Elias was in hell.
Not a metaphor. Not an exaggeration. A handcrafted, gold-gilded, silence-padded hell scented faintly of bergamot, glass polish, and generational expectations.
A few feet away, a crown sat on a pedestal under a spotlight like it was waiting for a sacrifice. Beside it, the first of three massive wardrobe racks gleamed with custom tailoring tags, embroidery samples, and fabric rolls that probably cost more per meter than his university tuition had per year.
And at the center of it all, seated like the patient architect of his unraveling, was Ego Numen.
Slightly shorter than Victor. Same sharp jawline. Same deep black hair that didn't dare go grey. Same crimson eyes that looked through you like they were reading your quarterly performance report in real time. And unlike Victor, he was not a god.
But Elias had never met anyone more frighteningly divine in presence.
