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. Two 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. 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.
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 that would mark him as a Noble. But there's not a thread of black Elite garb on him either. 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.