Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 51: King Augustus Malik Part Three

The Red Legion soldiers press their hands to the marble, and the doors groan open with a solemn finality like the mouth of some ancient beast yawning wide to swallow me whole. I step over the threshold and the world I knew shrinks to nothing behind me. The waiting room, the endless corridors all of it feels like a shabby prelude compared to this.

The throne room is so vast it almost defies reason, the ceiling curving high overhead like the inside of a cathedral meant for giants. Every other chamber in this palace, every golden relic and ornate chandelier, suddenly seems like sad imitation. In the middle of the room an Emerald green carpet rolls down the center like a river of polished gemstone, rich and deep enough to swallow the light. It leads directly to a raised platform, and atop it sit two thrones twin monstrosities carved from what looks like pure ice. They glisten under the ambient glow of the chandeliers high above, not melting, not softening, as if time itself doesn't dare touch them. The symbolism doesn't escape me. A King with a soul carved from frost would sit on nothing less.

The walls are vast arcs of white marble, polished so thoroughly that the whole chamber seems to curve in on itself, as if the room is swallowing everything sound, warmth and hope. Lining those walls are the Red Legion, unmoving and inhuman. Every mask is sculpted with the same scowling demon sneer, every soldier identical in stance arms outstretched, weapons gleaming and pointed down into the ground. They stand like statues, making no sound or sign of life except the threat they exude by simply existing. I might as well be strolling through a gallery of nightmares.

Near the thrones, slightly off to the side, stands a cluster of figures draped in silks and finery. Nobles, clearly. Three men and four women, all decked in the kind of luxury that screams wealth and whispers violence. One of the women catches my gaze for a second too long, her lips curling faintly like she knows something I don't. Fantastic. A welcome party.

As I approach the far end of the chamber, conversation among the nobles cuts out like a blade through silk. It's almost satisfying, the way they all turn and regard me with their little mixtures of curiosity, calculation, and unless I'm flattering myself unease. Most of them are in their thirties, their faces already etched with lines from years of forced smiles and the stress of being fake bastards, eyes darting and measuring me as if I'm a wild animal, or something worse. I don't bother to return their appraisal. I let my gaze sweep over them with deliberate coldness, making no effort to hide the disdain on my face. Let them see what I think of their preening and posturing. I'm not here to play courtier. They look at me with curiosity, but none of it feels kind. It's the curiosity of men and women used to power and games assessing a new piece on the board, wondering if they'll use it, break it, or ignore it altogether.

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But two catch my attention for different reasons both far too young and far too striking to blend in with this flock of old crows. The man stands off to my left and he's tall, maybe an inch or two over six feet, His hair is short and black, neat and his bright green eyes flash like emeralds as his mouth curves up in a cocky little grin. His eyes alone make me narrow my eyes in suspicion. An Elite, obviously, but his clothes while high quality lack the usual ostentation. Not a thread of black Elite garb. Interesting.

Next to him is a woman short, maybe five five, but impossible to overlook. Her blonde hair tumbles down her back like spun gold, and her eyes are a softer green, more reminiscent of moss than gemstone. She's breathtaking the sort of beautiful that tends to make men act fools. She was the same one that met my eyes just a few minutes ago as I was being escorted down. That grin is back now, playing on her lips like she's daring me to ask what her game is. I just look at her with an aloof expression not giving her the satisfaction of seeing me nervous. She just smiles harder.

The resemblance between her and the cocky Elite is too strong to ignore. Siblings, most likely. A matched pair of predators in prettier skins than most. The soldiers stop a few feet from the twin thrones, their formation crisp, unyielding until, as one, they drop onto their knee.

It takes me a split second to process the display. The dreaded Red Legion, bending the knee to a pair of barely-adult royals, not to the throne itself. My eyebrow twitches. If I needed more proof these two aren't just window dressing, here it is painted red and kneeling at their feet.

Berex's head tilts up. "Prince, Princess, I have brought the three-mark bearer as per your orders."

My brow furrows as I glance at them again, something cold slipping into my spine. Prince and Princess? For half a heartbeat I almost laugh at the absurdity then I catch the princess's look, head slightly cocked, eyes still fixed on mine with that same amused grin. My composure holds, but my fingers twitch at my sword, not quite drawing, not quite still. I don't break her gaze. She just chuckles: airy, delicate, light as spun sugar, as if none of this means a thing.

