In the dark, silent room. Alistair struck a match, lighting a series of oil lanterns fixed to the walls. As the warm, amber glow filled the space, the room revealed itself.
The hidden chamber was a stark contrast to the cold grandeur of the palace. The walls were a deep, charcoal grey, draped here and there with oxblood-red velvet curtains to dampen any sound. In the center stood a heavy, circular table made of dark obsidian, its surface polished to a mirror shine.To the left, two high-backed wing chairs upholstered in emerald-toned leather sat facing a small, cold hearth. A deep mahogany desk was tucked into the far corner, cluttered with maps and scrolls that Alistair clearly kept from the council's prying eyes. The floor was covered in a thick, cream-colored rug that muffled every footstep, making the room feel like a void outside of time.Asarmose sank into the nearest emerald chair, his movements fluid and regal. "Fascinating," he murmured, his eyes tracking the way the light hit the dark stone table.Alistair arched a brow, leaning against the mahogany desk. "The room... or me?"
Asarmose rolled his eyes, a small, dismissive huff escaping him. "The room, Alistair. Don't let your ego crowd the space; it's small enough in here as it is." He leaned forward, his expression turning sharp and professional. "I propose we go to the southern labor districts undercover to see for ourselves what is truly going on."
Alistair straightened up, his eyes narrowing. "We?"
"Yes, we," Asarmose insisted. "I believe your 'court' knows exactly what is happening but is keeping the truth a secret to benefit themselves. They are managing the dissent just enough to keep you satisfied while they siphon off the excess for their own gain."
Alistair's face was a mask of cold stone. "And why should I believe that?"
"Because," Asarmose said, his voice dropping to a chillingly knowing tone, "I know the eyes of greedy men desperate for power. I have seen that look in every man who has ever tried to cage me. Your council isn't loyal to the crown; they are loyal to the shadow it casts."
Alistair stared at him calculatingly, the silence in the room stretching until the wick of a lantern flickered. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over Asarmose.
"Alright," Alistair said, his voice a dangerous silk. "We will go. But mark my words: if what you say is false, and this is merely a ploy for your own ends, I will personally punish you. And I promise you, Asarmose, my 'discipline' is far less refined than yours."
Asarmose didn't flinch. He met Alistair's gaze with a steady, divine calm that seemed to pull the very air from the room. A long silence stretched between them, lit only by the flickering amber lanterns, before he finally spoke.
"Alright," Asarmose said, his voice a low, melodic challenge. He stood up slowly, closing the distance between them until they were inches apart. He was forced to look slightly upward, but his presence was so immense it felt as though he were the one looking down."But if what I say turns out to be true," he continued, staring straight into Alistair's bright eyes, "you will do exactly as I tell you during this investigation. And you will trust me—one hundred percent."
Alistair's expression shifted, a ghost of a mocking smile playing on his lips, though his eyes remained sharp and calculating. He didn't pull away from the proximity; instead, he seemed to drink in the defiance radiating from the Prince.
"Trust?" Alistair repeated, the word sounding foreign and bitter on his tongue. He let out a soft, dry exhale that was almost a laugh. "That will be hard. Trust is a luxury for men who don't wear crowns."
He leaned in a fraction closer, his scent—the only one that truly pleased Asarmose—becoming a heavy, intoxicating weight in the small room."But the rest?" Alistair murmured, his voice a dangerous silk. "The rest can be agreed upon. If my council has been playing me for a fool, I will grant you the lead. Just don't forget whose kingdom you're trying to save."
Asarmose didn't break eye contact. The bargain was struck—a King's pride against a Prince's dignity, set against the backdrop of a brewing revolution.
"Then prepare yourself, Alistair," Asarmose whispered. "The truth is rarely as refined as you'd like it to be."