In the heart of the castle lies the grand throne room, a testament to the might and majesty of the Draconic Kingdom. Vaulted ceilings, adorned with intricately crafted mosaics of dragons and legendary battles, loom high above. Tall, arched windows etched with tinted glass panes cast vibrant hues across the expansive marbled floor. Pillars, bedecked with golden motifs, stand sentinel, lining the path leading to the throne. Draped tapestries bearing the royal emblem sway gently, whispering tales of valor from yesteryears.

At the end of this room, ensconced in an elevated alcove, sits the throne. Hewn from ancient obsidian and intertwined with veins of shimmering gold, it stands as an emblem of unyielding power and resilience. Upon this majestic seat resides King Vendrick. His broad frame, indicative of years of warfare and rigorous training, holds an aura of authority.

Adorned in meticulously crafted armor, each plate a canvas of exquisite blue and gold, King Vendrick radiates a presence of unmatched regality and solemn dignity. Despite the grandeur, a simple golden wedding band encircles his finger, a subtle testament to his devoted union. Positioned adjacent to the throne lies his sword, a formidable piece of craftsmanship whose length astonishingly surpasses even that of Caelum’s towering statue when aligned appropriately. This colossal blade not only serves as a silent guardian but also as a symbol, echoing the King's silent strength and the burdens he bears for his beloved kingdom.

His eyes, a deep shade of brown that mirrors the rich, fertile soil of the kingdom, watch with observant and calculating precision. A neatly trimmed beard frames his strong jawline, its uniform color bearing no sign of the passage of time, presenting an image of enduring strength and vitality.

To Vendrick's right stands Caelum, the Royal Aegis, his armor reflecting the ambient light of the room, casting a soft glow. While to his left, a figure draped in muted, shadowy robes and armor. Sylars the shadow surveys the room with an unreadable expression. His presence, although more subdued compared to Caelum's overt strength, exudes an eerie, enigmatic charisma, and his eyes, a shade darker than midnight, often seem to observe things beyond the mundane.

A faint whisper grazes Caelum’s ear, delivered by a royal knight who swiftly takes his leave. With a voice that disrupts the silent majesty of the room, Caelum announces, "Sire, the lords, along with the princess, are making their approach.”

The king muses aloud, gently stroking his neatly trimmed beard, “Shall I wear the visage of a proud father today, or should my countenance reflect the concern befitting a king?”

Sylas, the shadow that moves without noise, offers his wisdom in a voice as subtle as the breeze. “Sire, which father can ever completely cloak his pride or fully unveil his worries for his beloved offspring?” A chuckle escapes King Vendrick’s lips, the sound a harmonious melody resonating through the high-vaulted ceiling of the throne room, at Sylas’s poignant observation.

“My deepest concern,” confesses the king, “is not only for today, marking her inaugural day as a queen-in-training and her grand debut to the realm but also for the countless tomorrows that await her tender shoulders. Caelum, ensure I don’t rashly smite any potential suitor that dares to gaze upon her.”

“Your Majesty,” Caelum replies with a nod, eyes flickering with undying loyalty, “Rest assured, it is a task most challenging, considering we all perceive the princess as a beloved niece.” Sylas expresses his concurrence with a silent, respectful inclination of his head.

A young man, bearing the unmistakable aura of nobility and responsibility, strides in through the imposing iron double doors, each step a testament to his training and dedication. Falling to one knee, he humbly lowers his head, “My liege, the lords have made their arrival.”

“Escort them in,” King Vendrick commands, voice steady as the flowing river, “And ascertain that the banquet preparations are proceeding without hindrance.”

“Certainly, my liege!”

As the young man retreats, King Vendrick’s gaze drifts into the distance, thoughts weaving through the tapestry of the future. The imminent responsibility destined to drape over his daughter’s shoulders looms like a persistent shadow, and the king can only offer a silent prayer for strength and endurance to be her companions.

