The throne room of Lyranth had been transformed overnight. Where once golden banners hung, shadows now writhed along the walls like living things. The morning sun streaming through stained glass windows seemed dimmer, as if the light itself feared to intrude too boldly into Arthur Lionheart's new domain.
Arthur sat on his throne, no longer hiding what he'd become. Shadow veins pulsed visibly beneath his skin, creating patterns that shifted with his heartbeat. His eyes held depths that promised consumption, yet his posture remained regal, controlled. The hunger was there—always there—but leashed.
For now.
"Bring in the first petitioner," he commanded, his voice carrying harmonics that made reality shiver.
The great doors opened, and Lord Garrett entered. The elderly noble had been neutral during Aldric's coup, too cautious to pick a side. Now he approached the throne with careful steps, his System-enhanced senses screaming warnings about the predator watching him.