"Thank you, Captain," her brother says. Prince Adrian Malik. Dual mark Elite. His voice is deeper than it has any right to be, commanding but almost bored, like all of this is a tedious formality he's endured a thousand times before. "You've done your duty. Take your place."

Berex bows, stands, and retreats to the wall with the grace of a blade sliding into its sheath. My eyes narrow. I study Adrian and the princess, noting how the power in the room seems to orbit around them, even among their older, gaudier peers. The Red Legion, at least, knows where true authority sits right now.

Adrian turns to another of the gathered nobles a man drowning in enough purple silk to clothe a village "Rersey, you can go inform my father his guest is present now."

The bald man bows, offers a tight, "As you wish, Your Highness," and then scurries, head bowed, through a discreet side door near the back. Like a well-trained rat fleeing the shadow of a hawk.

And just like that, I'm standing in a room lined with demons in red and nobles cloaked in silk and secrets, waiting for a king who thinks himself a God. But it's the prince and his sister who hold my attention for now because not only do I have to meet the King but now I have to deal with his fucking spawn too? What a drag maybe meeting the King is only the second-worst thing that's going to happen today.

A few seconds tick by, the silence stretching long and taut as I stand in front of the lounging cluster of nobles, their eyes crawling over me like flies. I don't shift. I don't speak. I just stand there waiting until the prince finally breaks the quiet with a low chuckle.

"It's an honor to meet such an infamous Elite," he says cheerfully, like we're old friends meeting over wine. "A rampage ending thirty-five loyal soldiers is almost impressive."

My eyes narrow not in confusion or surprise, but in open hatred. I say nothing. What's there to say? He's not wrong to give me shit for it what I did was terrible.

His sister's laughter spills out, almost musical. "Come now, brother. They weren't Elites, hardly a waste. There are always more men to take their place." The rest of the vultures nod in easy agreement, one woman in garish blue chiming in "Yes, of course. From the reports, anyway, Your Highness, it sounds like they attacked Awakened, was it Daath?" Her gaze fixes on me, waiting for confirmation.

I show her all my teeth in a smile that doesn't reach my eyes and say nothing, the chill in my stare never wavering from the prince.

Prince Adrian just shrugs "I guess you have a point. They're all expendable, and it allowed Father to summon him, just as he's so desperately wanted." He grins with something close to contempt. "A new weapon that already likes to kill."

That draws a twitch from the small group of nobles, eyes flicking my way, unease rippling through their practiced masks. The princess, though still staring at me her lips curved into a thin, gleaming smile. "Well?" she says, as if we're gossiping at a garden party. "Are you going to say anything?"

I let my disgust show, my face a mask of cold arrogance. "I was summoned to speak to his majesty," I say, voice barbed with disdain. "I'll wait for him to arrive."

Her eyes widen, just a touch, shock flaring before covering it with a little huff of laughter. The prince throws his head back and laughs as if I've quoted a joke only the two of us understand. "Oh man, Father is going to like you," he says, his words echoing almost too perfectly what Awakened Kennet sneered at me earlier.

Adrian's words hang in the air, and the silence that follows them feels uncomfortable.

"They're all expendable anyway," he'd said. "And it did allow Father to summon him, as he so desperately wanted."

As he so desperately wanted.

The words echo in my head. Not because of what was said, but how. There was something underneath it mocking and sarcastic. Thar barb wasn't aimed at me.

I narrow my eyes, watching him more closely now.

No one else reacted outside of some uncomfortable shifting. Almost like they're used to it. No one scolds him. No one even looks surprised at his tone. It tells me enough.

Adrian Malik has problems with his father.

Which... is interesting. Maybe even useful.

The thought creeps in before I can stop it. Could he be an ally? The idea is laughable but only because of the reality that follows. He may hate his Father, sure. But I can see it in his eyes, in the smile that never quite fades when he looks at me. He sees me as just another piece on the same board. Another extension of his father's will.

That means he hates me, too. I sigh quietly, shoulders tight.

What a Shame.