The king had given me time. Not out of courtesy, but out of curiosity. That much was clear from the fact that four guards stood behind me, two in front of me, and the mage demonstratively folded his hands into his sleeves.

  The scribe sat ready, quill raised, parchment unrolled.

  “Begin,” said the king.

  I nodded and opened my notebook.

  “Point one,” I said. “Escape routes.”

  A quiet groan went through the hall.

  “The throne room has one regular exit,” I continued, “and a side door whose use appears to be optional. For the number of people present, this is insufficient.”

  The king raised a hand. “We have never had a panic.”

  “That is reassuring,” I said. “But not a safety concept.”

  The scribe began to write.

  “Point two: fire load.”

  I gestured toward the open fire pits, the wall hangings, the banners.

  “Open flames, textile decorations, no fire suppression equipment within reach. The probability of a fire is not hypothetical.”

  The mage cleared his throat. “I could banish fire.“

  I looked at him. “Are you present at all times?”

  “Well…”

  “Then that is not a solution. It is luck.”

  The king pressed his lips together.

  “Point three: the raised dais.”

  I pointed at the steps leading to the throne.

  ”No railings. Sharp-edged steps. Increased risk of falling. Minimum 30% luminance contrast required between nosing and tread. Particularly problematic for elderly or injured persons.”

  The king glanced briefly at his feet, then back at me.

  “I have never fallen.”

  “I sincerely hope that continues,” I said. “But hope does not replace safeguards.”

  The scribe’s scratching grew faster.

  “Point four: doors.”

  I turned halfway around and pointed at the heavy double doors.

  “They open inward. No holding mechanism. They would block under crowd pressure. In an emergency situation, they would be deadly.”

  Silence.

  Then someone laughed.

  A young nobleman, finely dressed, visibly amused.

  “You wish to tell us,” he said mockingly, “that our king’s throne room is dangerous?”

  I looked at him.

  “I am telling you,” I said calmly, “that it is.”

  The laughter stopped.

  The king slowly raised his hand.

  “Enough.”

  I closed my notebook.

  “In summary,” I said, “I recommend the following measures: additional exits, fire safety adaptations, securing the raised dais, adjustment of the door mechanisms, and a general review of all public buildings.”

  “Recommend,” the king repeated slowly.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Yes,” I said. “At present.”

  A murmur passed through the hall.

  The king leaned back. “And what happens if we… ignore these recommendations?”

  I considered briefly how best to phrase it.

  “Then,” I said at last, “everything remains as it is. Until something happens.”

  The king looked me in the eyes.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No,” I said. “I am informing you.”

  I was not dismissed. Instead, I was led into a side room, where I was offered water and a stool, whose stability I checked before sitting down.

  The knight from earlier stood by the door.

  “You are brave,” he said quietly.

  “I am factual.”

  He twisted his mouth. “You are making enemies.”

  “That,” I said, “is also not an argument.”

  A servant entered.

  “The king wishes to inform you,” he said stiffly, “that he will have your… objections reviewed.”

  “Very good,” I said. “Then I expect feedback.”

  The servant hesitated. “He also said… that you should behave quietly until then.”

  I looked at him. “That depends on the surroundings.”

  After some time i was sent to my new room, accompanied by a guard. Reasonable. The throne room had made me uneasy anyway.

  One room. One bed. One table. One window.

  I checked the window first. Opened it. No safety bars. Considerable drop.

  Then the bed. Stable, but too low.

  The table wobbled.

  I sat down anyway.

  “Progress,” I muttered.

  Outside, I heard voices whispering.

  “He wants to change everything.”

  “He insults the king.”

  “He doesn’t understand this world.”

  I took out my notebook and wrote:

  First reaction: rejection.

  Second reaction: curiosity.

  Third reaction: resistance.

  I ran my finger along the page.

  That was acceptable.

  Conflicts were nothing more than unresolved responsibilities, and responsibilities could be clarified.

  The next morning, I was woken by the sound of hammers. Not many. Not purposeful. More like a desperate attempt to simulate activity.

