The crown didn't shine. It was a dull, greasy yellow.
Solar sat in his high-backed chair, watching King Arthur. The office was freezing—Solar had turned the climate control down to 9 degrees. He wanted the King to shiver. He wanted the royal blood to turn into thick, cold sludge. The air smelled of expensive wax and the sour, sharp scent of an old man's fear. A King in arrears was a pathetic sight. Like a dog with its teeth pulled out.
"The interest, Arthur. It's a parasite. It doesn't care about your bloodline. It just wants to feed."
Solar's voice was a dry, hollow rasp. It cut through the silence. He leaned forward, the light from the desk lamp casting skeletal shadows across his face. CLICK. He snapped his pen shut. The sound was like a bone breaking. CRACK.
"The southern provinces are burning, Solar," the King whispered. His voice was thin. Reedy. The voice of a man who had forgotten how to breathe. "The grain stores are empty. My people... they are eating the leather off their boots. I cannot pay. Not this month. Not the dividend."
Solar laughed. A cold, jagged sound. HA. HA. "Your people? Arthur, you lost them years ago. The moment you signed the first bond. They aren't yours. They're line items. Their hunger? A projected loss. Their death? A tax write-off. I don't care about their boots. I care about my principal. I care about the math."
He stood up. CREAK. The leather of his chair sounded like a dying gasp. Solar walked to the window. He looked out at the black wound of the city. High above, the Royal Palace sat on the hill—a golden cage that Solar already owned. He just hadn't changed the locks yet.
"The Shadow Architect," the King said. His hands were shaking on the mahogany. "He offered me a deal. He said he could buy back the bonds. He said the Crown could be... free again."
Solar turned around. Slow. Predatory. His eyes were two shards of frozen grey slate. He walked back to the desk and slammed a thick, iron-bound folder onto the wood. BOOM. The King flinched. His eyes were wide. Pathetic.
"Free?" Solar hissed. His face was inches from the King's. He could smell the King's stale breath—wine and decay. "Freedom is for those who don't owe me a billion credits. The 'Shadow' is selling you a dream so he can lead you to the gallows. If you listen to him, I won't just liquidate your treasury. I'll liquidate your name. I'll make sure your ancestors are remembered as the beggars who sold Aethelgard for a loaf of moldy bread."
Elias stood in the corner. A nervous shadow. He held a silver platter with a single glass of water. Solar took it. He didn't drink. He poured it slowly onto the floor. SPLASH. The water soaked into the expensive carpet. A dark, ugly stain.
"That is your kingdom, Arthur," Solar whispered. "A stain. A memory. Sign the addendum. 15% compound interest. Monthly. And I want the royal mines. Every ounce of gold. Every drop of sweat from your miners' lungs."
The King looked at the pen. It was obsidian. It looked like a claw. SCRATCH. SCRATCH. The sound of the King signing his surrender was the only thing in the room. Like a rat gnawing at the foundations of a throne. Solar watched him. A detached, cruel curiosity. A bug under a boot.
"The Crown's price is paid," Solar said. He took the parchment. He blew on the wet ink. A terrifying gentleness. "Get out, Arthur. Leave the crown on the desk. You're too weak to wear it anyway."
The King stood up. His legs wobbled. He looked at the gold crown—now just a piece of collateral. He stumbled out. A broken ghost in a frayed robe.
"Elias!" Solar barked.
Elias jumped. "Yes, sir?"
"Melt it down. Turn it into coins. I want the people to spend their 'King' in the shops tomorrow. Let them see what their loyalty is worth in the market. Two loaves of bread for a piece of his majesty."
Solar sat back down. He felt a sudden, sharp thrill. The hunt was getting close. The Shadow was moving, but Solar had the keys.
CLINK. CLINK.
He flipped his gold sovereign. The metal felt warm. Human. He poured a fresh glass of clear, perfectly filtered water. He drank it slowly. He savored the chill. He didn't feel the cold anymore. He didn't feel the doubt. He just felt the math.
The interest never sleeps. And in Aethelgard, even Kings pay the price. In full. In blood.