With a symphony of synchronized steps, knights clad in dark iron march into the throne room, each wielding long spears emblazoned with the unmistakable crest of the Iron Domain. Caelum and Sylas’s eyes ignite with barely contained fury as the premature royal procession unfolds before their sovereign. Yet, the king, a seasoned mosaic of strength and wisdom, is not angered but rather amused, recognizing the audacity that could only belong to one man.

A team of trumpet players strides in, their instruments crafting an audacious melody that dances through the air, a herald of greatness and might. The atmosphere thickens with anticipation, and the knights bellow with unison and pride.

“Behold, the sovereign of the Iron Kingdom! The Iron King!”

Caelum’s hands involuntarily clench at the proclamation. “A mere lord,” he seethes, “daring to don the mantle of king over a realm already conquered!” The loyal right hand of the king nearly surges forward, driven by righteous indignation, yet King Vendrick's silent permission acts as an invisible chain, restraining him. Although burning to protest, a single glance into the king’s eyes, where wrath and amusement dance in a dangerous tango, convinces Caelum to maintain his decorous posture, standing like an immovable pillar beside the throne. 

Shouts resound through the hall as the dark iron knights exclaim, “Hail the Iron King!”

A figure emerges, adorned in crude, green-painted dark iron armor, his golden hair, long and flowing, cascades over his shoulders like a sunlit waterfall, framing a face that is equally captivating and daunting. Sharp features carve out his visage, with high cheekbones and a jawline that could seemingly cut glass. His eyes, however, are where his true power lies. They sparkle with a mischievous gleam, the kind of eyes that have witnessed both the whimsical and the wicked, yet choose to dance within the realms of the former. With a flamboyant stride, he makes his entrance beneath the uplifted banners of the dark iron knights, reveling in the attention.

“Oh, indeed, shower me with your praises!” he exclaims with a theatrical flourish.

Swiftly, a knight clad in pristine white armor approaches the ostentatious individual, placing the edge of his halberd adorned with green gemstones and silver filigree gently on the man’s shoulder as a subtle reminder of decorum. His stoic face, framed by a closely-cropped beard and short hair, wears the marks of a seasoned, devoted warrior, with eyes that are both vigilant and deep-set. 

The hall reverberates with King Vendrick’s deep, hearty laughter. “Hahahaha! Such audacity!” he exclaims with amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Only the Rotten Lord would dare to simultaneously taunt both me and the Iron Lord with such flair.”

Acknowledging the king’s reaction, the flamboyant man executes an elegant bow, his gesture a mix of deference and mockery. The white-armored knight, perhaps sensing the fine line being tread, takes the initiative to grasp the Rotten Lord’s head, guiding both of their bows in a more sincere plea for forgiveness.

King Vendrick motions for both of them to stand properly. “Before I increase your taxes by another 5% please remove your actors from my throne room and remove that armor before he arrives.”

The Rotten lord pouts hearing the tax increase but shrugs his shoulders in acceptance. He waves his hand making the fake Iron Lord’s knight run away as he removes his fake armor.  The Rotten Lord's attire is completed with fabrics that seem to defy convention, incorporating velvets and silks that shimmer with a life of their own. Each fold and crease is a testament to excessive luxury and borderline ostentatiousness, with embellishments of gold and precious stones winking under the torchlight. Here is a man who not only embraces excess but does so with an unapologetic grin, daring others to question his fashion sense, knowing full well they might not be prepared for the retort that would follow.

They both stand before King Vendrick. "It's been a while, Sir Elric. How has the Rotten Lord been treating you?" asks the King.

Sir Elric kneels, placing his weapon beside him, before addressing the king. "My liege, your concern honors me. The Rotten Lord has treated me well. With your permission, I would give an honest report of my time with him."

Before the King can respond, a thunderous roar reverberates through the castle. "Where is that damnable, swamp-eating son of a whore!?" The roar is so unexpected and furious that King Vendrick briefly shifts his gaze, as if seeking the source. For a fleeting moment, a shadow flits across the wall, but it disappears as quickly as it came, leaving the King to refocus his attention on the entrance as the voice grows nearer. Without warning, the massive Iron doors fly open, revealing the formidable figure of the true Iron Lord entering the throne room with commanding presence.

