Floating a mere two inches off the polished marble floor directly behind the imperial throne was Norx.
The aristocracy had long whispered rumors of an ancient deity living in the North—a primordial god of creation of sorts—but to see the myth materialized in the flesh, acting with such casual, disrespectful insolence in the presence of the crown, was entirely staggering.
Norx didn't care about their stares. His legs were crossed comfortably in midair, his dark hair falling over his face as he lazily plucked a frosted grape from a floating silver platter, tossing it into his mouth with a childish, petulant indifference.
Aurelian sat perfectly rigid on the velvet dais, his golden cloak draped over the arms of the throne.
His fingers gripped the carved wood until his knuckles went white.
To the public, his imperial mask was cold and flawless, but the muscle in his jaw was twitching violently.
