Creeping through the shadowed gates of the iron castle, the brave trio moved as quietly as moonbeams on velvet. The dog padded softly, the monkey tip-toed on its nimble feet, and the pheasant, usually so noisy, made not a peep. The iron halls were vast and cold, echoing with a strange, hollow silence. No booming roars, no clanking chains, just the drip-drip-drip of water somewhere far away, and the soft beat of their own brave hearts. It was a truly extraordinary silence for an ogre’s castle.
They expected to find a monstrous, fire-breathing king, stomping about and grumbling terribly, perhaps polishing a hoard of stolen laughter. They peered around gloomy corners, ready for a fearsome sight. My word, what a surprise awaited them! In the deepest, gloomiest chamber, lit only by a tiny, flickering candle, sat the Ogre King. He wasn't fierce or terrifying; he was a very big ogre, yes, with horns and bristly eyebrows, but his shoulders were slumped, and he was wiping huge, glistening tears from his enormous eyes with a handkerchief the size of a bedsheet.