For a long moment, the former king stood outside the reaching
stone walls, deliberating his fate. The entire castle was unsurprisingly
unguarded; mortals who dare to oppose the Mad King had mere
moments to live, in any case, so why care about keeping them
out? Ray, however, was no mere mortal. he had the magic of the
earth, the still-lingering effects of the crown (however distant they
were), and the Creator’s blessing at the hilt of his sword. It was
only this and the blessings of his fellow victors that led to his legs
finally starting, following the rich red carpets along the sweeping
halls he himself had once adorned with beautiful blooming roses.
It was disgusting. If he looked closely at anything, he assumed that
he’d find deep stains of crimson, leftover residue from whatever he’d
had his henchmen scrub away after each… ‘encounter’. He knew at
once that, as he approached the room he knew Ryan was currently
sitting within, he entered some kind of magical radar, alerting all
those connected to the little web of his presence. Instead of sneaking,
though, he kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, thumbing over the
inscriptions there, before pushing the door open.
He squinted up at the man seated atop the throne accusingly, (though
he wondered if someone who made his nose wrinkle with both the
smell of dark magic and evil could be considered a man any longer)
gritting his teeth.
"I see you’ve occupied your little monster with taking out the other
attempting victors. I’ve come to take what you and I both know is
rightfully mine. I competed in your fucking games, came out the
victor, and now—
I’ll kill you if I have to. That crown is m i n e.”
The Mad King sat atop his throne, very pleased with himself,
all things considered. He had always fancied himself a very clever
man, and now was no exception. The courtyard he had filled with his
own subjects on a manhunt to the center had been brutal, and those
who had survived had been forced to pierce the chests of their best
friends with their own swords. Voluntarily. Anyone who had made it
past that was surely doomed in the arena he had specially made,
infusing it with his own magic so that the contestants were
competing with each others' bodies.
Ray had been the clear victor. The unassuming florist had slipped
his way through legs and around diamond blades and had even
managed to gain control of Gavin's arms and legs and beat his own
body's head in with a rock.
And then Ryan had flicked his wrist and all who had fallen, those
choking on their own blood or clinging to life even still, had risen
again, gasping and writing in phantom pain. His instruction had
been simple. Forget everything that had happened before. None of
that mattered.
To become the victor, you must kill Edgar.
A maze had risen from the floor, and the Mad King basked in the sounds
of swords unsheathing, desperate cries, and gutteral screams
of words lost in fear. Only a few remained, still clinging to life.
Clearly, someone had taking the news less than happily. Ray, the
florist, the clear weakest link, wanted his throne, and clearly he could
not understand that the only way for him to become the victor was to do
as the Mad King asked. He clearly felt entitled to something. Tut tut.
He'd have to fix that.
"My, my, I am impressed! You maneuvered that maze, unscathed,
all just to find me? People are still trying to best him, Ray.
You could s t i l l become the king."
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
titsay
gummygunk
2087
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