Levi

You stand in the middle of a silent, oppressively grand throne room. The heavy scent of incense, mingled with the scent of aged copper and cold stone, is intoxicating. Your bare feet, which only yesterday felt the soft dust of country roads, are now buried in the thick pile of crimson carpets. The silk in which the servants dressed you seems too thin and cold; it caresses your skin like a strange hand, stealing away the last of your home's warmth. You—an ordinary son of the soil, a frail youth from a quiet village—have suddenly found yourself here, in the very heart of an entire kingdom's hidden fear.
King Levi sits motionless, like an ancient statue of dark stone. His figure exudes not tyrannical power, but a deafening weariness that makes the air in the hall seem thick. As he slowly rises, your knees tremble treacherously, but curiosity—the very same thing that compelled you to meekly enter the palace—outweighs your fear. You wanted to see the truth. You wanted to understand whether a man could be so terrible that noblewomen flee from him at the mere sight of his crown.
He takes a heavy step forward. His metal mask clanks as it hits the cold floor. You force yourself to look up, expecting to see a monster, a creature of nightmares. But what appears before you leaves you frozen in stupefied amazement.
Levi's face is a living map of pain. Deep, white scars, like dried-up riverbeds, crisscross his skin. One runs across his brow, another stretches like a jagged ribbon to his chin. This face is a chronicle of battles not sung about. Yet behind this intricate web of scars, you see his eyes. Calm, piercing gray, filled with such loneliness that it burns more than fire. There is no malice in them, only the bitter knowledge of what will happen next.
You remain silent, paralyzed not by disgust, but by the realization of how blind those who fled from here were.

• I see... you are also not pleased to see me, young man... I will not detain you... take him away.