The doors to the Imperial Throne Room didn't just open; they groaned with the heavy, melodramatic weight of a thousand fantasy tropes.
Bura Busara stepped through, his sandals slapping softly against the polished floor. The room was magnificent, a testament to the author's vivid visual imagination, even if his narrative skills were lacking. Massive pillars of sandstone, carved with hieroglyphs that actually glowed with faint Ase, stretched up to a vaulted ceiling painted to resemble the night sky of Aye.
But the atmosphere was stiff. Staged.
At the far end sat the Negusa Nagast, the Emperor.
Libaax Akoma.
He was a striking figure—a Silhouette phenotype with skin as dark and lustrous as obsidian. He wore the Imperial Crown, a heavy golden thing that looked uncomfortable. His aura was a flickering, suppressed Orange. He slumped on the throne, his chin resting on a fist, looking less like a ruler and more like a prop waiting for its cue.
A Round Character trapped in a flat scene, Bura noted with a pang of sympathy. Look at him. He has the 'King of Beasts' unique class, yet he's being written as a brooding decorative lamp.
Surrounding the throne, suffocating the Emperor's presence, stood the Council of Regents.
Bura's critic eye scanned them, identifying their archetypes instantly:
The Head Elder: Wearing a long Cheetah skin cloak. Archetype: The Traditionalist Obstacle.
The Prime Minister: Dressed in a flowing Agbada. Archetype: The Scheming Bureaucrat.
The Grand Marshall: Encased in a massive Ijele Masquerade armor that made him look like a walking parade float. Archetype: The War-Monger.
The Merchant: Wearing a velvet Isiagu top with gold buttons. Archetype: The Greedy Noble.
They were arguing. Or rather, they were reciting exposition at each other.
"The Osu rebellion in the North grows stronger!" the Grand Marshall bellowed, his voice booming from inside the Ijele suit. "We must send the Ibutho legions! We must burn them with dragon fire!"
"Think of the cost!" the Merchant countered, rubbing his hands together in a gesture so cliché Bura wanted to weep. "Gold does not grow on baobab trees! The treasury cannot support a prolonged campaign!"
"Tradition dictates we wait for the omens!" the Elder rasped, shaking a staff.
"Bureaucracy requires forms to be signed!" the Prime Minister added, saying something that meant absolutely nothing.
Bura stopped in the center of the room. The air smelled of stale ink.
This isn't a government meeting, Bura thought. This is an info-dump. The author is using them to explain the state of the world to the reader, but he's disguised it as an argument. It's lazy. It lacks subtext.
He saw a flicker of Contrivium—that black sludge—beginning to pool around the Merchant's feet. The dialogue was so wooden it was literally warping reality.
"Tutor!" The Prime Minister spotted him. "You are late. The Emperor requires guidance on the... historical precedents of the Osu."
Libaax, the Emperor, looked up. His eyes were a piercing dark brown, but they were glazed over. "Yes," he droned, his voice monotone. "Tell us, Tutor. What should I do?"
Bura felt a surge of irritation. This was his role as a "Flat Character": provide the historical fact, let the Council make the decision, and exit stage left.
Not today, Bura decided.
He tapped his staff on the floor. The sound rang out, sharp and dissonant, cutting through the droning dialogue. He channeled his Griot power—the manipulation of sound and story.
"Historical precedent is irrelevant," Bura announced.
The Council froze. The script hadn't accounted for this. The Prime Minister blinked, his texture resolution momentarily dropping. "Excuse me?"
"I said," Bura walked closer, his yellow robes swaying, "that you are boring the Emperor. And more importantly, you are boring me."
He turned to the Grand Marshall. "You want to send the army to the North? The Osu utilize sandworms. Your heavy infantry in those massive masquerades will sink into the dunes within the hour. It is a tactical suicide that only a writer with no understanding of desert warfare would suggest."
He spun to the Merchant. "And you. You claim the treasury is empty, yet you wear an Isiagu woven with threads of pure gold-spun Ase. If you rub your hands together one more time, I will edit your bank account to zero."
The Merchant's hands froze mid-rub.
Bura finally turned to Libaax. He stepped up the dais, breaking protocol, standing eye-to-level with the seated Emperor.
"And you, my son," Bura said softly, his voice dropping the harsh critic tone for the warmth of an elder. "Why do you let them speak for you? You are the Negusa Nagast. You have the heart and soul of a lion. Why do you bleat like a sheep?"
Libaax's eyes widened. The glaze fractured. For a second, the 'script' tried to force him back into passivity—Bura could actually see the invisible strings of the plot tugging at the Emperor's jaw.
Fight it, Bura willed him, pouring his Yellow Aura into his voice. Be Round. Be Real.
"I..." Libaax's voice cracked. Then, a growl—low, resonant, and terrifyingly real—rumbled in his chest. "I... am... tired."
The air in the room shifted. The Contrivium sludge at the Merchant's feet evaporated. The Council members took a step back, genuine fear replacing their scripted postures.
"Tutor," the Prime Minister stammered, "This is... highly irregular."
"Irregularity is the spice of life," Bura said, turning back to the court. "The lesson for today is finished. The Emperor will not be sending troops, nor will he be signing forms."
Bura looked at Libaax, a challenge in his eyes. "The Emperor is going to take a walk. Outside. In the city. To see the people he actually rules."
"A walk?" The Head Elder gasped. "But the protocol! The safety!"
"The Plot Armor will protect him," Bura said with a dark smile. "I'll make sure of it."
He offered a hand to the Emperor.
Libaax stared at the hand. It was a choice. Stay on the throne and follow the script, or take the hand and step into the unknown.
The Lion King stood up.