Death of a Prince | ✓

EP 25: PAST TRUTHS ARE STILL TRUTHS

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!WARNING!

scenes moving forward will contain a truckload of profanity, sprinkled mentions of sex slavery, and a few dashes of graphic violence.

Brace yourselves.

      

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EPISODE TWENTY FIVE

'past truths are still truths'

    

     

THE ROOM WAS somberly lit and heavy; the walls a lacquered black wood adjusted by a brief, chameleon-like colour of deep velvet green curtains. Gold inlays in every detail possible— on the centre pieces, a horse mid-tilt of its front hooves and a n elaborately fine carving of a fan, on each side-table towering the east and west like pillars made of the same dark wood.

Three chandeliers gave balanced light to the sixteen-person table filled with gold-rimmed glass flutes and wineglasses, of glossy black plates and gleaming utensils. Exotic flowers seemingly sprang and poured from the table's very heart— vivid purple orchids, stark naked lilies, and vigorously colourful birds of paradises outstretched and curled, bunched up with pomegranates sliced in half so you could see the beads of seeds spilling out, stocks of fat grapes, and twirls of cherries.

After a somber, silent welcome from the guests, Leon led us to the top head of the table where it was left vacant for him and the chair on the very left of him for me. The procession was quiet, their eyes following, as he pulled the chair for me while I said a quiet thank you, before he sat on his own chair, smiled that very wrong smile of his— it twirled right but it didn't match his eyes; there was no kindness, no earlier sweetness — and addressed them all.

On the left flank of the table, my side, there was Quinn who was bouncing her knee in nerves or anticipation, I didn't ask, but she grasped my hand as soon as I sat down and gave it a reassuring squeeze; Faris who was stoic and rigged, not at all liking anything that was happening; Milo in a deep, bruising violet three-piece suit and his hair brushed backward, eyes hooded on Cordelia, twirling a wineglass around two fingers; Dr. Westley in white, fidgeting and sweating; and Genevieve Rothschild in a shimmering aquamarine with her mouth flat and her eyes resolute on the plate in front of her.

On Leon's right flank was his sister with her pinched, blood-red smile and careful eyes; James who kept watch of everyone's little movements, fingers twitching over the cutlery he was rearranging; Cassandra in a mellow orange suit in shorts instead of pants, who looked on edge and queasy, eyes darting everywhere but the woman beside her; Cassandra's mother— Mathilde with her strong cheekbones and flared eyes roaming the faces around her, familiar ones and unfamiliar ones; Aoi with a soft, smug smile on her face, no imprint left on her cheek; and Enzo in a brown-suit with a scowl and clenched jaw.

Matteo Moretti sat on the other end of the table with not a twitch of expression on his face. It wasn't like Aoi's blank expression where it was a bottomless pit; where feelings and emotion came to die. His was calculative— a poker face. His eyes were cautious and patient and he saw through everything.

Aoi's Black Knight, Kei, stood behind her with his hands over another in front of himself like a proper schoolboy. But his jaw was clenched and when he met my eye, the intensity burned. I looked away, sitting straighter in my chair.