for the throne — adam. [one shot]

The thing Adam understood about power, was that it can be given as effortlessly as it can be taken away. Power was not a permanent tattoo over one’s heart, no; it was washable ink, staining a person’s dress red. It was transient and ephemeral, water and molasses dripping from slender fingers, and had to maintained perfectly when you had it.

Adam’s parents hadn’t maintained it well – they let their own greed paint their hearts black, rot it – but he was not his parents. He was the concrete, substantial proof that all broken bones, when given the time to heal, grew harder and sturdier.

   He was a story of resilience and resurrection.

The cologne Beryl sprayed on his coat’s collar as his way of saying ‘good luck’ kept Adam’s thoughts sharp and mind awake as he made his way to Malcolm Nox’s chambers; the scent was a concoction of all sweet things, from peach leaves to raw vanilla, and he could taste it even upon his tongue too, a heavy, addicting flavor.

This scent reminded him, faintly, that Beryl Fillis was save from elimination and he was not—a thought that unnerved Adam on a whim. Their dynamic was a vague line between pleasure and ecstasy, rose-scented robes and kisses that tasted like cherries, and sometimes, it managed to unfold beyond carnal delights, but learning about Beryl’s exclusion filled his chest with a jealousy he couldn’t disregard. They were supposed to be equals, princes with the same number of jewels in their crowns, but as of right now, Beryl’s headpiece seemed grander, chockfull of sapphires, whilst Adam’s was rusted and decaying.

Agitated, he clawed at his own coat and discarded it near the door to Malcolm’s office before making his way in, grace in each step he took.

   Power was familiar to Adam;

he knew how to cultivate and nurture it. Individuals that bristled with power were even more familiar because they loitered around Adam’s former kitchen often, gold champagne flutes in their gloved hands. He knew how to regard them, how to open conversation with them. He was the puppeteer here, strings wound about his fingertips.

“Hello, sire,” Adam greeted with a light smile, not too outstretched but not too taut either. “It’s a peculiar time you chose – midnight – not the best for making decisions.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and, slowly, inched closer to the man until his thighs were pressed against the back of the two chairs behind his desk. “But, that’s why I am here, to help you make decisions.” Adam hadn’t rehearsed this, but he had no need to. He’d memorized the cards in his deck, and knew the locations of the pieces on the chessboard. The king was cornered and exposed; this was a checkmate.

“I do hope you’ve pondered about this, Mr. Taupe.” Malcolm said, his voice unyielding. 

Adam laughed at that, a throaty noise that ended in an ear-to-ear grin. “Of course, Mr. Nox,” he lied, but would not show that he had.

Images swarm in his head, faces of the eleven other interns, and he stopped to regard the ones that shone the most in his mind.

A hand reached into the pocket of his trousers and fished out a small pocket-knife, intricate and sharp, that he began to toy around with. It was an object made delicately and with precision, the steel cuts meticulous and the details flawless, but it was just a mere knife, a sharp-edge with a hilt at its end.

“I found this in your kitchen and it reminded me of someone—Blaine. A knife can be so many things but it only has one universal use and that is to cut. Blaine is like a knife, made solely to wound and to cut. As he ages, his sharp edges will become duller and duller until, one day, he becomes nothing but a blunt knife, unable to do the one thing it was designed to. He will dismantle the empire you’ve built, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. Boys like him, they’re made to destroy and to pick fights, nothing more.”

   His finger rested itself on the knife’s sharp tooth.

“Next—Amrin. Remember the little assignment you gave us a few months ago, where we had to find a file? Amrin and I failed, and all of the blame is on her. She’s too analytical for her own good, using information and blueprints and charts and reports as a safety net because, Mr. Nox, she is also too paranoid, anxious, agitated, unnerved! She depends on her brain for everything and, sometimes, the brain isn’t always the best organ to rely on. The brain is the source of stupidity, Mr. Nox.”

   A palm wounded itself around the knife’s hilt. 

“Last, but not least—Harvey. What is a stone like him going to bring to the table? Emotional trauma? Harvey and Coralie are at the ends of a spectrum, the former being the poorest and the latter being the proudest. He doesn’t understand our lives, the sacrifices we have to make, the rules we have to break.”

Swiftly, Adam hurled the blade and it embedded itself in the wall, inches apart from Malcolm’s forehead. A dead-shot, he mused, a check-mate.

“I am the rightful heir to your power, Mr. Nox. I have had power before and this time, I will do anything to make sure that it stays within my grasp.” He rasped, hands pressing themselves hard against the veneer of Malcolm’s table, eyes ablaze.

“You'll understand my worth and I'll get the power I am worthy of—one way, or another.”