[Cassius's Pov]
Tch. Pathetic.
Every single one of them approaches me with the same nauseating smile and the same syrupy tone, as if their hollow praises could please me.
"Happy birthday, Your Majesty," they chirp, voices as fake as their powdered faces and twice as irritating.
It's been exactly ten minutes since this farce began, and I already wish the ground would open up and devour the entire hall.
Ten minutes of meaningless chatter. Of cowardly nobles bowing so low, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll need to summon a physician to reattach their heads.
Idiots. All of them.
Their loyalty is as thin as the wine in their goblets and just as bitter once you get past the surface.
My fingers drum against the armrest of the throne—slow, steady, a metronome of barely contained irritation. They keep bowing. They keep smiling. They keep repeating the same brainless script like enchanted parrots.
"Oh, Your Majesty, you haven't aged a day!"
