@ironsamos
if there ever was a headache, it is the one that bleeds red across the lands, snatching ‘ NEWBLOODS ‘ from their homes & dropping them into the hands of VIGILANTE IDIOTS. an animalistic growl burns in his throat & a status report burns in his hands—- it can only be a small handful of them to evade him so wisely, yet it can only be a LARGE ONE to wreak such HAVOC—- & he marches from the room, sleepless & cold.
the familiar weight of his bracelet SEARS his wrist, more of a reminder of his USELESSNESS than anything. but you are king. he STRAIGHTENS with this remembrance & nudges at the CROWN ON HIS HEAD—- his, not cal’s.
( & if the large, heavy circlet, forged for one other than he, threatens to slip off his locks, then he shall not let it—- let them talk. let them burn. )
the training room is an echo of what it was, without the grating ‘ WHO HAS THE ADVANTAGE? ‘ ringing off the somber walls. save for the firelight on his arm glinting off his pale blue eyes, it is dark. but the CLINK of metal suggests that he is not alone.
he once said that cal would not survive his coronation night. but he is NOT CAL, he reminds himself. he is powerful. he has established his rule, proven himself worthy. he is the king, & above all, evangeline samos must know that.
❛ what do you want? i doubt you’re here to TRAIN. ❜
[ she hardly needs it. she could pierce his heart with a spoon. ]
