What secrets lie within

Chapter V The ones Above and the ones Below

As the golden glow settled into the corners of the room, the door creaked open, ushering in a procession of servants. They flowed past him, their presence as ephemeral as the morning mist. With practiced silence, they set about their tasks; fluffing pillows back to perfection, stripping away the remnants of nocturnal feasting, their movements orchestrated chaos. The table, once cluttered with the detritus of indulgence, was wiped clean and reborn as a tableau of morning sustenance. Fresh fruits glistened like jewels amidst the humble earthiness of bread. Honey, golden and viscous, awaited the touch of a knife, while milk, pure and white, stood in stark contrast to the dark wood of the table. Not a word was spoken, as if the very air within the chamber was too thick with Anwir's authority to dare carry the weight of speech. Yet beneath this veneer of servitude and splendor, a different hunger gnawed at him, a reminder of the scars etched deep into his soul, hidden beneath the surface of his olive skin.

Anwir's gaze swept over the quiet efficiency of his servants, green eyes sharp and calculating. Each movement, each breath they took, was an echo of the world's relentless grind—the ceaseless push and pull between those who command and those who obey. It was a rhythm he knew all too well, a dance macabre choreographed by the gem of Ānuk, its corrupting influence a melody that played ceaselessly at the back of his mind. They did not know—could not know—the memories that gnawed at his insides like ravenous beasts. For every sweet morsel that touched his lips, there was the taste of ash and blood, the flavor of a past that clung to him more tightly than the shadows. He turned away from the window, his silhouette a dark smudge against the burgeoning light, a specter of power and pain reigning over a kingdom built on shadows and suffering.

The room brimmed with a deceptive tranquility. Anwir's servants, mere shadows within his opulent chamber, fluttered about in practiced silence. Yet beneath this veneer of order lay the undeniable tension that gripped their spines like ice. The newest amongst them, a slip of a girl with hair like spun gold, moved with hesitant grace, her violet eyes wide with the terror of making an error under his heavy gaze. Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the porcelain of his plate, and in one heart-stopping moment, it slipped from her grasp, shattering against the stone floor, its contents splattered like a grotesque painting. The clatter of crockery that shattering against the stone floor jolted the silent ritual of morning service. Anwir's eyes, sharp as hawk's talons, snapped to the source—the young servant girl, her hands trembling like autumn leaves in a tempest, fragments of his breakfast scattered at her feet.

"Come here," Anwir's voice sliced through the silence, a dagger veiled in velvet. The command was an echo of darker times, resonating with a cruelty born from the depths of his own past sufferings. The girl, Elowen, approached with the trepidation of a lamb to slaughter. Tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his, but there was no mercy to be found in those green orbs.

"Clumsy wretch!" he spat as she reached him. His hand lashed out, striking her with such force that she crumpled to the ground, a broken doll at the feet of a tyrant.

"Clean it up," he spat with scorn, grabbing her arm with the strength of iron shackles and dragging her back to the scene of her mistake.

Elowen's knees hit the floor hard, the pain a sharp contrast to the softness of his silk sheets she had so carefully smoothed moments before. She scrubbed at the stain, her golden locks cascading over her face like a veil of sorrow. Each sob that escaped her was muffled by the fabric of her sleeve, her spirit folding beneath the weight of humiliation. Memories of her father, a man of kindness and wisdom, danced cruelly at the edges of her consciousness. How she yearned for the protective embrace of his arms, the gentle guidance of his words. And Galaeth—her sister of soul if not of blood—with her auburn hair and eyes that shifted with emotion, who could turn knowledge into tangible strength. Elowen longed for that strength now, aching for the comfort only Galaeth's presence could bring. But there was no solace to be found on this cold, unforgiving floor. There was only Anwir, standing above her, a king in his court of shadows and fear. He watched her with a detached amusement that belied the tumultuous history concealed behind his façade of power.