I could have tolerated a great many terrible truths, but learning that Rath is not dead beneath my feet when I walk through the palace almost broke me.
A king should at least enjoy the illusion of power, but I do not have that. I sit on a throne held aloft by liars, traitors, and the self-interested. And I have at least a dozen drinks inside me, interfering with my biochemistry and lowering my tolerance for this. And him.
“Your presence is required at the palace. It is almost time for the choosing ceremony,” Krow says.
“I’m not interested in choosing.”
The stool next to me shifts and squeaks uncomfortably as he takes an uninvited seat. He is going to try to relate to me. I cannot imagine anything worse.
“I went through this with your father.”
“I cannot tell you how irritating it is to have every courtier, noble, commander, general, and clerk tell me how it was with my father. My father was a psychopath who hated and feared his own child and ended up dead because his chosen guard was fuzkin’ scum. No thanks to you, may I add.”
I am king. I can say what I want.
I wait for Krow to take offense. He won’t know what to do with that. He is used to others speaking in veiled and diplomatic terms. He expects his dignity and feelings to be preserved. I no longer care to do any of that.
“Stop being a spoiled brat.”
That was not the right thing for him to say.
I turn to Krow, grab him by the throat, and propel him through the nearest wall, creating a Krow-shaped hole. They always forget how much stronger royal korabi are. Their arrogance makes them think that my advantage is only slight. In truth, I could kill every korabi in the palace in a single night if I chose to. Sometimes, I think about doing it. I am, after all, my father’s son.
“My apologies, sire.” Krow coughs as he rises to his feet. I can see daylight through the wall where he fell. Scum will soon start to use that as a tunnel, no doubt.
Six
Jax
I haven’t seen Krush for the better part of three days. I have been left to languidly lie around his plush royal apartment, enjoying the best of everything life has to offer. Most of my time was spent making my new leg. I really like being mobile again. I smooth my hand over the smooth shin of it. I made it myself, but it feels like a gift from the absent king.
As far as capture outcomes go, this is probably the best of them. I do miss him, though. It’s a weird feeling to miss a tyrannical king. I have been thinking about what the Tusk creature said to him about choosing a mate. He did not seem pleased by the prospect. I've been letting myself think that there could be a good reason for that. Maybe he’s into me. Maybe this is a Cinderella story, but with a massive alien king. In Krush’s absence, I allow myself to believe that a little. It feels good to imagine that I am wanted, maybe even one day, loved.
I am asleep when Krush reappears. He looks somehow worse for wear. As he gets closer, I can smell the unmistakeable scent of fermented alcohol. He’s been on a three-day bender. He still looks incredible.
“Hello, human,” he slurs. There is blood on the backs of his knuckles and in the beds of his claws. “I must clean myself.”
He proceeds to do just that. In front of me. His bathing chamber is not separated from the rest of his living area. It is a vast space, so I am given the opportunity to watch him strip entirely. I will never tire of that view. His ass is a work of absolute art.
“Nice leg," he says through the stream of water. "Did you have any trouble making it?”
“I had more materials than I’ve ever had to construct with before. It was easy, and it’s better than the one the soldiers broke. Thank you.”
“That’s right. I need to have them executed.”
“You don't have to do that,” I say. “Nobody else needs to die.”
I sit on the bed, I eat fruit, and I watch Krush display himself for me, his great golden body rippling with every washing motion. He washes his hair too, with a lotion that smells like the gods made it themselves in a press somewhere in the heavens.
He dries himself off with haphazard, general gestures with his towel and begins to sling on a broad, shouldered harness with all sorts of korabi symbology and general pomp. It is a garment that is not a garment. It is the idea of a garment, more or less stuck to his body with advanced technology.
“Special occasion?”
Krush looks at me as if he just remembered I was here. I must occupy a very odd place in his mind. He keeps me close, he sleeps with me, but he also doesn’t seem to generally notice me. Strange.