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 bla. Go hang yourselves my god, bunch of insufferable harpies.
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.