Page 35 of Vicious Kings
Third floor, finally. The east wing stretches before me, a hallway lined with doors that all look identical except for the numbers etched in flowing script. The carpet here is even more ridiculous, if that's possible. It actually seems to glow faintly.
Room 313. I pause outside, hand on the doorknob, and take a deep breath. Whatever princess nightmare awaits me on the other side of this door, I need to keep my shit together. Play the part. Be the confused, grateful omega who's justsohappy to be here.
Even if I'd rather set myself on fire.
I turn the handle and step inside.
Pink. So much fucking pink.
It's like someone murdered a flamingo and used its corpse to decorate. Pink curtains, pink bedspread, pink throw pillows arranged with a psychotic degree of order. Pink fairy lights strung around a pink canopy bed. Even the fucking walls have a pink tinge to them, though that might just be the reflection from all the other pink.
This is like the final boss of Fae interior design.
The room is bigger than my entire quarters back at the compound. Hell, it's bigger than most people's homes. Two beds on opposite sides, each with its own sitting area, vanity, and what looks like a walk-in closet. The window between them offers a view of the gardens that would probably be breathtaking if I wasn't so busy being appalled by the sheer excess of it all.
My side of the room is mercifully neutral. White bedding, dark wood furniture, nothing that makes me want to claw my eyes out. And oh, there are the trunks that went flying when Headmaster Valemyre teleported me. How convenient.
I drop my trunks onto the bed. I took only the pieces that didn't make me want to cringe, and that didn't leave much. A few changes of clothes, basic toiletries, and nothing that could even remotely be used as a weapon. Madame Loriyne insisted on filling the rest with shit I'm never going to wear voluntarily.
I need to get to whatever passes for shops around here. Stock up on basics and see if I can find anything that might work as a weapon. The mirror on my vanity catches my eye. It's good quality glass, nice sharp edges if broken right. But that's a last resort. I need something more subtle, something that won't immediately scream "this bitch is planning a murder."
The gardens below are even more ridiculous from this vantage point. Flowers that definitely don't exist in nature blooming in every color imaginable. Fountains that create little rainbows in their spray, paths that seem to lead nowhere and everywhere at once.
I'm not in the real world anymore. This is a dollhouse, a perfectly curated fantasy designed to make omegas forget that they're essentially livestock with pretty collars.
Time to explore the campus and see what I'm working with.
The hallways are less crowded now, most of the omegas apparently having better things to do than gawk at the new girl. I make my way back down the stairs, trying to memorize thelayout. The building is a maze of corridors and common rooms, each more lavishly decorated than the last.
Outside, the air smells like honey with an undertone of magic. The paths are clearly marked, little signs in that flowing script that transforms into English before my eyes pointing toward various destinations. Shops, cafeteria, library, classroom buildings. All very organized, all very civilized.
All very much a cage with prettier bars.
The shopping district, becauseof coursethis place has a fucking shopping district, is a collection of buildings that look like they were designed by someone with a severe allergy to straight lines. Everything curves and flows, windows displaying goods that shimmer and shine.
The moment I step onto the main thoroughfare, the stares begin again. Omegas in elaborate gowns pause mid-conversation to watch me pass. A few Fae students, easy to spot with their otherworldly beauty and arrogance, look at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hunger.
Great. Just what I need. Supernatural attention.
I duck into what looks like a clothing store, hoping to find something practical. Pants, maybe. A jacket that doesn't look like it was made for a fairy princess.
The shop is a nightmare of tulle and lace. Gowns that look like they weigh more than I do hang from racks that seem to go on forever. Skirts in every possible configuration, from floor-length monstrosities to things that barely qualify as belts. Corsets that look more like torture devices than clothing.
"Can I help you?" The shopkeeper, a Fae woman with silver hair piled in an elaborate updo, looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe.
"Pants?" I ask hopefully. "Just... regular pants?"
She blinks at me like I've asked for a unicorn steak. "Pants? Whatever for?"
"To... wear?" I gesture at my current outfit, which apparently horrifies her even more.
"My dear," she says in a tone that suggests I've lost my mind, "omegas don't wear pants. It's simply not done."
"But—"
"We have some lovely skirts that might suit you. Perhaps something in lavender? It would complement your complexion beautifully."
I want to scream. I want to grab her by her perfect silver hair and explain that I need pants because it's really fucking hard to fight in a skirt. Especially one like this. But instead, I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
