Chapter 30: The Scratch of Ego in the Bureaucracy Room

The steel-plated carriage wheels shrieked, deafening the ears. The thick metal scraped roughly against the cobblestone streets of the Eisenhart Kingdom capital. The towing warhorses snorted ferally, spewing dense white vapor swept in a flash by Oesteria's freezing wind. The winter chill seeped, piercing the iron plates, trying to freeze the blood of anyone passing through.

Outside the carriage window, shadows of starvation crawled in the corners of narrow alleys. Commoners huddled, hugging their knees. Their bodies were wrapped in nothing but worn burlap sacks stiffened by ice. They stared at the luxurious carriage with dead, sunken eyes.

Varan clicked his tongue. The sight of commoners huddling and resembling frozen carcasses made his gut churn in disgust. He pulled the carriage window curtain roughly, refusing to let that filthy poverty soil his vision.

The carriage halted abruptly in the palace's main courtyard. Two soldiers in thick steel plate armor wrenched the carved wooden door open.

Varan stepped down. His expensive leather boots struck the stone floor. Varan's stocky body descended. His protruding gut behind layers of silk burdened every stomp of his leather boots on the steps.

His body was wrapped in layered silk clothes, displaying an excessive wealth glaring in the middle of a dying world. Though Oesteria's freezing air could kill cells in a matter of hours, sweat flooded Varan's forehead. The fat in his body rejected the cold temperature, trapped inside piles of expensive fabric roasting his pores.

He stood silent for a moment, looking up. The giant Gothic castle of the Eisenhart Kingdom towered feral dominating the entire view. The building's pointed towers pierced the filthy fog, as if trying to stab the red sky above. Thick gray stone walls coated in dirty gold fading devoured by time, supported by cross-bracing pillars locking the palace foundation from storm assaults. This was the center of power. The symbol of absolute dominance he always craved.

Varan adjusted his silk collar wet with sweat. On nearly every finger of his thick hands, large jewel rings circled. The jewelry clashed against each other, producing a constant chiming sound laden with the Sin of Greed. He walked forward. The guard soldiers bowed their heads, letting the noble ruling the logistics granaries enter the kingdom's heart.

The palace corridors felt bone-freezing. The Oesterian Forest's humidity seeped piercing the thick stone pores. Outside, The Red Ring in the sky radiated a dim brownish-orange light, casting a refraction resembling the color of rusted iron. That copper light breached in through giant stained glass windows lined neat along the corridor walls.

Those stained glasses depicted ancient gods and the past grandeur of the Eisenhart Kingdom, telling legends of continent conquerors. Yet, the rusted dusk light piercing the glass colors distorted the holy paintings inside. The faces of the holy knights in the stained glass turned horrific, illuminated by blood light until they looked like demons grinning staring at Varan's heavy steps.

The shadow of Varan's body fell stretching across the marble floor. Due to The Red Ring's unnatural position on the horizon, his shadow elongated far and bent defective. That light distortion created an optical illusion as if time had stopped beating at the end of this stagnant afternoon.

Varan's steps echoed loud. His breaths hunted thick. No one in this palace possessed the right to order him to come crawling, let alone a lowly clerk who hid behind the smell of decaying ink.

His right thumb began moving on automatic. His index fingernail twirled the large ruby stone ring on his thumb in a sluggish rhythm. A filthy gesture always appearing on reflex when his brain processed cunning, or when his pride felt threatened. He kept twirling the red stone until its friction produced a rhythmic sound.

At the end of the corridor, two full steel-armored guards stood flanking teakwood double doors. The door to the palace's main bureaucracy study. The place where all gold flow, war logistics, and tax documents were filtered with cruelty before entering King Ulric's desk.

Varan did not wait for the guards to open the door for him. He pushed the wooden door roughly using his shoulder. The door leaves opened wide, creaking and striking the frame. His arrogant steps shattered the room's silence.

The stinging stench of thick ink and old parchment paper invaded Varan's nasal cavity. The air inside this room felt rigid to the bone, suffocated by bureaucracy and deposit numbers.

Behind a massive mahogany wooden desk, a man sat rigidly without residual movement. Edward.

Edward possessed a body posture refusing to relax, without leeway in his shoulders and devoid of casual curves in his back. His white shirt and dark robe fitted flawlessly. His collar buttoned tightly to the extreme until it pressed the base of his neck, locking his posture with precision without gaps. Both his clean hands moved mechanically over piles of royal documents.

Varan stepped inside, approaching the desk with footsteps stomped on purpose.

