"You are dismissed" The man said after listening to what the grey priest had to say.
"Yes, Malakor." The priest bowed, more than once, then rushed out of the door.
Malakor who now sat on his own in a dimly lit room struck one of his rings gently, and similar to how magicians perform tricks, a bottle of red wine, and a wine glass appeared in front of him.
The bottle was unmistakable, Château Pétrus, a Pomerol that cost more than most people earned in a year.
He poured it with the practised ease of someone who had tasted wealth so long it no longer impressed him, the wine falling into the glass like liquid ruby, swirling once before settling.
He raised it to his lips and sipped slowly, savouring it the way only those born into excess could.
"See, you got it wrong. It did not go as planned." Malakor spoke to empty air.
If the grey apostle, or the people standing guard outside were here, they would have thought of him as a fool, who could he be speaking to in an empty room.
