Let's write!

First time participating! Done in 10 minutes using a write-or-die style timer.

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A hush overtook Lohen as he stepped into the throne room. There was something preternatural about this place. It was a room, like any other, made of stone and metal and glass, but there was a sense of something holy about the place. It was greater than it was, greater than a roof and a tiled floor.

The room was arrayed in a massive circle, with a great domed ceiling. Distant starlight shone through the stained class, casting a cacophony of color onto the pale marble floor. Despite the distance, Lohen could clearly see the images captured in lead and silica. There was Alain, and Michel, and Dieric, Joachim and Clais, and all the rest: the ten original Chevaliers. Under each of their crystalline facsimiles was a reliquary statue, together which comprised the wall of the throne room. Each of the knights lay in repose, in peaceful death, with sword and helmet rested in their carved hands.

They loomed over the room, bordering it. At the center of the room lay a small lake of silvered water. From this, a massive bundle of wires and cables emerged, each one wider around than Lohen’s arm. This ascended into the center of the ceiling, where the glass swords of the glass knights met in the shape of a star.

Lohen made his way to the edge of the pond. It was circular, and by its very definition and intent had neither beginning nor end, and not one of the Chevalier was placed higher than any of his peers, but Lohen privately considered the small wooden chair on the opposite side of the lake to be the origin of the circle. A man sat in it, delicately balancing his pale, feeble body. He was so old as to be ancient, and his crown sat heavy on his wrinkled brow and whitened hair. His rheumy eyes glanced across the room, seeing nothing and understanding everything.

Alain. The King. The last of the knights, the first of the Chevaliers. He was entirely flesh, and was the oldest man Lohen had ever met.