Karmic looks over the rim of his teacup, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He hates holding council. Every-fucking-week he meets with this group of manipulative and malleable fools to discuss the decisions that he should be making with his queen. They sicken him.

All of them.

“There were two, last night. Found on Barlington Avenue once the sun rose.” The speaker, a woman of only five feet with eyes the color of gold, stands from her seat. She attempts to look into the King’s soul, likely trying to work her disgusting empathetic powers through his pores.

He swallows his sip of tea, his face contemplative. It needs more sugar. “How is this any different from any other murder in the nation? Why is this important enough to bring to council?” He stands, heading to his bar cart where a bowl of sugar cubes resides. Empaths are his least favorite of all the sourcers.

They’re nosy by nature, and as such, they’re a pain for him to deal with. If it wasn’t written in the nation’s constitution, he certainly wouldn’t have one as an adviser to the crown. But alas, his ancestors sought to appease everyone.

The only reason he had brought an empath into his cast of consorts was so that he might learn their weaknesses. And he has. Melody is his one and only empath. Unfortunately for him, she had given him… what is his name? Bartholomew? The first of his weak children.

Ah well, both will be dealt with soon enough.

“Well, your majesty, they were both High Mages. The crown’s High Mages, to be exact.” His hand stills over the sugar bowl, his eyes narrowing. Karmic turns to look at the group that watches him carefully.

“My high mages have been murdered?” The empath nods, recoiling at the change in his tone. The crown employs only six High Mages, each a master in their discipline. Karmic had scouted them all himself. He has seen them in action, and most, with the exception of the empath, had been able to hold their own against him for at least five minutes.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

They were powerful. He grits his teeth. So how did they end up smeared along the grounds of the capital’s shopping avenue? He turns back to his sugar, dumping three cubes into his tea with solid plops. “Which ones?” He stirs the forms with his finger, steam rising.

Mathew, the water naturalist, responds for her. “It was Din and Chema, your majesty.” He couldn’t care less about Din, but Chema… Chema was a soul naturalist. She could summon the spirits of dead creatures to fight for her, and she was a master at reconstructing sourcer souls.

He needed her.

Councilmen shuffle at the change in the room’s energy. Their eyes lock on his face, where his skin begins to shift. “How were they found?” If there is someone running around with the ability to kill High Mages, during a lock down no less, then they need to be found.

“They were both fully clothes, minimal markings on their bodies. There were no signs of an actual fight.” Mathew hesitates as the red scales continue to shift over Karmic’s skin.

“Tell me.”

He swallows, his eyes falling to his hands. “They… Their index fingers were cut off, your grace.” The man’s face goes solemn, as if the very picture that he’s imagining is cruel enough to force contemplation. “And they were shoved into their eyes.”

That’s the final trigger. King Karmic’s vest bursts as the spines on his back lengthen, his maroon scales now covering the entirety of his body. A horn, thick yet worn by time, protrudes from his forehead, and a tail with a nasty claw slices a hole through his trousers.

It swishes, its scales rattling like a familiar snake’s. The tips of his fingers drip purple blood as they shape into foul points. “The council will reconvene after a short recess,” King Karmic announces through the morphing of his jaw. The councilmen are scattering, their legs quickly pulling them out of the room before his last word even falls from his lips.

His chest rises and falls heavily, his vision going in and out of focus. “It has to be copycats.” He speaks to no one that can be seen. “All of them died,” He works to grab ahold of one of the many cords that stays wrapped around his neck. “All of them…” His heart slows down as soon as his fingers make contact with the cool pendant.

His mind stills as his eyes close. “It has to be copycats.” He brings the necklace to his lips as his scales shift back into smooth skin. The King swallows, his eyes opening once again.

When his fingers are no longer tipped with claws, he turns back to his bar cart.

And he makes himself another cup of tea.