The Grand Magus sat back in his chair by the fire, observing orange motes fly into the air as they were catapulted from their wooden beds, watching as they danced hissing and crackling around the hearth like gleeful demons.
Assassins sent to kill him, military uprisings instigated to usurp him, people scheming in the shadows; they were all bastards.
He took another swig from his tankard; let his arm hang loosely over the side of the chair.
They all thought that they knew better didn’t they? All thought that they could run a fucking empire spanning many worlds…blithering idiots. Let them come; he was ready for them, ready for all of them.
Well, fuck ‘em.
Another swig from the tankard, softly bubbling deep gold nectar washing down his throat and sloshing into his stomach like it belonged there.
He sighed, both in satisfaction and despondency.
The thing was, none of them really understood. They all thought that they could do better than him, none of them content with their lot (mind you, why would they be? He wasn’t. Yeah, but…), and they all wanted to take his place…but they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand everything he did, every day. They didn’t know how much work it was, holding all of this together and keeping it running.
They just wanted to barge in here, knock him down and take his place.
He looked into the shadows of his tankard, picturing its depths as bottomless.
L’appel du vide; appeal of the fucking void…
He took another swig.