The heavy doors creaked open, echoing through the stone hall as Arthur and Derick stepped inside. Their boots clicked sharply against the polished black marble floor. In the center of the vast courtroom, King Alexander sat upon his obsidian throne, his presence enough to suffocate the air around him. He did not move when they entered, but his midnight-black eyes tracked them with the precision of a predator.
Arthur and Derick bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," Arthur began, straightening his posture, "we've brought the witch."
They stepped aside.
A small, thin girl in a filthy dress stood between them. She looked nothing like the witches they'd talk about—no cloak, no staff, no aura of menace. Her dress was tattered, barely reaching her knees. Her pale legs were coated in dust, and her long dark hair hung in tangled waves that hid half her face. She smelled faintly of burnt rosemary and smoke.
But her eyes—
