of the staircase, but I had not time for such trivialities. This storm felt fierce, and I would not survive without proper shelter. Here, in this terrible place, that meant the throne room.
Despite the terrible evil that had once occupied it, and despite the reek of malignant anger that stained its stone walls, it was the only safe harbor near enough. My pack was in the main courtyard of the keep, and the storm blanket it carried was not powerful enough to stave off what felt like a massive storm. It would have to be the throne room this time. I steeled myself for what was to come. The throne room was indeed safe harbor from the plague storms, but it was a punishment all on its own. Hopefully, the storm would pass quickly.
The ground floor of the keep was open, grand, and intimidating. The staircase opened up into its main courtyard, where the great steel doors were once opened up like a gaping maw to devour fearful victims. The courtyard was massive, reaching high, with its arched ceilings. Once, terrible frescoes, detailing the terrible life of the place's darkest Lords, covered the ceiling. These had long since been scoured clean by the storms. The doors had been left open when those who dwelt here fled. The storms had had an easy time burning that terrible art, and I did not regret the absence of it.
I dashed across its wide space, where the forces of the keep's Lords once assembled for the hunt. Instead of the hooves of cavalry and the boots of terrible masses, it was just me. I hurried past the steel husk of a cart, its bits worn away. My pack rested within it, where on the chance that some other wanderer came here, it would not be quickly spotted. I quickly hefted its weight onto my back, and hurried onward.
The courtyard led down a high-ceiling hall, lined on both sides by suits of armor. Cruel, horrid armor that was once the most feared sight in all of Theris, stared back at me. When cruel men and beasts roamed this place, this was called the Hall of Heroes, though to know its use was to understand what it meant to be a hero in the service of this keep's Dark Lords. Soldiers who distinguished themselves in battle, in cruelty, in utter submission to their dark-souled master, were retired to this place. When they could no longer serve, their bones where fashioned into the stand upon which their armor stood its ground. Thus were the most fierce rewarded for their ferocity.
The armor was the perfection of a thousand years of tyrannous thought and evil deed, the culmination of centuries of exhausting effort. The metalworkers of this place had created their armor to be the best of its kind, so that it wearer could do their worst. The helm was pointed like some crow's head, with narrow slits for the eyes. The shoulders had spikes, and the chest plate was etched with prayers to the terrible gods and their darkened skies. One such chest plate was art, in its own cruel fashion, depicting the armies of this darkest of Lords tearing up the ground in search of our benevolent gods.
The metal of the armor was polished to a high sheen, save for the hands, which were burnished black. Those gloves made the suit seem so very impersonal. The bearers of such suits did not even care to display the bloody results of their work; the black hid the blood, as though it was not worth displaying. Those who fell under these suits were simply obstacles to be stepped upon, crushed, butchered thoughtlessly. The storms of this place, which scorched anything they touched, had left these suits unharmed. Such was the evil that was mixed into the metal.
I hurried past these sentinels, these husks who guarded the keep of a Dark Lord now fifteen years fled eastward. I hurried through the metal door that led into the throne room. Not at all like the gaping maw of the keep's doors, the throne room door was small, lest some attacker get this far. One had to remove their armor to fit through the door. The Dark Lord's personal guard entered from elsewhere, from deep within their Lord's inner sanctum. All others entered through this narrow entrance.
Kicking open the door I was always so careful to close when I left the keep, I removed my pack and thrust it through the narrow entrance, hurrying in after it. The sweet smell was getting stronger, and the storm was almost upon this place. What would the plague storm bring this time? Would it simply scour this place once more, or would it finally bring it down? I knew of people who could sense such things in advance, exactly how strong a storm would be, but I was not one of them. I did know a fierce storm when I felt it, though, like knowing that a great army marches on you, without knowing the count of its soldiers. I knew that much. And I knew how to survive the storms. I certainly understood that, and so I slammed shut the door, sealing off the throne room.
Just as the door was about to close, I felt a terrible heat at my fingers, and a wall of flame seemed to erupt through the crack in the nearly-closed door. I screamed as the flames seared the flesh of my left hand, but I forced the door shut nonetheless. I stepped back, cradling the ruined hand. My flesh was scorched, the muscle and bone protruding from beneath the blackened skin. Fat bubbled and spat in the heat. The smell was nauseating.
I reached for my pack, but as I did, I realized that the tapestry near the door was burning. I set aside the searing, dizzying pain of my left hand. If this place burned, my hand would be the least of my woes. I took a deep breath and pushed the pain out of the way. With my good hand, I tore down the hanging tapestry, its curtain rod popping off the hooks on the stone wall. It struck me in the head as I pulled down the burning material, but again, I stayed fixed upon my task. The angry plague fire from the storm was intense, so much so that the fires consumed materials quickly. Much of the tapestry touched by the fire was simply gone, its edges burning slowly. I stamped out the flames quickly.
The smoke from the ancient paint and cloth stuck in my nostrils, and I coughed loudly. I spat to clear out the acrid taste and struck the tapestry, not at all worried about desecrating such a foul thing as this. The tapestry depicted one of the most terrible days in my good kingdom's history; the day the Dark Lord of this place slew our old king's gracious wife. The Dark Lord's soldiers carried her severed right hand through the streets of local towns as they made their triumphant way back here. Thus was the tapestry painted; that black day's Dark Lord, the cruel master named Aara, atop his black steed, our queen's gracious hand tied on a pole like mere meat. I kicked the tapestry away, not wishing to remember the event that gave my grandfather such terrible nightmares in his final days of fitful sleep and sickness.
Yet that was the way of this room, the throne room of the Dark Lords of the kingdom of Krona. The walls of this rectangular room were decorated with the tapestries of a thousand years of terror and malice, directed as much against the good kingdom of Esis as against the Dark Lord's own people. The candles here still burned, their magic holding strong. Still, the room was dark, as befitted such a terrible place. The carpets that covered the stone floor were blood red, as though to stand before the Dark Lord of the place, one stood in a pool of blood. Indeed, it was often the case that to stand in front of the keep's Dark Lord, to face the ruler of the darkened kingdom of Krona, was to stand in a pool of one's own blood as death rushed in.
The carpet, leading from the door, down the length of the room, stopped several steps from the throne itself. Strangely, growing up around the hearths where villagers told the terrible tales of this kingdom, and later in the training halls of the Royal Guard, I had always expected a throne of bone and horror. Perhaps it was the throne that drew me to this place. Curiosity had always been as much of a motivator for my travels as necessity. There was certainly no need to approach this most terrible of places. The towering keep of Krona had nothing I required to survive in this twisted, torn land. Yet there was this throne, and it still held my curiosity, even after all of this time.
The seat of the Dark Lords of Krona was not at all what I expected. Indeed, the stories from my youth and training had spoken of a terrible sight to behold, a seat formed from the tormented bodies of those whom Krona and its terrible armies had overrun and destroyed. These were stories designed to strike fear into the hearts of the very young, as if the reality of Krona's millennium of terror was not enough. The stories were intended to keep the good people of our own fair kingdom, Esis, from being lured by the seductive power offered by Krona's agents; they who roamed our roads, offering gold and
