Ashes of the Elite

I sit slouched in the same damn chair, the velvet cushions no longer a comfort but a weight pressing me down. My head tilts back, and my eyes trace the tiles in the ceiling, each one a reminder of how long I've been trapped in this room. My fingers drum absently against the armrest, a dull rhythm that echoes the turmoil churning in my gut. I've managed to stitch my thoughts back together, enough to don the mask again the one of indifference, cold and composed.

Estee's laugh still echoes in my mind, clashing with the shame curling in my gut. I keep thinking of Cecilia, though I don't know why. I didn't do anything. I said no. I fought it. But it doesn't matter. I feel like I betrayed her all the same. Like my body failed her in some fundamental way, even if my heart didn't. It's stupid. Irrational. But the guilt clings to me regardless.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here. The room has no windows, just endless stone and silence, and the fire in the hearth crackled out hours ago. My stomach aches with hunger, a dull throb that tells me it's probably early evening. Let it be Awakened Kennet who comes. Let her stride in with her musical voice and shining eyes, thinking she's above the filth she spreads. I want to see if she flinches when I ask her if all of this was her grand design if she thought forcing me into Estee's arms would make me be flattered or grateful. Let's see her hide behind ritual and Empire and good intentions. I'll give her the truth.

I sit there, absently stewing in my own silence, tapping my fingers against the armrest in rhythm with the venomous thoughts swirling in my head. If this is hospitality, then the Empire really knows how to roll out the red carpet complete with emotional trauma and windowless rooms. Classy. I lean my head to the side, cracking my neck, and mutter to myself, "Should've asked Estee if room service was part of the package. Maybe a fruit platter next time instead of an unsolicited... experience."

The sarcasm does little to ease the anger in my chest. I hate how small I feel in this place. How little I actually know. About the castle. About the people in it. About the King and other Elites. About what's waiting for me behind the next set of ornate doors. I hate that my body still feels her touch like a stain I can't scrub off, no matter how many clever comments I throw over it. As I imagine throttling Awakened Kennet with one of these fancy pillows for at least the 50th time

The door swings open without warning.

I sit up straighter immediately, instincts flaring, fingers twitching toward my sword before I even register who's stepped in.

Four soldiers in gleaming red armor file into the room, their steps synchronized like some kind of twisted dance. Their faces are entirely obscured by masks metallic, demonic visages with sharp teeth and hollow eyes. Charming. Really makes a guy feel welcome.

I narrow my gaze, already calculating. I wonder absurdly, darkly if I could kill all four before they draw their swords. Possibly.

My hand rests on the hilt at my hip, a reflex. It still shocks me that they didn't take it from me after teleporting me halfway across the country like I was a sack of grain. The soldiers notice, I think one's head tilts ever so slightly in my direction but none of them say anything.