broken pride.
We floated higher, overlooking the grounds—and met the eyes of a girl.
A princess.
Her crown sat crooked on her golden head as she blew a strand of hair from her face. She hid her laughter behind a fan as she watched two knights spar. One knight was sent tumbling onto his backside by a clever feint, falling in the dirt.
He huffed, but when he saw her watching, he smiled instead of scowled.
The princess blushed, looking away quickly, her cheeks stained pink.
We drifted onward, past their shy exchange, until a sound pierced the calm.
Footsteps thundered through the palace.
A servant raced through the corridors, his voice raised in panic. In one hand, he clutched an envelope. It fluttered behind him like the wings of a frantic butterfly.
"The temple has sent a message!" he cried.
"The temple has sent a message!"
He repeated the phrase like a prayer, like a warning.
We followed.
The servant darted past guards, butlers, and confused maids, never slowing. His feet kicked up dust with every step as he reached the King's dining hall.
The feast had ended.
The maids were just emerging, trays empty, eyes hollow. The personal maid spotted the running servant and stopped him with a glare.
"What?" she snapped, adjusting her glasses with a sharp flick.
She was still irritated, perhaps from a fresh stain on her uniform or the King's latest display. Now, a panting servant stood before her, sweaty, wide-eyed, and shaking.
She frowned at his disheveled state. But then her gaze dropped to the envelope.
"What is this?" she asked coldly, snatching it from his hand.
He gasped, struggling to catch his breath.
"The temple…" he wheezed. "They said… a prophecy… they received a prophecy…"
Her eyes darkened.
The doors behind her—His Majesty's doors—slammed open.