The one who walks quietly is small, both in height and in stature. But the next one is massive, a brute no doubt chosen as guard for his size alone.
The third one on the end appears of average size, with the same black armor and leathers as the other two, same crude tree branch sword hilt.
The emblems of Fourth Kingdom are displayed on their chest plates—a bare, crooked tree with four craggy branches and its roots full of sharp thorns.
Yet my brows pull together as I watch the fourth member of the quad walk toward the dais. This one, I’ve heard of.
The commander of the army.
It seems the sharp points depicted on their armor’s emblem have been brought to life in him, because black thorns jut from the armor along his arms and back like sinister barbs yanked from the soils of hell.
He’s a walking message made by Ravinger himself, if some of the rumors are to be believed. The king corrupted his commander into something to be feared and reviled.
He is the vicious thorns that root the wicked tree.
The quad stops in front of the dais with identical postures. Feet spread, arms loose, helmets facing straight ahead. None of them say a single thing. So silent you could hear a pin drop.
Instead, I hear an easy, unrushed gait.
My eyes lift to the doorway just as King Ravinger himself walks inside. Despite myself, I find my body going rigid. He seems to step with the same rhythm as my tapping fingers.
Calm and collected, he comes forward as thoughhewere the one to win this kingdom, rather than me.
My eyes track his every movement as I take in the infamous King Rot for the very first time.
No kingly robe for him—he wears the black and brown leathers of his army men, only missing the armor and helmet. But coming up from his neck and extending over his jaw and cheeks are some kind of lined tattoos.
No. Not tattoos.
As he gets closer, I realize these areunderthe skin, not on top. Something like veins, though they’re as dark as crow feathers. A quick glimpse down confirms that the smooth, reaching lengths even wrap down his hands like coiled stems embedded into his skin.
I look between him and his commander.
Between the roots and the thorns.
It’s not until the king reaches his guards that I realize I’m still standing. I drop down into the throne, but it’s moot, because the bastard stridesupthe dais without pause, only stopping once he stands directly in front of me.
My soldiers stiffen, but his are still relaxed, not bothered at all. I, on the other hand, am seething.
Instead of me looking down on him, the opposite is true now.
Green eyes and a sickly-gray pallor bear down on me, and yet somehow, he’s a vision of strength. “King Midas, I’d say it was a pleasure if I wanted to lie, but it seems I can’t be bothered today.”
I stand again so that I don’t have to keep looking up, but the move only makes the prick smirk.
His crown is slightly tilted on his head, like he’s put it on without a care. It’s a ring of tangled branches, thorns like spires at the top. There’s nothing regal or handsome about it. It’s raw and rough and twisted, so much like his tainted power.
My eyes are flat, my tone even more so as I regard him. “You’re late.”
He glances around lazily. “Am I? Pity I kept you waiting.”
The way he says it lets me know he doesn’t think it’s a pity at all.
“Shall we get started?” he asks, as if he has the right to take control and direct this meeting.
Without waiting for me to answer, he turns and strides confidently off the dais, toward the door at the back. All four of his guards follow him, while I blink, stupefied.
Odo appears in front of me, panting, like he ran all the way back here. “It seems King Ravinger has arrived and proceeded to the meeting room, Sire.”
