Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 50: King Augustus Malik Part Two

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.

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One steps forward. His armor is just as polished as the others, but there's a subtle difference in how he carries himself straighter spine, less rigidity. A leader. His distorted voice crackles from behind the demon mask.

"I am Captain Berex of the Imperial Legion. His Majesty is ready to meet you. You are to follow us Awakened."

His voice buzzes with static, like it's been dragged through gravel, and I find myself blinking at him. What kind of armor distorts your voice like that? Is it part of the intimidation package? Some enchantment? How much can it actually protect them? I force down a shiver, suddenly conscious of how little I truly know about the Empire's toys. Maybe I'm not as prepared as I'd like to pretend.

I rise to my feet slowly. My face is the picture of calm disdain, eyes half-lidded, smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth like I've already judged and found them wanting.

"Awakened Daath," I say flatly, introducing myself as if they should've already known. Then I flick my fingers toward the door like I'm shooing away a dog. "Lead on, Captain."

The moment we step out, the four soldiers fall into formation around me two in front, two behind. The sheer coordination is almost comical. I can't help myself; I let out a low chuckle that echoes far too loud in the silent corridor.

"Oh good I was worried about someone sneaking up behind me," I mutter, just loud enough for them to hear. None of them react. Not a glance, not a twitch. No words. No clink of metal. Nothing. It's like walking with four silent statues sculpted to kill. Their armor doesn't make a single sound as we move down the corridors. No dragging of boots, no clatter of plates. Just silence.

Servants scatter at our approach, eyes wide, hugging the walls like they're hoping to melt into the stone. We pass a pair of regular soldiers in battered iron, and the moment they catch sight of the demon red legionnaires, they snap to attention, backs so straight you'd think they were trying to fuse with their own spines. Salutes sharp, eyes locked forward. I file the image away, along with the way their gazes flick to me, uncertain and a little afraid. So the demon fit is more than just for show. This Legion whatever they are must be some special breed of monster in the pecking order here. How fantastic, I was hoping for another average group of goons. But no of course not they have to be some elite unit. An honor guard? A death squad? Maybe both?

We weave through corridor after corridor, each turn reminding me how massive this place is and how easy it would be to disappear here forever. It's built to impress and to disorient. The walls are too tall, the ceilings too high, everything just a little too grand for comfort. As if the building itself wants you to remember how small you are in the face of real power.

There are more red-armored soldiers here a lot more. More and more of these legionaries appear as we draw closer to what I assume is the heart of the castle, stationed at intersections, silent and immovable. By the time we stop, I've counted at least a dozen more. Eventually, we arrive at a massive door of smooth white marble and embedded perfectly in its center is the Imperial sigil a snake wound almost lovingly around a bird locked in its death throes. I stare too long at that image, feel it burning at the back of my eyes. Two more solders in red flank the door, their masked heads dipped low as we approach. They bow not to the Captain, but to me. The recognition twists something in my stomach. The door creaks open, the sound deep and final.

I swallow hard, pulse stammering suddenly in my throat as I realize, really realize I'm about to stand before King Malik. The Self-Proclaimed God King of Elarion. Whatever performance I've prepared for, it probally isn't enough for whatever comes next. But I square my shoulders anyway and step forward, refusing to let the nerves show. Time to put on the show of my life.