The true Iron Lord's entrance was as powerful and imposing as his reputation. Towering over most in the room, he is a colossus, with broad shoulders, and a menacing figure. His physique is a testament to a life of rigorous warfare and physical toil. Bulging muscles are showcased underneath a meticulously crafted armor made of dark iron, which, despite its obvious weight, does not seem to encumber him in the slightest. The armor, though functional, also tells tales of many battles, with numerous dents and scrapes marking its surface. His face, rugged and scarred, holds steely blue eyes that seem to analyze and challenge everything they gaze upon. His thick beard, much like a wild brush, adds to the imposing nature of his visage. Slung effortlessly over his shoulder is his signature weapon, a gargantuan warhammer made of the same dark iron as his armor. Its head is adorned with cruel spikes, and the very sight of it could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest warrior. The air seems to thicken with tension as he takes a few steps, each echoing loudly in the hall, his voice and demeanor leaving no doubt about his identity.

"There you are! Drugging my men, stealing their armor, and making a fool out of me — I'll claim your head today!" bellowed the Iron Lord, his fury directed at the indifferent Rotten Lord who nonchalantly examines his nails. The Rotten Lord’s blatant disregard fans the flames of the Iron Lord’s rage, causing him to charge forward, Warhammer swinging with deadly intent. Yet, just as the Warhammer is about to connect, Sir Elric swiftly interposes himself between the two Lords. With a skilled parry, he deflects the mighty blow, though the sheer force drives him backward.

“Iron Lord,” Sir Elric pleads with stern formality, striving to defuse the tension, “I must apologize for the Rotten Lord's insolence. However, he is under my protection, and I bear responsibility for his safety. I implore you to let this matter rest.” 

Upon hearing this, the Rotten Lord theatrically joins his hands, casting a faux innocent look complete with wide, puppy-like eyes and a mischievous smile. The charged atmosphere in the throne room is then unexpectedly disturbed by an icy draft and the ominous sound of chains dragging across the stone floor. 

“Well, it appears we have missed the commencement of festivities,” remarks an elderly man entering the room. His eyes, akin to ancient, faded sapphires, peer from beneath bushy white eyebrows, reflecting both intellect and a touch of weariness. A majestic, long white beard cascades down his chest, imbuing him with an aspect of venerable dignity. Adorned in flowing robes of a deep, serene blue, the fabrics whisper tales of arcane mysteries with their subtle, glittering motifs resembling crystals. Each step he takes seems calculated, deliberate, resonating softly with the unmistakable chime of wealth. Diamond-encrusted jewelry, from delicate earrings to a substantial, gleaming belt buckle, accentuates his attire, casting prismatic light dances around him. Despite his age, there's an undeniable vitality in his gaze, a flicker of curiosity and unquenchable thirst for knowledge that has navigated him through the byzantine corridors of arcane arts and metaphysical explorations.

Beside the elderly man stands a figure of contrasting presence. Clad in sleek, matte black armor, she moves with a haunting grace, her silhouette ethereal amidst the room's grandeur. Her visage is stern, beautiful yet marked by hidden tragedies, with stormy eyes bearing the weight of silent loss. Long, unrestrained raven hair flows down her back, complementing the solemn elegance of her demeanor. Although unarmed, the atmosphere around her subtly vibrates with contained power, a figure inspiring both reverence and a quiet sense of sorrow. 

In the lavishly decorated throne room, the Iron Lord's hefty presence shifts uncomfortably, seemingly overshadowed by the sudden arrival of the two other lords. With a dismissive huff, he creates distance between himself and the scene unfolding.

Clearing his throat, the elderly Crystal Lord steps forward, his voice echoing through the expansive hall, “Forgive our tardiness, Your Majesty. The Crystal Lord and the Lord of Sin are present." There's a weight to his words, carrying the reverence and formality fitting for an audience with the King.

