An expansive door is forced open, Its weight drags against the floor shaking the room as the silhouettes of four guards are presented in its wake. Two of them usher to the side, making way for the others who walk in with a sickly pale man in their grasp. He’s no older than 30 but the torture that ensued him would leave you to believe he’s considerably aged. He wears brown rags that barely cover his body, Rags that have been soaked and remain damp from his body’s waste—a truly horrendous and intoxicating smell, like that of rancid milk or rotten meat. Due to being shackled he also hasn’t bathed in what appears to be weeks and his refusal to eat slop has caused his stomach to show through his back, while his bones are most prominent through his skin.

He is thrown onto the ground falling onto his hands and knees.

CLINK* CLINK* 

Chains are latched onto his ankles, “His majesty please, you know not what you do.” A heavy boot meets the man's face, once for discipline and another for satisfaction. Though struck the man fails to make a sound.

“Shut it! You dare speak in the presence of your lord! Since you clearly lack respect,  I’ll teach you a lesson-” He unsheathes his sword; However, the king raises a hand and the guard stiffens, his muscles twitch as they cramp and shock runs through his bones. He trembles as he takes a few steps back, the guard stumbles over his own words in an attempt to please the king “Y-Your m-majesty. M-my apologies, I-I shouldn’t have had such an outburst. I’ll contain my anger, I swear-” But it’s no use, the man's words are cut short by the striking of a match. Now, no match was actually lit, but the space around him did indeed spark and with it drew a great flame that ignited him. His cries fill the room but they fall upon deaf ears, The guard claws at his burning flesh before flailing to the ground. He rolls in grimacing pain for a chance to extinguish the flame but, soon enough all efforts are proven futile. The guard stops moving as his body is left to cook. 

The burning of his flesh is reminiscent of a bonfire, in the sense that the crackling of a starved flame grows until it can't any further, the smell of bacon or sausage roasting as those nearby feel just as hungry as the fire itself. Passively the flame continues–like a pet to the king, waiting and watching to devour more. For the unsatisfied flame is formed with a belly of gold and the stomach of greed, that only the king himself may have. The room falls silent with the only notable sound being the breaths of the Half-dead, Half-living prisoner. For the first time the man opens his blackened eyes, and he is met with a courtroom in an expansive space with towering walls of polished white marble and a gleaming light that streams in from the tall, arched windows. 

The ceiling is a vaulted dome just freshly painted with intricate frescoes of mythological figures depicting their wildest tales and adventures. But, at the center of it all stands a throne demanding respect from all those who stand below it. It is crafted from the same pristine white marble as the walls. The same pristine white marble as the raised platform In front of the throne and the same pristine white marble as the ornate columns lining the path. Together they all give the impression of some grand temple. At the center, just a little ahead of the platform sits a long, rectangular table where the lawyers, defendants, and plaintiffs sit. Yet to the prisoner’s surprise, nobody sits to his defense, and it is here he begins to notice the look of the tyrannical king. His body finally realizing the threat begins trembling.

Closing his eyes he stands taking a step towards the king, “Y-you must listen to  me-” 

“Kneel.” The king loved seldom words. He believed those who overspoke were weak and childish, action speaks louder than words and he embodied that.

Thump! Thump! The prisoner's heart beats like a drum resonating through his body. His plugged ears cause him distress, and he involuntarily swallows his tongue to cause them to pop. He finds himself on his knees seemingly perplexed not fully grasping the situation he’s in. A king is a man of large stature. That is true.

With gold-plated armor and a large luscious beard, he is the epitome of said king. 

“Many claim to have witnessed him being able to lift 100 times that of the average man, so due to his horrifying strength and mana reserve, he is rumored to be incarnate of the devil himself… But at this moment I saw no devil… no… The devil would have left me in that dungeon to croak. No, this man is worse than the devil, because he's the one that takes you to him… This man is none other than death himself. Why can’t I move…” The man thought, his eyes burning as he lowered his head.

“I- I don't want to die, Please… D-dont k-kill…” His eyes peer up to meet the king’s gaze.

Doom*

“I need to move, I need to run. I NEED to disappear.”

