Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 52: King Augustus Malik Part Four

I let the conversation drift past me this is such a fucking drag.

A few more minutes pass. I don't speak. I don't move. I think if I sit still enough, they'll forget I'm even here. Prince Adrian, true to form, eventually loses interest in me entirely. The nobles gradually return to their own orbit I watch the Prince out of the corner of my eye as he turns his back and slides effortlessly back into the center of the conversation, smug and shining like a prince should be. The topic shifts to the academy. Of course.

He complains about the new year starting soon, already exhausted at the thought of being surrounded by "weaklings" again. His voice is light, almost teasing, but the distaste in it is real. He's tired of being forced to endure what he considers beneath him. I'm sure him being a two mark bearer makes him feel like hes better then everyone else. Everyone but me I suppose.

His sister offers some lukewarm comfort, saying he only has one more year to suffer through. Her voice is soft, sweet, patient in that performative way that nobility perfects like it's a sport. The rest of the noblewomen flock around the siblings, gushing like geese in a thunderstorm. I start mentally numbering them Ugly 1 with enough makeup on her face to paint a barn, Ugly 2 with earrings the size of small weapons, Ugly 3 whose hair defies physics, and Ugly 4, draped in so much ruffled silk she looked more like a chicken then a woman. I half expect her to start laying eggs. All of them falling over themselves to assure Adrian of his greatness, their happiness for him, the pride of the future and blah, blah, blah. The words blend into each other until it's just a symphony of self-importance and sycophancy, and I finally let my attention slip away.

"Oh Prince Adrian, we're so happy for you," one of them gushes.

"So exciting to be almost done," another chirps.

Bla, bla, bla.

Another endless minute of highborn drivel and hollow laughter slouches by before the little rat of a man reappears, slipping through the same side door.

This time, he's clutching a silver horn that looks almost comical pressed to his lips. He blows a note that seems to vibrate the very stone, sharp and lingering, and then his voice thin and nasal in person erupts through the chamber, somehow booming with unnatural clarity.

"All kneel for His Imperial Majesty, the God King of Elarion, Augustus Malik Blessed Of The Divine, and Her Empress, Aelia Malik!"

The effect is instant, terrifying in its precision. Every single member of the Red Legion drops to one knee in perfect synchrony, weapons clutched upright before them, masked faces tipped low as if they're carved from the same blood-red stone. The nobles follow, silks and jewels rustling as they kneel their heads; even the siblings all that arrogance snuffed out by the weight of habit, fear, or both. Their Knees hitting marble with practiced grace.

Only for a second. Half a second, maybe. Every part of me screams not to bend, not to submit, not to kneel. But I do I let myself sink down, slow and controlled, the movement stiff with barely contained anger. I keep my head down just enough to pass, but it takes everything not to sneer.

I lower my head, not out of loyalty, but because I have to. Because that's what you do in the presence of a god.

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Even if he's a false one.

The little rat man Rersey slinks backward, almost slithering, head bowed so low it nearly touches the floor. He disappears into the shadows from which he came, as if snuffed out like a candle. And then...

They appear.

King and Queen

Emperor and Empress.

The air changes, heavies, a pressure sinking over my shoulders that makes my skin crawl and the fine hairs at my nape stand straight on end. My eyes flick upward, unbidden, and I see him.

Augustus Malik. The God King.

My chest tightens as if it was about to explode, and I can't breathe right. Even the voices, ever-watching, ever-whispering just beneath my thoughts... grow quiet. No, not quiet they recoil. Like insects from fire burned from his mere aura. I do not understand how anyone here breathes in his presence. He is tall commandingly so. Six-six, at least. He doesn't need to move to loom. He is gravity. He walks like the world owes him something, and it's already kneeling to pay it.

His skin is flawless, the pale gold of sunlit ivory. Not a wrinkle, not a pore, not a blemish. Too smooth, too untouched like someone shaped him out of marble. He should be in his fifties but he looks no older than his own son Prince Adrian, maybe even younger. It's not a youngness that invites trust, though. It's the terrible, immortal kind of beauty the sort that doesn't belong to any age or era, the kind you find in a portrait on a palace wall and feel in your gut that you're seeing something that should never move.

His features are perfect in that old-world, classical sense: high noble cheekbones, a strong jaw. He's beautiful. No softness. No weakness. There's nothing human about him except the shape he wears.

And his eyes.

Pure Gold. Like the sun.

His mark peeks faintly on his neck a snake of course. It coils with a lazy arrogance and disappears back down his collarbone hidden by his clothing.

His outfit is stark, almost monastic in its minimalism no gold thread, no embellishment just black cloth similar to my own. The only difference was the blood-red robe trailing behind him.

Then maybe the most breathtaking thing about him was his crown.

It's not just ornament. It's declaration. Diamonds gleam along its surface like frozen stars, cruel and cold. But my eyes catch on the serpent again. Twisting around the crown's structure, carved from diamond like the rest, but somehow more alive. Its fangs rest just above the King's brow, poised. Watching. As if the creature isn't decoration at all.

And then she steps out behind him.

The Empress.

She is breathtaking. There's no other word for it. Beautiful in a way that feels unfair, like the world cheated and gave her more than it gives the rest of us. She stands just a step behind the King, but somehow she draws all my attention. Like a siren pulling ships from the shore. Her beauty is unnatural and overwhelming as the king's, but in a different tone: hers is cold, crystalline, otherworldly.

Her skin is pale and luminous, soft like the inside of a pearl. And her dress my gods, her dress made of blue silk so fine it flows like water with every graceful step. It clings just enough to make the imagination suffer. When she moves, her legs shift with such quiet elegance that I feel heat bloom on my face.

And then then she looks at me.

I flinch.

Her eyes are violet. My color. The same exact shade. Not similar. Exact. I don't know why, but it unsettles me to my core.

Her gaze doesn't linger. It drifts past me with the same indifference she gives the rest, but my heart is still hammering in my chest.

Her crown sits atop her head like a miracle forged in frost. A jagged, majestic thing carved from what looks like pure ice, shimmering blue and white with every shift of the torchlight. It's as if winter itself bowed and offered her its crown.

Together, King and Queen ascend their icy thrones and settle, saying nothing, not even a word to announce their will. They observe us with expressions so remote, so restrained and distant, that for a moment I wonder if anyone will ever know what they're truly thinking. I kneel, part of the tableau below their gaze, while inside I shiver, feeling more exposed than I ever have in my life.

For a long moment, there's only silence beneath the weight of their gaze time stretching until I'm sure the weight of their eyes was going to grind me into dust. Then, at last, the king's voice cuts through the hush. Quiet. Deceptively gentle.

"Arise."

In a single, perfect motion, the Red Legion surges to its feet, weapons raised in a salute. Their masked heads snap up as one, and their voices tumble out in perfect, chilling unison:

"Vive sicut serpens." 

I flinch despite myself, the words ringing oddly, all distorted and wrong. It's the same phrase I read in on the king's summons, but hearing it aloud hearing it like this in the presence of demons leaves something icy crawling down my spine.

And for the first time since stepping into this chamber, I feel truly and bone-deep outnumbered.