Fantasy, Mystery and Romance

Distant rumor and some light struggling awoke the seemingly asleep man. He left his scarlet velvety throne and roared from the top of the stairs to the guards "What's going on there?" 

The two men at the entrance had crossed their pikes and more showed up quickly and surrounded the man hiding inside a long and heavy dark cloak. One of them, who seemed to possess a relatively higher grade, whispered to his mates "Hold him tight, men!" and ran to the king. He bowed and kneeled sheepishly in front of the authoritative man and reported in a murmured voice. 

"My Lord, that beggar says he wants to speak to Your Highness. Says he possesses something of great value to Your Lordship, but he is lying, of course." He kept his head bowed, moving a few inches behind without having his knees lose contact to the granite floor, and waited for his master's reply. 

The king frowned for a second, then turned around and ordered to the guard "Take him away!" 

The old beggar started struggling harder as the king's words reached his ears, and despite his weary stature he proved surprisingly enough strength and agility to escape the guards' clutching. He ran towards the throne, his torn and dusty shoes barely echoing a whisper. As he approached the reporting guard, he hit him with the staff he only used for deceiving appearances. His road to the king was clear and he darted forward, putting his hand inside his cloak for the lethal weapon that would have cut him short by one life. His face was all covered by his hood and had it not been for the visible hand holding his staff, one would have certainly taken him for a ghost. One of Death's personal messengers, rather. 

"My Lord!" a sharp and terrified voice broke through the temporary silence, making the king turn around with flaring eyes. 

All this time, the man had not been aware that the shadowy mass wrapping the left side of the royal chair was equipped with a blonde wavy hair, a pitchy voice and two big blue deadly frightened eyes. He stopped. The guards behind him started to come out of the shock and were gathering around him with their swords out. They obediently stepped back as the king himself descended the stairs and signaled them to back off. 

The man bowed his head and waited for the lord to approach him. As the king's steps drew closer, he kneeled and subtly hid away a rebel straw of long black hair that had escaped from under his hood. 

"Speak!" the king ordered as he stopped at a reasonable distance from the man. 

"My Lord" he began, with a slight tremble in his carefully trained voice "I have come to pay my tribute." 

The blond grace got her blood flowing back inside her veins and approached the king whispering into his ear, though loud enough to have herself be heard by the dirty and suspicious man "My Lord, you need no tribute from such a filthy, poor bastard! What possible material goods could bring such a wreckage like that?" She snarled a harpy look at the man, a harmless threat that he arrogantly ignored. 

"Your Lady is right, Sire. I bring no material..." 

"That's not my Lady!" the king growled between his teeth and turned towards the once more frightened to death woman "That was your last time! You've had your warning!" 

"My Lord, forgive me" she started pledging at his feet, but he only pushed her back with such violence that only despise for the lousiest and dirtiest beast one can feel. 

"Lance!" he ordered, and though none of the guards was named that way, they quickly exchanged experienced glances and one of them approached and grabbed the despairing woman from her elbow, dragging her to the darker corners of the hall, behind the thick columns and into oblivion from her master's grace. 

"Speak!" the king said once more, in a calmer yet no less frightening voice as he approached the stranger and lifted his chin with the tip of his imperial sword.