The stare of King Vishorn was enough to chill the bones of even the most battle-hardened warrior. To Denzel and Ryan, it felt like they were already six feet under. The throne room, grand and suffocating, fell into an eerie silence as the King's booming voice filled the air.
"I greet all the elders who have gathered here today," he began, sitting tall on his mana-crystal throne. "I, King Vishorn the Seventh, have considered the evidence and call upon the humans before us. You are accused of grievously harming our forest guardians. If you have anything to say in your defense, speak now."
A long pause followed. Ryan shut his eyes, muttering his final prayers. Denzel, gulping audibly, took a hesitant step forward and bowed.
"Your Royal Majesty," he began, steadying his voice, "we are outsiders, and we understand it's not our place to dictate what's right or wrong in your lands. But I beg that you hear us out."
"Go on," the king replied, his tone unreadable.
"We didn't come here to slaughter your beasts. We acted only in self-defense. We held back as much as we could—"
"Lies, Your Majesty!" an elder dressed in flowing white and purple robes snapped. "Do they take us for fools? If they truly didn't mean harm, why were the limbs of our guardians torn off like weeds from soil?"
"That was… an unfortunate side effect," Denzel admitted, sweating. "We were ambushed in unfamiliar territory. We didn't even know your guardians were sacred!"
"Preposterous!" shouted another elder, this one with a beard that seemed to have lived through every forest season and a green robe that screamed "eco-judgmental."
Meanwhile, Ryan, giving up hope, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from somewhere unknown and began writing a will. No ink. No idea how it would reach Earth. But it was comforting.
King Vishorn raised a hand to silence the bickering. "So you're saying this was all a misunderstanding?" he said slowly. "A tragic accident?"
"Yes," Denzel nodded, "and I'm truly sorry for—"
COUGH!
The king suddenly hacked up a thick wad of blood. Gasps rippled through the hall. Denzel's eyes glinted as he saw opportunity unfold like a gift from the gods. A sly grin spread across his face.
"Bingooo."
He dropped to his knees dramatically, clutching his chest. "Oh no! Your Majesty! What vile affliction has cursed your noble body? You honor us by presiding over this trial despite your suffering! If only… if only I weren't fated to die today, I'd do anything to see your strength restored!"
The hall descended into chaos. Some elders stared in confusion. Others laughed outright.
"This guy… is he trying to win an Oscar or what?" Daeron, one of the more relaxed elders, chuckled.
But not all were amused. Elder Kramas—stern, green-robed, and glaring daggers—leaned forward. "So what you're saying, human, is that you could heal the King if given a chance?"
"I'm saying," Denzel said, now serious, "that if given the time, we'll find the cause of the illness and cure it. You have my word."
The room went still again. King Vishorn sat quietly for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a weary sigh, he said, "Very well. You have three days. If you fail…" He didn't need to finish. The tone said it all.
Both Denzel and Ryan audibly gulped.
Kramas stepped forward with an all-too-eager smile. "Your Majesty, allow me to host these fine gentlemen. I'll ensure they are… well cared for."
"Granted," the king replied, oblivious to the undertone.
As soon as the ruling was made, Kramas' expression twisted into a wicked grin. He turned and led Denzel and Ryan out of the throne room, flanked by guards.
---
Kramas' quarters were technically luxurious, but the place he gave them to sleep in looked like a moldy broom closet rejected by even the most desperate rats. The door creaked like it hadn't opened in centuries. Inside was a dusty, musty room lined with cracked walls and straw that had lost its dignity.
"This is your residence," Kramas said with false cheer. "Enjoy your stay." He shut the door with a dramatic CLUNK.
"Is this place even legally inhabitable?" Ryan grimaced.
"It's fine," Denzel shrugged, dragging a dusty sack into a vaguely bed-like pile. "I've slept in worse… I think."
"Kramas gives me the creeps," Ryan muttered.
"He's supposed to," Denzel grinned. "He's the first step in my plan."
"Wait, what plan?" Ryan asked, inching closer.
"Simple," Denzel replied, eyes glowing faintly. "We beat this sickness, clear our names, and take down Kramas."
Ryan blinked. "Oh, that's all? No biggie. What's next, dating the princess?"
"Funny you say that," Denzel said with a wink. "We'll need her support."
Ryan stared. "You're insane."
"We won't know unless we try."
The plan was twofold:
1. Discover the cause of the mysterious illness plaguing the elves.
2. Win over Princess Leah as an influential ally.
Ryan was assigned to the investigation. Denzel would handle the… courtship.
Ryan sighed. "Just promise me you won't try to flirt with the princess in chains."
"No promises."
---
The next morning, Ryan began his mission. Wearing a "just-passing-through" smile, he wandered around the kingdom under the watchful eye of a hidden elven guard. He chatted with flower vendors, observed sickly elves, and took mental notes. After hours of idle wandering, the tail finally disappeared.
"Amateur," Ryan smirked. Despite his act, his eyes were sharp, scanning everything. And then—he noticed it.
A suspicious pile of discarded herbs near the village well. Purple patches. Similar to those seen on the sick elves.
His eyes widened. "Found it…"
Meanwhile, back in the shack, Denzel stared at the cracked ceiling, plotting how to speak to the princess without being stabbed.
Their clock was ticking.
Three days to save the king. Three days to earn their freedom.
Or three days till a very public elven execution....