King Vendrick, from his towering throne, acknowledges their presence with a solemn nod. However, before the discussion could commence, his sharp gaze catches a familiar maid standing hesitantly at the threshold. Rising, his voice booms with a mix of warmth and regality, "Lords of my Kingdom, as we gather today, we await one final esteemed guest. I bid my beloved daughter to grace us with her presence."

The assembled lords turn expectantly. Shield-bearing knights, forming a protective barrier, stand at attention, their metallic shields gleaming in the room's ambient light. As they part, allowing passage, the radiant Princess of the Draconic Kingdom emerges. Her entrance is a sight to behold: regal and graceful, with every step echoing her birthright. Sir Elric's clap reverberates, a lone sound of admiration and pride. The Rotten Lord, ever the connoisseur of finer things, scrutinizes the princess's attire and visage, mentally documenting every detail. The Iron Lord's face, however, contorts slightly, showcasing evident disdain. The Crystal Lord, stroking his long beard, emits a vibe of contentment and silent applause. Yet, intriguingly, the Lord of Sin remains inscrutable, her face revealing nothing.

Standing gracefully before her father, the princess bows deeply, the air around her shimmering with dignified elegance. In response, King Vendrick rises from his majestic throne, his imposing stature casting a shadow that gently falls upon the assembly. Remarkably, he towers over everyone present, even his tall daughter, by a head's length. 

For a fleeting moment, a warm, tender expression softens the usually stern lines of his visage, illuminating his kingly demeanor with an unexpected glow of paternal affection. Those among the lords who have long been acquainted with Vendrick are visibly taken aback, their eyes widening slightly at the rare display of emotion from the stoic ruler yet the Lord of Sin eyes have a tinge of jealousy. 

With a gesture that is both grand and gentle, King Vendrick extends a hand towards his daughter. The princess, understanding the silent directive, delicately places her own hand in his. At a subtle wave from the king, attentive retainers promptly bring forth a throne of gleaming silver. It's a magnificent seat, albeit smaller, to be positioned right beside Vendrick’s own majestic throne.

With the utmost care and reverence, the princess is guided to her newly-placed throne. The scene paints a picture of silent transition, a gentle handing over of responsibilities, as the two Hands of the King take their positions behind the seated princess. The throne room's atmosphere subtly shifts, becoming charged with anticipation as the maids quietly exit the room, leaving only the lead maid who takes her stand at the side, observing the unfolding tableau with watchful eyes.

In the ornate throne room, King Vendrick gracefully settles onto his regal throne. The brief warmth of paternal affection recedes, replaced by the stern, commanding demeanor the assembled lords recognize all too well. "Now that my daughter is with us, recognize her as queen of the nation. Her voice will echo mine and the entire Draconic Kingdom. Now, to our agenda."

Before any other could react, the Rotten Lord, seemingly emboldened, raises his hand, a sinister smirk playing on his lips. Sir Elric, sensing potential mischief, quickly whispers a warning to him. But the Rotten Lord, unyielding and impish, dismisses the caution with a sly smirk. Recognizing the familiar impertinence, King Vendrick nods to his daughter, silently urging her to handle the situation.

Assuming her new mantle of authority, the princess commands, "Speak."

With exaggerated flourish, the Rotten Lord bows, and when he rises, tears stream down his face, painting him a picture of sorrow. Dramatically drawing a tissue, he begins, "Your Majesty, my domain pleads for reduced taxes. Our contributions, while modest, strain us, especially when compared to domains abundant in iron and diamonds."

Empathy clouds the young queen-in-training's eyes, but after a whispered consultation with her father, her response is firm and measured. "Having considered your plea, the newly discovered mines in your domain will be transferred to the Iron Lord. Taxes will apply to ore exports and include three years of back taxes. While your people’s taxes, the lowest in the kingdom, remain, yours will increase, especially given records indicating your escalating wealth."

