Willios sank to his knee. How strange....a thing he had done a thousand times without thinking, and now it just seemed so wrong.
The act landed him directly beneath the thing that had once been his prince and now looked like a wound in a god's face. He risked a glance up and found himself caught by two lifeless slits of iron: the mask that hid whatever rot Mavius's flesh had become. The eyes behind it stared down with an impassive, hungry calm.
He let his gaze fall to the dust at his boots. The keep smelled of tallow; the wind outside carried the distant clatter of men and the muffled creak of wood.
This wasn't a very rich city....
When at last he spoke it was with his face still bent. "Your Imperial Majesty." The words felt small in the room.
"Lord Willios." The reply scraped out of Mavius like gravel. There was pleasure in the rasp, perhaps it was just him happy to see him, but nonetheless it just came out wrong.
