They headed down the grand staircase, out the door where a carriage awaited them
The carriage rattled over the cobblestones of the palace inner sanctum, the air inside thick with a tension that felt almost physical. Alistair leaned toward Asarmose, his eyes narrowed as they approached the towering oak doors of the High Court.
"Stay sharp," Alistair commanded, his voice a low, vibrating warning. "They will disregard every word you speak and dismantle every breath you take. They are looking for a single slip—one mistake—to tear you apart."
Asarmose didn't even turn his head. His profile remained as still as a statue's, radiating a divine, unshakeable dignity. "You need not concern yourself with me," he replied, his voice ringing with a calm, absolute authority. "I yield to no one."Alistair's gaze sharpened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Concern? Do not flatter yourself. I simply have no desire to see you make a fool of yourself. Your humiliation would only serve to ridicule me."
A slow, biting smile spread across Asarmose's face. "Then do not worry, Alistair. This kingdom of yours provides more than enough ridicule for you without any help from me."
Alistair glared at him, there was no humor in his eyes. He leaned forward, his presence crowding the small space of the carriage, his scent beginning to permeate the air—the only pheromone Asarmose found tolerable in this stifling land.
"You truly are insufferable," Alistair said, his gaze tracing the lines of Asarmose's face with a clinical, predatory interest. "But if you think these nobles are beneath you, remember this: they are vultures. They don't care about your dignity; they only care about how you taste."
Asarmose finally turned, meeting Alistair's stare with a chilling, intelligent spark of narcissism. "Then let them choke. I was not made for easy digestion."
The doors to the court swung open, revealing a monument to old power—stifling, grand, and smelling of ancient incense. High, vaulted ceilings trapped the echoes of their footsteps as Alistair ascended the dais with practiced grace, pulling Asarmose into the seat beside him.
The court rose in a wave of rustling silk. They gave a low bow, hailing the King in a synchronized, hollow chorus. Alistair gave a curt flick of his wrist, signaling them to be seated. Immediately, the air turned frigid. The room was packed with elders and high-ranking Alphas who had been previously humiliated by the Prince's divine presence. They glared at him with bared teeth and narrowed eyes.Alistair leaned closer to Asarmose. "That's a nice expression they have of you."
Asarmose ignored him, surveying the crowd with the detached, clinical focus of a researcher analyzing a primitive species. Finally, one of the elder women stood, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I do not think it is appropriate for the Consort to be present here."
Asarmose's eyes slid toward her. "And why is that?"
"This is a meeting about the general situation of our land," she sneered, "not a playground for those who spend most of their time looking at their appearance."
Asarmose chuckled softly, the sound cutting through the hall with effortless precision. "Then what are you still doing here? Go home and continue looking at your appearance."
The elder's face turned a bruised purple. Alistair gave her a single, heavy glance that forced her back into her seat in silent fury.
"Enough," Alistair announced, his voice booming. "Give me the report of the kingdom.
"A young Alpha stood, his hands shaking as he unfurled a scroll. "Your Majesty... the Southern Sector is in total disorientation," the Alpha stammered. "The reports are grim. The raw materials—the coal, the timber, the grain—being brought back to the capital have dropped to less than half the required amount.
Alistair's eyebrow furrowed,a lethal stillness settling over him. He did not lean back; he leaned forward, the sheer weight of his presence causing the Alpha to stumble a step back. There was no humor in his expression, only a dark, simmering focus. To Alistair, this wasn't just a loss of resources—it was a breach of the order he had perfected."Vanishing?" Alistair's voice was a low, dangerous rasp that carried to every corner of the silent hall.
The silence in the hall was so heavy it felt as though the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Alistair's gaze moved from the young messenger to a row of high-ranking Alphas seated in the front—the very men responsible for the Southern administration.
"Lord Varick," Alistair said, his voice deceptively soft.A stout man with a face like curdled milk stood up, his knees visibly knocking. "Y-yes, Your Majesty?"
"The report says the workforce are vanishing under your watch," Alistair began, his eyes tracking the man with predatory focus. "It says the wagon-trains of iron are arriving empty, and the river-barges that should be deep in the water with grain are floating light. And yet," Alistair leaned his chin on a hand, "your personal ledgers show a steady increase in 'administrative expenses.' Does the South eat gold, or do you simply think I am too occupied with the capital to notice your hands in my pockets?"
"Sire, the disorientation... the riots... we tried to—"
"You didn't try," Alistair interrupted, his voice dropping to a lethal chill. "You hid. You allowed the foundation of this kingdom to rot because you were too arrogant to admit you had lost control. And now you expect me to believe your 'reports'?"
Alistair looked at the captain of the guard. "Varick and his council are stripped of their titles. Their assets are seized to cover the deficit in the southern materials. Take them to the lower cells. They can spend the rest of their days contemplating the 'disorientation' of their new surroundings."