The Rotten stunned but maintained his ground. “Your majesty, I must protest this harsh treatment. Clearly this is all done to frame me as we have no new mines.” 

Sir Elric steps forward, elucidating, "Your Majesty, I can confirm the existence of these mines. However, their reserves waned. Furthermore, I've identified merchants and smugglers colluding with the Rotten Lord."

The Rotten Lord stares at Sir Elric with a look of rage and betrayal in his eyes. In a voice that reverberated with newfound authority, the queen-in-training declared, "Sir Elric, instruct the central knights' commander to apprehend these culprits and confiscate their assets, sparing their families a year's worth. Also, task the Ruin Knights with increased patrols at the Rotten Lord's border. Now Rotten Lord, given your neglect in reporting the mines and defaulting on taxes, your punishment is now owed tenfold of your yearly tax. I expect timely payment before the end of the year."

The Rotten Lord, reeling from the unanticipated onslaught, can only manage a mute nod of acquiescence. The other lords, especially the Iron and Crystal Lords, look on with renewed respect. Even the usually impassive Lord of Sin offers a nod of approval. King Vendrick, visibly proud of his daughter's command, relaxes confidently on his throne, reveling in the moment of triumph. 

The Iron Lord, with a sense of formality, raises his hand. The Queen in training, exuding authority, commands him to speak. He begins, "Each year, I bring to this Kingdom its annual supply of weapons, armor, and materials. Year after year, we quarrel over prices, payment, and trade. It's almost a tradition. But having witnessed your daughter's prowess, I propose we break this cycle. I'll double our supply for the next five years, asking only one thing in return."

His audacious proposal hangs in the air, causing King Vendrick to slam his fist onto his throne, cracking the armrest. "It seems," Vendrick growls, "you've found humor under my rule. Perhaps a private audience would rid you of this newfound jest?"

But as the King's temper flares, the Iron Lord's demeanor shifts from diplomacy to aggression. Before a word could be spoken, the Queen in training extends a pacifying hand towards her father. It's her turn to address the Iron Lord. "Uniting our realms could indeed amplify our might," she concedes, "but it's a pity, for I'm already promised to a valiant knight."

Surprise ripples through the throne room. Vendrick's eyes widened in shock. Without missing a beat, the Iron Lord inquires, "And who is this knight? Declare his name, and I'll ensure the engagement is dissolved."

With a confident grin and a slight blush, as she thinks of her three legged knight, she proclaims, "Sir Galahad the Vigilant, a legend throughout the Draconic Kingdom. He bested the named knights and even my father in combat to win my hand."

Chuckles echo discreetly among the King's right and left hand hearing Sir Galahad's name to be used in such a matter. Vendrick, hearing her daughter's pet's name attempts to suppress a smile, nods in acknowledgment, leaving the lords in awe. The Iron Lord, however, is left musing over the revelation about Sir Galahad.

Seeking to return to the initial purpose of the gathering, the Crystal Lord interjects, "Can we redirect this assembly to our usual affairs? Let's agree on the prior rate and proceed. My experiments beckon my return."

Nods of agreement come from both the Queen in training and the Iron Lord. As the Crystal Lord delves into his needs, particularly a 15% increase in resources, Vendrick whispers to his daughter. The Queen in training, after a brief discussion, responds, "Provide a detailed report justifying this surge in resources, and it shall be granted."

As proceedings seem to regain a sense of normalcy, an intense exchange of glances occurs between the Queen in training and the Lord of Sin. An overwhelming sorrow grips the Queen in training. In a moment that feels almost otherworldly, The Lord of sin is before her being, her father’s sword, Caelum mace, and Sylas blade encircling the Lord of Sin. The ominous figure eyes emit a deep abyss of sorrow, it causes the queen in training pain deep within her soul, the lord of sin silently extends a thick envelope to her, then, with unmatched agility, retreats, her heavy iron chains making no sound.

