Chapter 5: The King's Audience
The throne room's doors groaned open, a deep, resonant hum that echoed through Mark's bones, like the pulse of the forest itself. Faelar and another guard—taller, broader, with a stern face Mark dubbed Valthor—shoved him forward, their hands hovering near his arms, wary after his cell stunts. The room was a cathedral of wood and stone, polished arches carved like ancient trees soaring overhead, their curves catching the torchlight in shimmering arcs. Silver-white tapestries lined the walls, their threads glinting like frost, frayed at the edges, whispering of battles long past. The air was cool, laced with the sweet, heady aroma of spiced wine, a stark contrast to the dungeon's mildew. Mark's boots scuffed the polished floor, the wood's grain smooth underfoot, each step echoing in the vast hall. He rubbed his wrist, the phantom sting of chains grounding him, his pulse a steady drumbeat.
Thranduil sat atop a throne of fused roots and stone, a regal figure carved from moonlight and shadow. His silver-blonde hair cascaded over silk robes, rustling faintly with each measured gesture. A jeweled crown glittered, its gems throwing dazzling flecks of light across the room, like stars trapped in stone. His eyes, cold as winter frost, pinned Mark, unyielding, assessing. The air around him seemed to hum, a quiet power that made Mark's skin prickle. "This guy's a problem," he thought, heart hammering, his modern lilt a secret rebellion in this ancient place.
"What manner of man are you?" Thranduil's voice was a low command, echoing like wind through a frozen forest, beautiful and merciless.
Mark's smirk was a shield, hiding the fear clawing his gut. "Time for the show," he thought, defiance sparking. He focused, the buzz beneath his skin flaring, his body unraveling into mist. Faelar and Valthor's hands passed through him, their gasps sharp, their armor clanking as they stumbled back. Mark glided forward, intangible, his boots silent on the gleaming wood. The court—elves in silk robes, their faces a mix of awe and fear—murmured, a wave of whispers rippling through the hall, like leaves stirred by a storm. A memory flashed: his sister's wide-eyed awe at a street magician, her laugh bright as sunlight. The ache of it nearly broke his focus, but he pushed it down, solidifying with a soft pop, now steps from the throne.
"One who gets what he wants," he said, voice low, confident, the modern edge cutting through the hall's ancient air.
[Phasing Lv. 2 unlocked. MP -15. Big ego, bigger risks.]
[Phasing Lv. 2: MP 60/100. Cooldown: 40s. Impressed a king—cute.]
The system's sarcasm was a jolt, but Mark's smirk held, his heart racing with triumph. The court's murmurs grew, silk rustling, wine glasses clinking faintly. Thranduil's gaze sharpened, a predator sizing up an unknown threat, his fingers tightening on the throne's armrest, the wood creaking faintly. Mark rubbed his wrist, the sting a lifeline, grounding his nerves. Like Rick Grimes facing a new warlord, he had to play this bold but precise, every move a gamble.
A court elf—Thalindra, her silver hair gleaming, jasmine scent sharp—leaned toward Valthor, her silk robe rustling like dry paper. "Eyes beyond Mirkwood," she whispered, voice low, secretive, her eyes darting to the shadows. "The master watches. Intruders stir the dark."
Mark's meta-knowledge flared, a cold knot in his stomach. "Sauron. Has to be." The words were a warning, a thread to a larger shadow, like a walker herd lurking beyond the camp. He kept his face neutral, but his mind raced, calculating risks, timelines, like a survivor mapping an escape. "Gotta dig into this, but not now." The torchlight dimmed, shadows lengthening, as if the room itself felt the threat.
[Intuition +0.3. Something's off. Dig deeper?]
Tauriel stood to the side, her leather armor creaking softly, her bowstring humming faintly, a low thrum of tension. Her green eyes tracked Mark, intense, unyielding, but a flicker of admiration crossed her face, her lips softening for a heartbeat. The forest air clung to her, pine and damp earth, a reminder of the world beyond this gilded cage. Mark caught her gaze, a spark igniting in his chest, like finding an ally in a walker-infested ruin. "She's impressed. Good." Her hand rested on her dagger, fingers twitching, a micro-reaction to her conflicted duty.
[Tauriel Trust +5%. Don't push your luck, loverboy.]
"Loverboy? Really?" Mark thought, stifling a chuckle, his fingers rubbing his wrist, the sting sharp. The court's whispers faded, but Thranduil's gaze held, cold and calculating, the wine's aroma lingering like a promise of power. Mark stood taller, the system's runes pulsing faintly, a mocking glow in his mind. He'd made his move, awed the court, and caught Tauriel's eye. Now, the real game began.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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