Hawk Eyes

He stepped off the staircase.

His cold eyes were like a hawk's, sharp and brilliant orange, and little flames seemed to sparkle at his temples.

A person didn't know what power was until they laid eyes on him.

He moved with unnatural grace, strong chin held high and lithe body held on long legs, his hands tucked behind his back in an authoritative posture.

The nobles, even the old rulers, bowed before him, and he felt a small smile press at his mouth.

Smart nobles, wise nobles.

“We're honored to host your presence,” the king said, and his small eyes glinted, his pride unwilling to bow in his own kingdom.

But Cthalu could have cared less for his pride.

“I won't be long,” the man with the orange eyes said, and flames flickered on the shoulders of his cloak, matching the white, sharp-canined smile his face wore.

He brushed a hand through his oak hair, a casual gesture meant to put the room a little more at ease, but it didn't work, and he wanted to roll his eyes at these people and their paranoia.

But. . . he couldn't blame them for it either, he'd be wary of himself too.

He surveyed the room, and his eyes glinted a little brighter, “I'm looking for one Jorga Gendalla. Is he here?”

The temperature of the room seemed to drop, but it wasn't him.

It was the queen, her magic awaking at the name of the Crown Prince on the Magicker's lips.

Cthalu smile dat her, “Don't worry, I have no ill will.” He laughed, “why would I, when you walk on eggshells around me?”

No one laughed.

He twitched his mouth in mild annoyance at the loss of his joke, but didn't say anything else, choosing instead to walk further into the beautiful room.

The nobles parted for him, and you could have heard a pin drop in the silence, even the band had stopped playing, instead gripping their instruments with cold fingers.

Finally, he found the prince.

A man of 31 years, he sat with a pale-faced serving girl on his lap, her tray on the table and his dress shirt rumpled and half-untucked.

Cthalu noted with disgust that his trousers were wrinkled, and he smelt like a pig.

He was one, after all.

“Jorga,” he said with a polite smile, and the man's unkempt beard wrinkled around his mouth as the royal looked up to see who would dare call him by his name and not his title.

The harsh words never fell from his lips.

“Magicker,” he said instead, “How can I help you?”

Cthalu smiled, “Come with me.”

His Highness stood, sending the serving girl to the floor, and she whimpered, scuttling away from the men.

He paid her no mind.

Instead, he focused on the prince, “Come with me.” It wasn't a request, it was an order.

Again, the nobles parted like water, but this time, his sharp eyes caught the gazes of the curious, bolder ones.

He walked toward the staircase where he had come, able to hear the man's heavy footsteps stop at the base of the stair, and turned, foot rested on the fourth stair, “Jorga.”

Again with the names.

Oh, he loved making people uncomfortable.

He glanced at the old king and queen, “Don't worry, dear rulers, your time is not yet done.”

He smiled, and with the flash of white teeth, there was a flash of orange before both the Magicker and the Crown Prince vanished.