Klaus sat on the throne, the blood of his first victim still dripping from his hand and staining the ornate carvings of the chair.
The entire throne room was silent; a profound, chilling stillness had spread across the hall.
The nobles and ministers, a few dozen of them, stood frozen, their previous arrogance and drunken bravado replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror.
Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with disbelief, fixed on the red-eyed youth sitting on the throne as if he were a demon king himself.
Evans, the police commander, was shaking, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. The several pseudo-transcendent allies from the other kingdoms were also shocked.
Even their own power had just become useless, as they hadn't even detected a small tremor in the air when Klaus had attacked earlier. He had breached their senses easily, and this fact terrified them.
Klaus, however, simply looked at them. His grin, slow and creepy, never left his face.
