Rex felt the cold sweat run down his spine, sudden and sharp, and in that moment he knew, this wasn't a dream. Not the kind that blurs when you blink. Not the kind that cracks the moment you pinch yourself.
It wasn't even the absurdity of it, waking up inside some novel he'd half-read in a cell, back when books were little more than prescriptions shoved at him by his shrink. No, the real weight pressing on him came from something else entirely.
He had escaped death. Again.
Hours ago, he was a condemned man, one of the highest-ranking criminals, shackled and waiting for the executioner's clock to strike. He had already joked about his last meal, laughed in the face of it, because what else was there left to do? And yet, here he was now.
Alive, sitting on a throne gilded in real gold, a crown fit too well, and that unsettled him.
It wasn't his crown, it belonged to the balding drunk they had dragged out moments earlier, the old king stripped of dignity as much as regalia.
Rex didn't want to think about that man, didn't want to picture the sagging jowls or the slobbering mouth. Because when he looked now, when he tilted the golden sceptre and caught sight of his reflection.
He saw someone else entirely.
The sceptre's polished surface gave a distorted sheen, but even through the warping glow he could make out the sharp cut of dark hair, the angular lines of a younger face. And the eyes. Shit, the eyes.
They weren't his. They couldn't be.
Red, unnatural, glowing faintly. At first, he thought it was some trick of the gold, a reflection muddled by the sheen. But the longer he stared, the clearer they became.
A crimson so vivid it looked painted on.
And that triggered something. A detail from the novel he'd skimmed, barely remembered until now. The bloodline of Aurex. Red eyes, a trait that marked them, almost like a curse or a banner. The children of Aurex had them, most of them at least, and the prose had hammered that point like it mattered.
Which meant he wasn't just wearing the crown of Aurex Valemont. He was inside the skin of Aurex Valemont.
When he raised his gaze from the sceptre, the hall had shifted. Nobles in their gaudy silks and ridiculous wigs crowded around, smiling too wide, clapping too loud. On the surface, they gleamed with joy, glee spilling from their voices as they cheered Aurex's name.
But when his crimson eyes swept across them, they flinched. Subtle.
But he saw it, the way their eyes darted aside, the curl of their lips breaking for just a moment, the grimace they couldn't quite bury. Disgust.
It was a look he knew.
The same look neighbors gave when they passed him on the street back home, when mothers pulled their children a little closer, when shopkeepers tightened their grip on coin purses. Words like disdain and revulsion didn't quite capture it.
No, this was the look of people who saw you as something beneath them, something spoiled, something wrong.
And now he saw it stamped across every noble face in the chamber. The glee wasn't for him, not for their new king. No, their joy was a mask, a performance, hiding the real thought that pulsed behind their eyes.
What can we take from him?
Rex leaned back against the throne, the crown heavy on his head, and realized, he hadn't escaped death. He had only traded it for something worse.
Rex let out a sharp, unrestrained "ha," the sound bouncing off the vaulted ceiling like a laugh and a bark rolled into one. A few heads turned his way, brows furrowing, but he didn't bother to rein it in. He had just realized something, and the irony hit him square in the gut.
Trash would always exist.
Didn't matter how polished the floor was, how spotless the chandeliers, how gilded the throne. Even in the most pristine rooms, filth found its way in. And here, in this hall of silk and unnatural colored hairs, he could smell it stronger than anywhere else.
The cleanest room he had ever set foot in was crawling with the dirtiest things alive.
A man in white robes and dripping jewelry clapped his hands together, voice rising above the din. "One by one! Approach the King and offer your congratulations."
And like dogs waiting for scraps, the nobles lined up.
Rex slouched against the throne, crown lopsided, and watched them shuffle forward in their layers of lace and perfume. Their smiles were brittle things, masks stretched too thin, their eyes darting not at him but at the crown, the sceptre, the gilded steps beneath his feet.
The first one bowed so low his red hair nearly slipped off. "Your Majesty, what a glorious day for Aurex. I knew from the start it would be you."
Rex smirked. "Really? That's funny. I didn't even know it would be me until five minutes ago."
A ripple of uneasy chuckles, then the noble quickly pressed a velvet box into his hands. "A small token. May it remind you of our family's loyalty."
He cracked it open. A gaudy ring, more stone than band. Rex tilted his head. "Pretty. Shame it looks like something you'd fish out of a pawn shop window."
The noble's jaw twitched confused and muttering about 'pawn shop?', but he bowed again and scurried off, nearly tripping over the corpse lying in the center of the room.
And then the next came. And the next.
Each one dripped honeyed words.
"You wear the crown so well, my King."
"You must remember the support my house has long given the Valemont's."
"Surely you recall how I predicted this day would come?"
And Rex, in turn, threw honey laced with glass.
"Your wig's almost as straight as your smile."
"That dress? Very slimming. Hides everything except your greed."
"You've got the kind of face only your tailor could love."
A few flinched, a few went pale, someone even ask 'what's a wig?' at one point but none dared stop. They pressed their gifts forward anyway, boxes, goblets, scrolls, trinkets, and muttered how thoughtful they were, how significant, how he must never forget their aid before his rise, nor neglect them now that he sat the throne.
Rex watched, half-amused, half-sickened.
They didn't even bother to skirt the pool of blood at the foot of the dais. No, they stepped straight through it, shoes sinking into red, and only sneered, not at the body cooling on the marble, but at the mess staining their polished heels.
Not horror. Not pity. Just disgust that the floor had been 'dirtied'.
Rex didn't frown, didn't twitch, didn't scowl like some wide-eyed fool might've.
This wasn't new to him.
Back home, he'd seen worse.
He'd seen people step over a starving kid curled up against a wall, ignoring the hollow-eyed dog lying right beside him. Neither had much left in them, and Rex remembered thinking the only question was which would die first so the other could eat.
That was the world. And this was no different.