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Edward did not even lift his gaze from the parchment paper. The man's sharp eyes kept tracing the tax deposit number columns under the oil lamp light. Those numbers were proof. Records of swelling logistics funds and wheat harvests falling far below quota. Evidence of corruption manipulated with caution by Varan all this time. The tip of his quill scratched the paper surface over and over.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The friction sound of the metal pen dominated the room, counting every gold coin embezzled.

A wordless insult. An insult delivered on purpose.

Varan's blood began to boil. Sweat flowed heavier from his temples, soaking his expensive silk collar worth hundreds of gold coins. He was the noble ruling the largest logistics granary in the border territory. He held control over thousands of soldier stomachs. And this rigid bureaucrat before him refused to grant him eye contact as if he were a mangy dog.

Varan stopped right in front of the desk. He placed both his jewel-ring-filled palms onto the mahogany wooden board. His rings clashed with the desk, creating a loud noise demanding attention.

Edward's quill stopped moving.

Silence froze between them. The room temperature dropped five degrees.

Edward placed his pen down with a measured and regulated motion. The man took a black leather-bound ledger from the pile on his left side. The financial and logistics report book from Varan's territory.

Edward lifted the ledger, then threw it roughly to the center of the desk.

Thud.

The thick impact sent fine dust flying from the surface of piled parchments. Dust particles drifted in the air, falling and dirtying Varan's expensive silk robe.

Varan tensed rigidly. The veins around his fat-folded neck bulged hard.

Edward finally lifted his face. His eyes stared straight. Cold as ice. Piercing straight into Varan's fat and arrogance without a single speck of fear.

"We are in difficult times, Noble Varan," Edward's voice cut through the room's air. His intonation was flat, rigid, and full of demands. "Fix the financial reports from your territory."

Varan's jaw locked tight. His molars ground. This man summoned him all the way from the western territory just to throw a report book in his face? He had hoarded wheat neat, manipulated taxes with mature calculation, and built his wealth with extreme caution under the kingdom's nose. He would not let this bureaucrat ruin his filthy business empire.

Varan opened his mouth, preparing to vomit an arrogant defense.

Yet Edward cut him off before a single syllable escaped those stocky lips.

"Because you were once my comrade in arms," Edward continued, tilting his head a fraction, his tone dropping into a subtle demeaning threat. "This time I am reprimanding you."

That sentence embedded straight. Tearing the core of Varan's arrogance.

Comrade in arms. Those words sounded like poison to Varan's ears. Edward was reminding him of the past. A time where both of them had not yet sat in seats of power. But the meaning had now changed. Edward was asserting his position. Edward was King Ulric's right hand, the ruler of bureaucracy, while Varan was merely a subordinate being reprimanded like a child.

The ego and Sin of Greed inside Varan's blood churned feral. This bureaucrat man had just trampled his pride to the bottom of the marble floor.

Varan's stocky face turned deep red. His body temperature spiked drastic. His breaths roared rough, spewing hot air from his nose. He stared into Edward's eyes. He wanted to draw the sword at his waist and cleave the man's rigid neck this exact second.

A boy from a lowly family. The voice inside Varan's head screamed wild. Just because you became Ulric's pet dog, you dare bark at me? I should be the one sitting in that chair.

Varan uttered not a single word. He knew challenging the king's right hand inside the palace was suicide. Ulric's armored forces stood in every corridor corner, ready to decapitate anyone daring to raise their voice.

He pulled his palms from the desk. His stocky body pivoted rough. The expensive silk wet with sweat clung uncomfortable to his back skin. His footsteps struck the study floor with tightly suppressed anger. He stepped out. The teakwood double doors slammed shut. The sound echoed bouncing in the marble corridor.

Varan walked fast tracing the palace's Gothic corridor. His breaths hunted. Sweat mixed with grease soaked his entire face. He ignored the soldiers and servants bowing in fear seeing his arrival.

The rusted light from The Red Ring illuminated his face again through the stained glass. The demons in the glass painting appeared to laugh at his humiliation once more.

His left hand crawled down. His ring-filled fingers crushed the ornamental sword hilt at his waist. He crushed the gold-plated metal with extreme force. His knuckles turned white enduring the pressure of wrath. The veins on the back of his hand emerged, threatening to burst.

This humiliation demanded blood. Edward had crossed the line. That lowly boy forgot who held control over the soldiers' food granaries. Lacking wheat from his territory, Ulric's forces would starve to death at the border. That lowly bureaucrat did not deserve to insult him.

Varan stopped at the end of the palace's main staircase corridor. His eyes glared sharp toward Edward's study door in the distance.

His right thumb twirled the ruby ring over and over. The gemstone friction sounded loud. A filthy plan began forming inside his greedy brain.

"Enjoy your chair, Edward." Varan hissed. His voice laden with poison and pure vengeance. "I swear I will use your skull as my wine goblet one day."