The meat wasn't fresh. It was grey. Stringy. Cold.
Solar sat at the head of the long, mahogany table in the ruins of the High Court. The air smelled of wet plaster and the sour, sharp tang of old wine. DRIP. DRIP. Rain leaked from the shattered dome above, hitting the silver platters with a rhythmic, annoying metallic sound. This was the "Banquet of Scraps." A dinner for the men who had tried to default on their lives. They sat across from him, their fine silk shirts stained with soot and fear. They weren't eating. They were shaking.
"Eat, Arthur. The interest on the steak is compounding by the minute."
Solar's voice was a dry, hollow rasp. A ghost's rattle. He picked up a silver knife—sharp, serrated, lethal. SHINK. He sliced through a piece of gristle with a slow, deliberate pressure. He didn't look at the King. He looked at the fat on the blade.
"Solar... please," the King whispered. His voice was a thin thread of silk in a room full of iron. "The city is a graveyard. There is no more gold. There is no more blood. What more can you take from a man who has already lost his crown?"
Solar laughed. A jagged, ugly sound. Like a saw cutting through a frozen bone. GRATE. GRATE. "A crown is just a metal liability, Arthur. I took that weeks ago. Tonight? Tonight I'm taking the leftovers. I'm auditing your memories. I'm taxing your regrets. You thought revenge was a dish served cold? No. Revenge is an asset served with 25% compound interest. Monthly."
CLACK.
Solar dropped his fork. The sound was like a gunshot in the hollow hall. The aristocrats flinched. One of them—a Duke from the North—began to sob. A wet, choking sound. HIC. HOCK. Solar didn't blink. He just adjusted his cufflinks—human bone. Cold. Hard.
"Audit the tears, Elias!" Solar hissed over his shoulder. "Calculate the salt-content. Add a 'Hydration Waste Tax' to their personal tabs. If they have enough water in their bodies to cry, they have enough to pay the maintenance fee on these chairs."
Elias was a shadow in the corner. He held a silver tray with a single, moldy crust of bread. SCRATCH. SCRATCH. He was writing the names of the dead on a piece of greasy parchment. "The Shadow Architect, sir. He's... he's at the gates. He says the banquet is over. He says he's brought the bill for the revolution."
Solar stood up. CREAK. The leather of his chair sounded like a dying breath. He walked to the window, looking out at the fires of Aethelgard. The city was a black wound, glowing with the orange pus of the riots.
"The revolution?" Solar whispered to the glass. "The revolution is just a hostile takeover with a worse business plan. Tell the Shadow that the gates are locked. And the key is currently being used as collateral for a loan he can't afford. If he wants in, he can pay the 'Unauthorized Entry' premium. In blood. Upfront."
BOOM.
An explosion rocked the floor. The silver platters jumped. CHINK. CLATTER. A chandelier fell from the ceiling, shattering into a million shards of expensive glass. CRASH. Solar didn't move. He watched a single shard of crystal slice his cheek. He didn't wipe the blood away. He just tasted it.
"A bit metallic," Solar muttered. "Needs more interest."
He turned back to the table. The King was on his knees now. The scrap of meat was still on his plate. Cold. Dead. SQUELCH. Solar stepped on a piece of fallen plaster, grinding it into the carpet with his boot.
"The audit is moving to the gut, ghost!" Solar roared toward the shattered dome. "Everything is a scrap! Every life is a leftover! I'll tax the hunger! I'll audit the starvation!"
He turned his back on the banquet. He walked toward the private elevator. He didn't feel the heat. He didn't feel the hate. He just felt the cold, hard logic of the end.
"Elias!" he barked as the doors began to slide shut.
"Yes, sir?"
"The scraps. Don't throw them away. Dry them. Grind them. Sell them back to the slums as 'Royal Beef'. Markup of 40%. Tell them it's a gift from the Crown."
Solar poured a glass of water. GLUG. GLUG. He drank it slowly. The interest never sleeps. And tonight? Even the revenge was going to be profitable.
The banquet was over. And Solar was the only one with the stomach for the bill