"Interesting," the Inspector whispered, staring at the boy on the throne.
But the man leading the Royal Guards, however, looked like he was fighting a very personal war right now.
His face had swollen into a furious, congested red.
His cheeks puffed up, as his lips pulled tight, and his entire expression twisted into that deeply unfortunate look of a man trying to force out something that stubbornly refused to leave.
He stomped forward, boots slamming against stone floor.
His gauntleted hand clamped around the hilt of his broadsword so tightly the leather creaked in protest.
"You insolent little cunt!" The guard roared, his voice thick with rage and spit. "Get your worthless little off that chair before I rip you off it myself!"
"That seat belongs to those granted the powers bestowed upon them by the King! Not for some sewer-bred mongrel to rest his muddy boots!"
The Royal Guards behind him bristled, hands hovering over weapons, magic flickering in their eyes.