  I opened my eyes, lay still for a moment, and listened. Footsteps in the corridor. Voices. A short, sharp command. Then silence again.

  I sat up.

  The bed had not become more stable overnight.

  When I opened the door, the knight stood outside. The same one as before. He looked exhausted, as though he had been pulled from sleep far too early—and from sleep that had been far too short.

  “You are expected,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  He hesitated. “Not in the throne room.”

  I nodded. “Understandable.”

  We set off.

  The palace had changed. Not structurally—that would have been too much to expect—but organizationally. Ropes blocked off corridors. Two guards stood before the throne room, holding signs with clumsily written words that appeared to say No Entry.

  I stopped.

  “That is new.”

  The knight sighed. “On your recommendation.”

  “Recommendation,” I corrected. “Temporary measure.”

  One of the guards looked at me. “The king is not pleased.”

  “Safety rarely is,” I said.

  We continued.

  Nobles stood in small groups, whispered, pointed, pretended to be discussing something else. Servants hurried about, visibly eager to appear busy.

  The mage approached us.

  “You have gone far,” he said coolly. “The throne room is closed.”

  “Partially,” I said. “I have not issued clearance.”

  He glared at me. “You have no authority—”

  “Yes,” I said calmly. “At the moment, I do. Factually.”

  He fell silent.

  They led me outside.

  The palace courtyard was large, paved, open. Daylight. Fresh air. Multiple access points. No ceiling that could collapse.

  I relaxed, minimally.

  The king was already waiting. No throne. No dais. Just a simple chair placed in the middle of the courtyard. Beside him advisers, guards, and the scribe from the previous day.

  “You have shut down my palace,” the king said without preamble.

  “Temporarily,” I said. “And not completely.”

  “I had to cancel my audiences.”

  “That was to be expected.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “And yet,” he continued, “I am prepared to continue this matter.”

  He spread his arms. “Here. Outside. As you apparently prefer.”

  I looked around, assessed, counted.

  “The location is suitable,” I said, “with limitations.”

  The king stared at me.

  “You are joking.”

  “No.”

  The scribe cautiously raised his quill.

  The king sat down. “Then let us do what must be done. Yesterday I wished to speak of the threat in the north. The dragon.”

  I nodded. “A matter with significant hazard potential.”

  “He devastates villages,” said the king. “Kills livestock. People.”

  “Then this constitutes an acute danger,” I stated. “Why has nothing been done so far?”

  “Because he is powerful.”

  “That is not an obstacle,” I said. “It is a description.”

  A murmur went through those present.

  The king leaned forward. “You were summoned because you are different. Because you see things we do not.”

  “That is correct,” I said. “For example, that your response so far has been purely reactive.”

  “What do you propose?” he asked sharply.

  I considered briefly.

  “First,” I said, “a risk assessment.”

  The mage covered his face with his hands.

  “Then,” I continued, “clear responsibilities. Who is responsible? Who decides? Who is liable?”

  “Liable?” the king repeated.

  “If villages are destroyed,” I explained, “the question of compensation arises.”

  Silence.

  The king leaned back.

  “You are unbearable,” he said calmly.

  “That is possible,” I conceded. “But efficient.”

  He studied me for a long moment.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Then conduct your assessment. But I warn you—if you continue to embarrass me—”

  “Then you will still have to act,” I said.

  The king laughed briefly, harshly.

  “You are not afraid.”

  I shook my head. “I have a standard.”

  When I was dismissed later, I remained in the courtyard for a moment.

  The palace behind me was silent. Closed. Unusable.

  Ahead of me lay a world full of problems.

  I opened my notebook.

  First consequence achieved.

  Authority reacts.

  Resistance increases.

  I underlined the last point.

  That was good.

  Change rarely began with agreement.

  More often, it began when someone said:

  This cannot continue.

  Feel free to share any ideas for scenarios you would like to see him thrown into — especially situations where the German controller is pushed to his limits, or moments where he might despise this barbaric world and try to turn it into something different.