"ARGH—!"
The impact was definitely imdiate.
More than anything, for a dragon that hadn’t needed to fight or feel pain in a very, very long ti, it hit him in a way that was unexpected.
His body jerked, the restraint he had been maintaining fracturing as a strained, involuntary sound to escape him, sharp and unrefined, before he could suppress it. Blood followed, thick and dark, soaking into his clothing and spilling down his arm in uneven trails.
For that single mont, control slipped.
Then he forced it back.
He forced his breathing to steady, straightening despite the pain settling deep into his bones. His hand tightened around the wound, not to pull the scale out, but to keep himself from showing more than he already had.
She studied him, the amusent still lingering in her gaze.
"Still thinking you can talk your way out of this?" she asked lightly.
The pressure around his throat shifted, tightening just enough to remind him of his position before releasing him entirely.
He dropped.
A pitiable plop against the ground.
His knees hit the stone first, the impact jarring through him before he caught himself with one hand, the other still gripping the wound that he was trying to heal. The chamber remained silent.
"You will find it," she said, her tone returning to sothing more controlled, more final. "Or next ti, I won’t limit myself to a warning."
Malrik inhaled slowly, forcing air back into his lungs as he gathered himself. The humiliation burned sharper than the injury, but he did not allow it to show beyond the slight tightening of his jaw.
"Fine," he said, his voice rough but steady, the diplomat still intact despite everything.
He rose carefully, ignoring the resistance in his body, ignoring the blood that continued to drip onto the floor. His posture straightened, dignity reconstructed through sheer will as he turned toward the exit.
"Before you go," she added.
He stopped.
Slowly.
Her gaze dragged over him from head to toe, lingering on the blood staining his clothes, then on the wound that he wouldn’t really be able to heal. There was no urgency in her expression. Only mild distaste.
"Clean that up," she said, almost idly. "It’s unfortunate, but we can’t even make use of your blood."
She turned her back on him as if the matter had already been decided.
That bitch—!
Malrik’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing as he walked out of the blasted hall.
Each step deliberate, asured, as though nothing had happened, as if he didn’t have to pull off his blood in a place that required blood to function.
And only when he crossed the threshold and managed to port back into his own domain did his expression finally shift, and whatever composure Chancellor Malrik had forced into place irrevocably snapped.
Unfortunately, the room did not survive the impending outburst.
His hand ca down hard against the desk, the impact splitting through the wood with a sharp crack as the structure partially buckled under the force.
As if trying to prove his strength to no one in particular, papers ended up scattered across the floor, ink spilled and bled into useless shapes, while a nearby instrunt shattered when it was swept aside without care. The sound echoed briefly before being swallowed by the heavy silence that followed.
His other hand clutched at his shoulder.
The wound was still there.
The blasted thing that should’ve been dealt with just refused to close.
His fingers pressed harder, jaw tightening as he tested it again. But instead of seeing the skin nd on its own, he was just greeted with pain.
Each attempt forced a strained breath out of him until he realized that the wound was sohow rejecting his mana.
It wouldn’t heal.
That bitch actually gave him a wound that wouldn’t heal!
"HA!"
"HA! HA! HA!"
Like a crazed man, the Chancellor let out a disbelieving laugh, the sound strained and edged with frustration. He braced his hand against what remained of the desk and leaned his weight into it, as if grounding himself through the anger. The battered wood groaned under the pressure before splintering further, part of it collapsing completely beneath his grip.
This was unacceptable.
He straightened slowly, forcing his breathing back under control as his thoughts shifted, moving away from the discomfort and toward sothing far more useful.
That woman.
That monstrosity.
His expression hardened as the image of her settled in his mind.
Fine.
If that was how she intended to proceed, then he would simply adjust accordingly.
He would personally ensure he—no, that—got unsealed.
And when that even greater bastard ended up freed, and when he could finally claim the power he most definitely deserved more than them, he would make sure she was the first to pay for what she had done.
But before that, there was a more imdiate problem to resolve.
Golden blood.
She should be glad that he, too, needed the unsealing to succeed. Because if not, who in their right mind would even waste their ti doing sothing like this?
The annoyed Chancellor’s gaze lowered slightly, sothing calculating settling behind his eyes as his earlier anger sharpened into sothing colder.
If finding them directly proved troubleso, then there was no reason not to draw them out instead.
After all, even creatures like that were not without attachnts.
And attachnts could be used.
Thankfully, he had always been one to have well-placed investnts. Would he have considered helping those moronic Reds for nothing?
Of course not.
With that thought, he turned toward the side of the room, where a polished orb rested upon a low pedestal. Its surface shimred faintly as his hand brushed against it, responding at once as the glow within pulsed outward like a silent command.
Sowhere beyond the chamber, the signal took hold.
Monts later, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor before the doors opened without ceremony. An attendant stepped in, posture straight despite the clear rush in his arrival, eyes sharp and attentive as he faced the Chancellor.
"You called, Chancellor?" he said, voice curiously and forcefully steady, especially after seeing the odd state of the room.
Malrik watched him fidget for a brief mont, his gaze steady, unreadable.
Then he lifted his hand and made a small, careless motion.
The change was imdiate.
The attendant’s eyes dulled, the sharpness within them fading as his posture adjusted almost imperceptibly, losing its natural alertness and settling into sothing more rigid, more controlled.
More useful.
Malrik’s lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke.
"Fetch that pawn," he said, his voice calm once more.
A brief pause followed before he added, more precisely, "The one who threw in with the humans."
The attendant straightened fully, as though the command had settled into him completely.
"As you wish," he replied, bowing without hesitation.
He turned at once and moved to leave, steps quick and purposeful as he exited the Chancellor’s room without another word.
The door shut behind him, cutting off the space just as his pace picked up in the corridor beyond, already set on carrying out the order without question.
And as he walked, as his back faced the empty hall ahead, a faint glow flickered at the nape of his neck.
A sigil.
One that a certain black dragon’s ancestors would refer to as a Sigil of Subjugation.
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