 He looks the king in the eyes once more, this time feeling as if something began crawling within his bones through his brain and around his ears. This was fear. The thought raced around the man’s mind, driving itself deeper into despair not knowing a way out.

The king stands revealing a scar searing down the right side of his face rendering the eye useless. Masked by the shadows surrounding him he continues, “Do you know what crime stands against you?”

“H-huh?”

Calmly the king repeats himself, “The crime you have committed? Do you know what it is?” 

“I-it's alleged thievery your majesty.” 

The king now finding this situation amusing smiles taking another step down from his throne still masked by shadow. 

Quip*

A blazing dagger slips through the air and pierces the man's thigh, the cracking of bone, tearing of muscle, and the smell of flesh serve the room as the man, helplessly restrained, can do nothing more than scream a silent scream. He stares in pain as his mouth foams, his eyes roll to the back of his head forming what seems to be two golf balls, empty and devoid of any thought. He is soon knocked into a regressive state babbling like a child lost of their mother.

“Do not converse with me so naturally, you grotesque thing.”

Unsheathing a blade made entirely of fire the king takes several steps forward stating sharply, "I don't care whether or not you committed the heinous crime of thievery, this blazing blade shall be the embodiment of my rage for you and all your people, Now hear me!” 

The king pierces the man's other thigh with the sword cutting clean through bone only allowing a clear snap* to be heard. As steam leaves the man's leg no blood is noticed, just the burning of the man's flesh. His skin melts as the fire rages on, seemingly snapping him back to reality, The man releases a blood-curdling scream as the king only begins to twist his blade. 

Suddenly he rips it out with fragments of bone and pieces of flesh, The noise leaves many uneasy as they watch the King’s display of authority. The King looks at the man's face and does nothing but smile.  He proceeds to lift the man by his hair and reveal his elongated ears. Raising his hand a small dagger conjured from fire emerges from thin air. Slowly lowering his blade onto the man's ear he begins squirming and pleading once again as his ear tears away. Blood begins to pour only to be seared shut by the heat of the  conjured flame.“You are nothing more than an example of what's to come.” He proceeds to kick the man in his chest causing the last of his breath to flee from his broken body. He looks to his Royal Guards, “No more food and water. Let him dry up and die slowly in some dungeon far from here.” The guards lift the man and carry him away with the heavy door slamming behind them. 

The king returns to his throne each step seasoned with a hint of pride and excitement. His cabinet all cheer, discussing the strength of their King, and sharing their praises.

The King sturs, “I have grown quite bored of this war, can't we just extinguish Latius and Kingston with an army? If we break through Orc’s Keep we could overturn the dwarves and overpower the Elves.” 

The Royal advisor Toral appears uneasy, his voice hollow in response, “My liege, such a move would be too risky to make, Orc’s Keep has terrible terrain only known by the Dwarves and if by some chance we do manage to slay or even form an alliance with the orcs that reside there, we will still need to traverse our army around Suratin’s peak which would possibly take weeks, prematurely altering Kingston of our travels.” He places a hand on his forehead and cries, “And that’s if they’re not  stationed at Orc’s keep.”

The king raises a hand to Toral, “Now, now Toral that’ll subside your cowardice. I was merely expressing my curiosity.” He spoke in a gruff, “I am a King, for I have been in too many battles to know such a plan poses much more risks than reward. Besides, if we hold out for some time longer I expect Kingston to make a mistake at some point in the future -”

The king pauses upon returning to his throne. His widened eyes focused on the frescos above. This drew the attention of his cabinet who rushed to one another for answers. Neither one of them formed a formidable hypothesis. Toral approached the King pleading for an answer, “What is concerning you my liege What is up above.” Toral looks again at the king and back at the ceiling. “No, I see, you aren’t looking at the ceiling are you, You’re looking past it! What do you see my liege, what has ceased your words and grasped your tongue?” 

As the king opens his mouth readying a command, the kingdom is consumed by a blinding light steering from across the world, leaving behind rubble and what can only be described as a massacre. 

Aisenhower 4 D.W (4 years During War)