The incessant yelling pounded in The King's skull, a relentless cacophony that clashed against the sanctity of the Golden, Porcelain halls. These hallowed chambers, adorned with wealth beyond imagining, were no place for such discord. Yet, the voices rose, oblivious to the majesty surrounding them.
The King's lips curled in a faint smirk. They bicker as if born of the muck, The King mused, reclining in the throne that towered over them all. It was almost amusing, the sight of these supposed lords squabbling like common merchants. But the humor was fleeting, for The King's patience was not infinite. The room stilled as all eyes turned toward the throne, their whispers silenced under the weight of The King's unspoken command.
One voice finally dared to break the silence. "Perhaps we should save our grievances for another time," the speaker began, his tone measured but firm. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer more work."
The King watched with cold amusement as the gathered nobles straightened in their seats, their bravado dimming under the suggestion. Ah, The King thought, perhaps I've been too indulgent with these wolves. Even the best-trained hounds must be reminded of the lash. Rising slowly, The King's presence filled the room, a weight as palpable as the jewels embedded in the throne.
"Yes," The King said, the single word slicing through the tension like a dagger. "I was wondering about that work recently, and it seems some of you are in need of more... responsibility. Especially you, Cartlian."
The air grew heavier as the nobles turned to the unfortunate vassal. Cartlian, seated halfway down the gilded row, felt their stares pierce him like arrows. He swallowed hard, understanding all too well that The King's attention was as much a curse as a command. His mind raced for a defense, but he found none.
The King chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of those present. "Look how quickly they turn on you," The King murmured, loud enough for only the closest to hear. "Perhaps you ought to make amends, Cartlian."
The beleaguered vassal stood, his head bowed low. "What must I do to make up for this... mistake, Your Majesty?" he asked, his voice trembling with forced humility.
The King's gaze drifted to the grand portrait that hung above the chamber. The figure depicted was resplendent, cloaked in crimson silk and adorned with jewels that caught the light like captured stars. Every detail declared power and perfection. The Man was draped in the finest red silk, his robes shimmering like fire. Purple jewels adorned every extremity, each piece chosen with precision to amplify the magnificence of his presence. One foot rested confidently on a throne nearly as extravagant as the one in the courthouse, and the shoes—tailored to perfection—boasted an awe-inspiring number of diamonds inset into their polished surface. His face, a masterpiece of aggressive angles and symmetry, could make any lady of any house swoon. His hair, a flowing, leonine mane, framed his visage with a regal wildness. And the crown—so dazzling it seemed to imprison the wealth of the world within its sparkling facets—rested atop his head like a declaration of dominion. Truly, The Man in the painting embodied supremacy, his every detail a proclamation of unmatched status.
"First," The King said, still staring at the portrait, "you will tell Me the name of this merchant who dares disrupt My plans. Then, you will enact a new plan—one worthy of your position."
Cartlian hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew hesitation could be as damning as outright defiance. Bowing lower, he said, "Yes, Your Majesty. It may serve You to know that my vault has grown fivefold since the last plan."
The King turned slowly, fixing Cartlian with a gaze as sharp as steel. "Fivefold? Is that all?" The words were spoken with a serene calm that belied their menace. "Perhaps a larger plan is in order. One that involves every corner of your land—even the unsavory parts."
The King's tone darkened. "It is time to clear out the beggars from your city. Relocate them to a more permanent household. One that may prove... profitable."
Cartlian's brow furrowed. The suggestion was unexpected, almost absurd. "Relocate them, Your Majesty?" he asked cautiously. "And then?"
The King's lips curved into a cruel smile. "You wonder how to use them, endlessly searching for solutions your small mind cannot grasp. Let Me broaden your horizons. You border the Kingdom of Marianna. Use these beggars as tools—spies, thieves, instruments of chaos."
Cartlian's face paled. "Your Majesty," he began carefully, "what if they are discovered? Would that not sour relations with Marianna?"
The King's laughter was soft but chilling. "They are beggars, Cartlian. A few nameless souls found in a foreign land? No kingdom would wage war over such trifles. And should Marianna protest, I shall remind our neighbors of this: If they burn cities over beggars, imagine what fury they might unleash should a true transgression arise. Such an overreach would lay bare their ambitions, justifying My wrath and securing our dominion.'"
Understanding dawned on Cartlian. This was not merely a ploy to disrupt Marianna but a means to ensure its eventual destruction. And if executed well, it would line his own pockets with gold. The gleam of avarice returned to his eyes.
"I understand now, Your Majesty," Cartlian said, his voice steady. "The name of the merchant was..."