King Vendrick's heart weighed heavily with a mix of rage and sorrow as he watched the Lord of Sin silently exit the throne room. He took the envelope from his beloved daughter, as the pain evident on her face wracked his heart even more. Tears pooled and trickled down her face, each one further piercing the heart of the stoic king. But before he could console her, the lead maid, a woman of swift action, darted to her side, cradling the young Queen-in-training's face and wiping her tears.

“Enough!” King Vendrick's voice boomed, echoing off the vast walls of the chamber, “The Queen in training shall be excused until the evening feast. Our matters will be discussed privately. Everyone, to your quarters!”

The lords, still processing the abrupt end to the audience, were ushered out. Two imposing guards, the hands of the king, flanked the queen in training, ensuring she was safe while they led her to her chambers. However, before exiting, Vendrick shot a final, desperate look around the room, seeking the Lord of Sin, his mind swirling with questions. Vendrick decided it best to send for his wife, Queen Valeria, knowing their daughter needed her.

Upon entering her chambers, the princess' strength seemed to wane. Panic overtook her, and with a desperate gasp, she collapsed onto the plush carpet, her hands clutching and tearing at her dress. Her once regal composure was replaced with fear and desperation. The room became a flurry of activity as Queen Valeria, accompanied by a trail of maids, stormed in. The queen's face, typically the image of grace, was now contorted in alarm. maternal instincts took charge. Issuing precise instructions to the maids – baths, damp cloths, wine, and needles – she prepared to treat her daughter. Suddenly, from the shadowy recess beneath the bed, Sir Galahad emerged, concern etched on his face. He instantly took his place by the Queen's side, the reliable sentinel in her time of need.

Elysia, amidst her suffering, managed to look up. Her voice weak, she asked, “Mom, what's happening to me?” Valeria's heart ached as she tried to soothe her, “Elysia, my love, just focus on regaining your strength.”

The sound of shattering glass announced the arrival of wine, quickly poured into the bath by the lead maid. What transpired next was a scene of desperate measures. Needles were heated by a burning piece of firewood on a silver platter, its flames dancing menacingly. In her hand, Valeria held heated needles, their tips glowing red.

Without hesitation, she ordered Caelum and Sylas to steady Elysia. And with a deep breath, she plunged the searing needles into her daughter's back. Elysia's piercing scream echoed throughout the chambers as dark blood oozed from the wounds. The two guards struggled to restrain her as she thrashed in pain. Their struggle highlighted the princess' formidable strength, drawing comparisons to her father, King Vendrick.

The harrowing ordeal seemed to stretch for an eternity, but gradually, the sinister black of the blood transitioned to a more familiar red, and Elysia's spasms began to subside. Caelum and Sylas gently lower her into the bath. Exhausted, Queen Valeria collapses into a chair, the lead maid places a damp cloth on her forehead. The maids in the other room take a breath of relief, seeing the Queen rest and the princess resting quietly. “She needs rest, but I now need answers of what happened to my daughter!?” her eyes seeking answers for the ordeal they had just witnessed.

The lead maid is the first to speak. “The lord of sin did this.”

The Queen was visibly confused as to why she would do such a thing. The lead maid continues, “She appeared before her highness and she looked into her eyes then she handed an envelope bearing the sigh of the forgotten household.”

Queen Valeria eyes open wide as a cold chill crawls up her spine. Caelum and Sylas turn to each other and leave without a word spoken. 

Meanwhile, King Vendrick finally cornered the elusive Lord of Sin. With a mix of fury and desperation, he hoisted her, demanding answers. Her silent response, a tattered rag bearing the emblem of a house long forgotten, sent chills down his spine.

“The giants...” she whispered, her voice heavy with foreboding, “They return.”

King Vendrick's face hardened, his decision clear. He releases his grip and with a swift motion, he tore the rag in two, sealing their fates, “Go. Ensure they never reach our shores.” The Lord of Sin somber eyes fill with tears but she has this evil grin hearing the King command. The fate of the kingdom, it seemed, was becoming more intertwined with that of the young Queen in training.