Chaos is God in a system of true disorder. And I seek to my title of God, I have no care for whoever crumples to nothing in my persuit to achieve such.
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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟔-𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 .ೃ࿐ ᴵ ᵃᵐ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ.
Then he said, "None of it was actually real."-A Palace Of Ulric Labyrinths, Elvira Crest.
࿐NOBILIA࿐
|Sevgi- July 1, 7425| |Hadak|
DISCERNED HEELS resonated against the gold-specked marble which expanded further and further into the shades of the premium Sevgi palace, its stationed guards as unmoving as sculptures as the lit candles just above their armoured heads blinked with the interloping shadows; not as a result of the sublime currents which had managed to creep through the drawn terrace entrances, but because of the woman whose mere presence laundered away the focus of her loyal servants around her. Any sloth that they had gathered with their postponing shift, all truant at the simple sight of her, Princess Nobilia Arcë of Sevgi.
"Princess," her title was hissed some paces away, the occupier of the stringent voice wafted in the dim of his princess's steps, trailing close like the review of her neglected shadow. "Nobilia."
"You will silence yourself, Arch," Nobilia's voice slithered in the stillness of her oasis, touring through cracks unseen to her shimmer as she prevailed with her stride, not bothering to turn back to the taller man. "Or I will have the guards escort you back to your quarters."
Her words were faint but sharp, yet did nothing to irk her father's consultant. Nobilia figured much by the slight scoff which rattled from the base of the man's throat, dying before it could lunge out to bite her back.
She could see Arch's face in the back of her mind, the dark ribbon of hair that always managed to escape the raven slick back he constantly fashioned, matching the dark cloak that made sure he stuck out like a sore thumb against the gold and white of the other palace residents.
The king's right hand, his appearance loved to scream, better than all else on this world.
Nobilia absently pictured Arch's face in her head, bearing that same twist that liked to cruelly leak, the one of acquiesced loyalty and a superfluity of bliss on behalf of her woe. She had seen the very same expression two days prior as she and a dozen of her father's devoted diadem stood gazing up within the five walls of her family's throne chamber, eyes glued high to the hologram of Gothic Mortimer, silver eyes cutting and tepidly wrinkled face tightened into a snarl she had always imagined him to have. She loathed the taunting tug of Arch's face that day, the look of an outside onlooker enjoying a show not meant for their eyes as all present gazes turned towards their unwell king and his novice daughter as the declaration bled from the lips of Ignatius's tyrannical Supreme.
