Where Light Dies

42. The Spark to His Flame

"I didn't think you would come."

"I couldn't bring myself to disobey the King's command."

"Your words maim me, son."

"Watch your tongue old man."

-- Glasir, Valhalla -- 2017 --

Tension hung silently in the air. Their eyes were locked onto each other, one pair brimming with rebellion and the other with lingering rage. The emperor laughed it off, finding amusement in his son's temper.

Azael J'raad rose from his throne, each footstep striking sharp and true as he walked through the beige marble floors. It was like an armada walking into a battle, an unstoppable force of nature that threated to decimate everything in its path. Yet, Raziel's eyes never once wavered from his father's. Seeing it in person, anyone else would've believed he was just as strong as the fanatical King. The truth however was that Raziel couldn't hold a candle to his father's strength, and he knew it better than anyone else. His heart ravaged in his trunk as the titan drew nearer. There was no point in trying to fool his father. The king could read his every thought, and it had nothing to do with his Xeni. It was almost as if he could taste it, the pitch-black fumes of fear that oozed from his feverish breath.

"You've grown," he said, placing his arm on the teen's shoulder. His dead scarlet eyes caught the prince's scuttering crimson orbs, pulling them into a deadlock. Raziel slowly turned away, lowering his head.

"Of course I have," he replied. Fingers balled into fists as Raziel grit his teeth. He wondered why he feared the old man as much. The prince was staring at his own feet from shame. His arm trembled as the king's palm gently slid off his shoulder, waiting patiently for his son to meet his gaze. Raziel raised his eyes, a swelling anger being the only thing that held his head high against the intimidating stature of his own father.

"I've been bored for a while now," the man admitted, casually walking back to his throne. His fingers traced its lining, eyes wandering over the thousands of bones that had been hammered into a smooth ivory seat, fitting for a king to be feared. What more could define a conqueror than a throne made of his enemy's bones?

"And what of it?" Raziel asked, oblivious to his father's intentions.

"Do you know who crafted this gem?" the king asked, his fingers caressing the skeletal throne.

"No."

"They were human, the craftsmen," Azael replied. A murderous grin spread over his features, casting an aura of dread over the throne room. "It was fun to watch them make something magnificent out of the remains of their own kind."

A wave of dread swept through his chest.

"And where are they now?" asked the prince, merely to confirm the answer that had already come to mind.

"I killed them myself. Just like the humans used to do back when they had power, to make sure such elegance is never made for another. Wicked little creatures aren't they?" he replied with a smile that sent ripples of fear across the castle halls.

"Why do I need to know all of this?"

"Can't a father have a little bit of small talk with his son."

"I have other duties to attend to. Just tell me what it is that you want," Raziel snapped, having had enough of the old man's antics.

"Well then just read it off my mind. It is what you do best is it not?" the king answered.

"I am not foolish enough sacrifice my sanity to the livid thoughts that roam your conscience." The words spewed from Raziel's mouth, each syllable dripping with pure hatred. "Your mind is nothing short of infectious."