Allowing himself to be swept up in the whims of his partner, he held his hand once more and followed him back into the hall of horror, though this time, did not feel much compassion for those that were ripped apart all around him. Instead, he simply felt disgust for the entrails that he was forced to trod through.
“Can you open this one, like the other?” It was such a casual thing to say, it almost made Kirin laugh. Almost.
“No. It is a deadlock. It can only be opened from the other side.”
“Such a troublesome device.”
It would have been more logical to walk away, to wait it out, since the throne room had limited supplies and therefore someone, at some point, would be coming out of there to replenish for whoever was inside. But by now, Kirin understood that Angeles was not a logical creature, but rather one of impulse and rash desire. Therefor, he was not at all surprised when the man lifted up his hand as if to push against the door. What surprised him, instead, was the act that followed.
Words spoken under breath, ones he heard but could not repeat, as if they floated in his ear and out the other. Such a dark tone. The air became heavy around them, and he felt as though he might be crushed beneath the sudden atmospheric pressure - and it all seemed very familiar. He looked up to witness the slight strain between Angeles’ brow, a scrunch that made his features seem no less devilishly handsome than before, though now more... Normal. And then, the pressure was released in a sudden, horrifying screech of metal tearing, a bang so loud he was sure he eardrums would burst from it - and the door was blown in.
For a man who was sure nothing knew would surprise him from his companion, he was left once again shocked. Magic was a dying art, primarily because few could learn it and fewer could master it. This was the first time he had ever witnessed it in his life, and from his understanding, it was not a gift immortals commonly could possess. But then, Kirin was already suspecting his companion was not a standard breed. His contemplation was interrupted by the scene before him.
Dragged behind Angeles, still holding his hand, they stepped past the ruined door, metal torn horrifically inward, and bore witness to the massive expanse of the thrown room, filled overwhelmingly with nobles and servants alike - most of which Kirin was familiar with. Several shrieked in surprise, and most shuffled inward, forming clusters like terrified cattle waiting for slaughter. It was a grand room, twenty feet high with a gilded, painted ceiling, a work of art to be sure. The marble floors had been donated from three different mines, a mix between soft blush tones, white and silver, all carved into an intricate pattern. The drapes of spring were on the walls, soft pastels to reflect the levity of the season, and several tables were placed around the line of the wall, holding every sort of vase and trophy, displaying the power of the royal family.
However, this was not the aura of a light day at court, where the nobles gathered around to converse with the king, to discuss their issues and hear his dictations. The mood was tense, as if everyone was holding their breath and waiting for the next pin to drop, praying they were not the one to drop it. The only chair in the room - deliberately so - was the throne that sat on the raised dais, the one where the king would sit above his countrymen. Since the reign of Jeffon, there was only the one chair, as he did not believe his queen should sit next to him, and had yet to officially name one.
He sat there now, and his expression was a mix of rage and shock when he looked down at the pair that dared to intrude upon his sanctuary. “What is the meaning of this?!” His voice was sharp, like nails against chalkboard, and Kirin recalled it had always been annoyingly grating, even as a child. The king was a year his brother’s senior, but they had still known one another in their youth, as all noble boys lived at the palace for some length of time.
Russet hair that curled rebelliously, a lanky disposition which was all limbs and height with little definition, he had never been the most appealing man at court, the king; but, being a prince heir apparent had its ways of making one completely egotistical, and few could say much against him. The loathing that had long festered for their worthless ruler was great, but years of training instinctively made Kirin move to kneel - but as his body lowered, he felt Angeles tug him slightly, disabling him from doing the motion proper. The man did not look back, but Kirin wondered what kind of expression he was directing at the king who would dare to command him. There was a feeling of dread, and he already thought he could understand how this situation would end.
His grip tightened with anxiety, and he felt Angeles squeeze him back. It made his heart flutter like a girl, and he hated himself for it.
“I heard you wished an audience with my friend, so I escorted him here,” Angeles spoke so fluidly, in that sweet tone, Kirin could see the immediate effect it had on everyone present, how their eyes widened at him, at the stark contrast between his vulgar appearance and the charisma in his words. Then, naturally, they turned to note Kirin.
“Lord Kirin! It is the young Lord,” a familiar voice said in the crowd to the left, though he could not distinctly say who it was.
“Who is that man with Lord Kirin?”
“Oh, the poor young Lord,” someone was almost sobbing. He knew that voice, but couldn’t place it.
“Silence!” the command from the King. The crowd was hushed instantly. “And who are you, to escort a prisoner to his execution? It appears you are quite the executioner yourself.” By now, a few must have seen the hall behind them, the king likely as well, but few were making comment of it. The clusters shuffled tighter together.
“How good of you to ask,” Angeles spoke, and there was a ring of amusement in his tone. He was having too much fun, Kirin thought with rising paranoia. “My name is Angeles, the last heir of the Moroth line. Your new king.”
At that, several people gasped, a few dared to laugh, and the king paled with unconcealed outrage. “You dare! I will have your head on a spike, and let that be the last of your line!”