The heavy oak doors groaned shut as the guards dragged the disgraced officials away, their desperate pleas fading into the stone walls. The silence that rushed back into the hall was thick, charged with the residual heat of Alistair's judgment.
Asarmose didn't move. He remained seated, his gaze fixed on the empty space where the council had just been dismantled."Efficient," Asarmose said, the single word cutting through the quiet like a glass blade. He finally turned his head to look at the King. "But it does not solve the matter at hand, Alistair."
Alistair's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He didn't explode; instead, he became deathly still, suppressing a surge of anger that threatened to crack his royal composure. He turned his head slowly, his predatory eyes locking onto Asarmose's clinical, unbothered stare.
"Then," Alistair bit out, his voice a low, vibrating rasp of controlled fury, "what do you suggest?"
The court—or what was left of it in the pews—leaned in, their breaths held. They expected a soft, naive suggestion they could easily tear apart.
"It would be best if we investigated this ourselves," he stated, his voice flat and final. "I will brief you on a plan once this session is over. As for now..."He paused, his eyes narrowing as he took in the gathered nobility. "I do not trust a single person seated in front of us to bring back the truth."The insult was absolute. One of the older Alphas half-rose from his seat, his face a mask of indignation. "You suggest that the King's own council is—"
"I suggest," Asarmose interrupted, his refined ego cutting through the protest like a blade, "that you are all far too comfortable in your own shadows to see the light of the fire starting at your gates. Sit down."
Alistair's lips curled into a genuine, dangerous smirk. The anger from a moment ago didn't vanish, but it transformed into a dark intrigue.
He found the chaos Asarmose sparked to be the only thing in the room worth his attention.
"The Consort has spoken," Alistair announced, his voice booming to close the matter. "This session is adjourned. The rest of you are dismissed to contemplate how much of your 'loyalty' is actually incompetence."
As Alistair and Asarmose rose to leave, the court followed suit, bowing in a stiff, rehearsed show of respect for their King. However, their eyes told a different story; as they filed out, they cast glares of pure despise at the Consort, their silent fury simmering in the cold air of the hall.
Once the heavy doors thudded shut behind the last official, Asarmose spoke, his voice barely a breath. "When we get back to the castle, let's find a quiet place where the walls have no ears."
Alistair gave a curt nod and led the way to the door heading straight to the carriage
As the carriage lurched forward, rattling over the cobblestones of the palace inner sanctum, Asarmose leaned back, his eyes fixed on the passing grey stone walls. Alistair leaned his head back against the velvet cushions, his eyes hooded as he replayed the court session in his mind.
He could still see the faces of the nobles—those "vultures," as he'd called them. He recalled the way Lord Varick's skin had turned the color of spoiled milk when the assets were seized. They were terrified, yes, but it was a shallow, pathetic kind of fear. It was the fear of losing comfort, not the fear of losing a kingdom. Their incompetence was a dull ache in Alistair's mind; they had allowed the South to slip through their fingers because they were too busy preening in their own shadows.
Then, his mental image shifted to Asarmose.
He remembered the way the Prince had looked at the elder woman—not with anger, but with a detached, clinical disdain that made her appear like a specimen under a lens. Asarmose hadn't just defended himself; he had effectively hijacked the sovereign's authority.
He called them primitive, Alistair thought, his fingers drumming a slow, predatory beat on his knee. He sat in my court, beside my throne, and told my council they were blind to the fire at the gates.
Usually, such a display would have ended in a public execution or a private breaking. Alistair's ego was a jealous god; it did not share the dais easily. But as he watched Asarmose now, he felt a dark, unsettling spark of respect. The Prince wasn't playing at politics. He wasn't trying to win favor. He was operating on a level of refined arrogance that matched Alistair's own—a belief that the truth was more important than the feelings of the "vultures."
He wants us to investigate ourselves, Alistair mused. He wants to see the 'livestock' for himself.
The idea was a logistical nightmare. It was dangerous. It was beneath them. And yet, the thought of leaving the stifling, incense-choked air of the court to hunt for the truth alongside this insufferable, intelligent man was the only thing that had made Alistair's blood move in weeks.
The carriage slowed to a crawl as it entered the private courtyard. The tension in the small space reached a breaking point, thick enough to taste.
They exited the carriage and moved through the palace like twin shadows, bypassing the servants and the sycophants until they reached his private library. The room was massive, smelling of old parchment and leather.
Asarmose scanned the towering shelves. "Are you sure about this place?"Alistair didn't answer. He moved to a particular bookcase in the furthest corner and reached for a small, bronze statue of a soldier standing guard on a shelf. With a sharp click, he twisted the head of the statue. A low rumble groaned through the floor as the bookcase swung inward, revealing a hidden passage.
Stepping into the darkness, Alistair gestured for Asarmose to enter. With a face that was skeptical yet betrayed a flicker of fascination, Asarmose stepped inside. The bookcase clicked shut behind them, sealing them in absolute silence.