It seemed ludicrous to threaten the man, even in rage. Perhaps the king was worse at reading a situation than an average individual, or maybe he had already been backed into a corner, and could do nothing else but lash out. Kirin couldn’t know for certain, but in an instant, the warmth of his hand was gone, his partner across the room, his hand around Jeffon’s neck. Green eyes widened in shock, and his hands lashed out to fight back, but his reach was insufficient. And, without exerting more energy than necessary to squash a bug, Angeles tightened his grip and punctured the royal jugular. No one moved an inch to help as blood burst forth, and a disgruntled sound of outrage garbled in his crushed windpipe. The body growing limp, another immortal destroyed as though they were made of glass, Angeles tossed it aside, allowing the lump of meat to roll down the stairs as he shifted about and took a seat on the thrown.
“Would anyone else like to disagree?” His smile was both charming and terrifying, and a few women broke out into hysteria. Their family, fortunately, were quick to move to their aid and silence them, since the sound seemed to catch Angeles’ attention in the darkest of ways, his golden eyes cold as ice as he peered over the crowd before him.
No one spoke out for a long while. Then, someone brave stepped forward - Lord Kenth, Kirin recognized, the palace historian. “The Moroth line died out several millennium ago - you could not possible bear their name. Where did you come from?” Instinctively, the young noble moved forward, the fear of retaliation bubbling up in his throat, but when Angeles answered, his voice was not harsh, but rather back to the casual conversation that seemed so ludicrous now.
“I have been imprisoned in the dungeons since the last Moroth sat upon this throne. You may check the records, if you are in disbelief, and also consult with the young Lord there - who seems to have the right idea that I may eat you if you are too impertinent again.”
Kirin blushed as attention turned upon him again, and also at the obvious reading of his actions to approach Kenth. He had never had any issues with the man, and it felt wrong to witness the death of someone he had known, had often considered a fond acquaintance, even if they were never friends. Then, someone had the sense to catch up to the reality of the situation. A young woman, blond curls cascading down from a style that must have been disrupted, garnet jewels shining against the platinum waves, rushed forward and grasped Kirin’s hand. Her sapphire eyes were sparkling with tears, and as the immortal gave her his full attention, he recognized her as Lyla, his sister’s fondest companion. She was the sort of petite, pretty young woman that Kirin had thought would make a good wife, though she was more an extension of his sister to him than prospective partner.
“Kirin!” She addressed him in a familiar manner that displayed her desperation, and it immediately stole his attention, made him realize that he had no idea what was happening now, why everyone had been gathered here in the first place. He felt a great and sudden concern. “Kirin! Your brother, you have to stop him! Riveh, she... So much has happened. I am so sorry!” Her emotion overwhelmed her, and she started to collapse, inciting the gentleman training he had been forced into, causing him to capture her slight form in his arms and hold her against him.
“I don’t understand - what about my brother? Which one?” His own voice was, surprisingly, steady. He almost sounded like himself.
Someone else stepped up to answer. Lord Brast, he registered briefly, his brain absently recalling the information he knew of the immortal; the family had lost its lands recently, but maintained their status based on funds from a recent venture overseas, but he was not personally acquainted with any of them. He was only an inch or so taller than Kirin himself, with chestnut hair and soft gray eyes. “The Unlairs have begun a full scale civil war. Your brother, Rahil, currently controls the capital - the gates of the palace have held for the past week, but we expect them to be breached any day now. That is why... His Majesty thought that the threat of executing you would be enough to cause him to withdraw.”
“And Riveh?” Kirin felt relief - his brother was alive, and doing well. He wondered how long it would have been before he had been rescued. Or, perhaps, he would have been killed for certain, just to make a point.
“S-she... She-!” Lyla could not make it out past her tears.
“Go see your brother. Please, my Lord.” Lord Brast reached out to take Lyla by the shoulders, and with a gentle tug, the sobbing woman moved from one male chest to the other, though this one she embraced with such earnest sorrow, her arms wrapping around him and her composure completely shattering, that Kirin suspected that the pair may be more intimate than his previous knowledge had suggested. Regardless, he understood the urgency in the other man’s tone, and turned to look for Angeles.
The man was no longer on the throne, but had already moved to loom uncomfortably close to Kirin - to find the presence so close when he turned around made him jump, and then he quietly cursed himself for not noticing. He had gotten very good at feeling the change in Angeles’ presence, how one could detect him with their senses rather than their eyes, but among the chaos he had not been paying attention. He looked up at the new ‘king’, a whole new set of questions bursting forth, but he drowned them all. “You’ll also explain later,” his tone was more demanding than he had expected, and it roused a grin from the now crusted with blood man.
“Perhaps,” was all he said, but when Kirin turned to leave, he added to the crowd, “Someone get this place cleaned up. And prepare chambers and clothes for myself and Lord Kirin.”
The young noble was not quite out the door yet when he realized that his partner was trailing him, and he looked back with eyes wide and questioning. Angeles simply tilted his head. What was more shocking, people were starting to move, to discuss between themselves, and someone was sending off for a servant. ‘Might makes right,’ Kirin thought bitterly as he turned his focus back on exiting the palace, finding some expedience now as his anxiety for his family reared its ugly head.
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