The Reborn Sovereign Chapter 50: Gold on the Walls

Chapter 50: Chapter 50: Gold on the Walls

The next morning, Liam was escorted to the palace by a royal security team that behaved with the excessive politeness usually reserved for explosives and politically inconvenient relatives.

He disliked it immediately.

Not the escort itself. That part was expected. George had summoned him as king, privately and mandatorily, which meant the route, the guards, and the little theater of discretion were all part of the performance. What Liam disliked was the care with which everyone pretended this was courtesy rather than containment.

Two guards traveled in the front vehicle. Two in the rear. One rode beside him in silence with the expression of a man who had been told Lord Liam Canmore was either a dominant omega, a national complication, or some combination of both and had wisely decided not to form personal opinions before lunch.

Liam sat by the window and watched Alexandria go by.

The capital always looked more convincing from a distance. At street level, the seams showed. Beautiful paving over old drainage neglect. Towering ether-lit facades two districts away from rationed pressure lines. Glass and gold and polished state confidence rising out of a kingdom that still let outer districts freeze if the budget needed a prettier quarter.

By the time the palace gates opened, Liam was already in a mood.

The part of the palace the escort took him through was unfamiliar.

That annoyed him too.

Not because he wanted to know the king’s private corridors, but because he knew enough about municipal distribution to understand exactly how much power it took to keep this section of the building looking effortless. The halls were wider here, the ceilings higher, the stone lighter, and the decorative warding more expensive and less useful. Gold architectural lines climbed the walls in ornamental flourishes that served no structural purpose whatsoever. Ether lamps burned behind carved crystal panels. Floor inlays gleamed with imported stone so polished they reflected the guards’ boots in long, distorted streaks.

Outside Alexandria’s wealthy center, people were still measuring heating by district and luck.

Inside, George had built himself a mausoleum for taste.

Liam walked through it with his jaw set.

He was dressed according to the code.

That did not mean he had cooperated enthusiastically.

His suit was dark charcoal, perfectly cut, severe at the shoulders, with a high-collared white shirt and no jewelry beyond a functional watch. Formal enough to deny insult. Plain enough to refuse participation in whatever decorative fantasy George had attached to the meeting. His hair was tied back neatly. His face was calm. His expression suggested that if anyone tried to pin a ceremonial crest to him, he might use it as a weapon.

One of the guards opened a set of double doors and gestured him through.

"This way, my lord."

Liam did not thank him.

He stepped into another corridor, this one even quieter than the last, lined with tall windows, heavy drapes, and portraits of dead royals who had almost certainly done less for the kingdom than the average municipal pressure valve. The silence here was curated. Expensive. The kind of silence that wealthy men preferred because it implied that everyone else had been moved far enough away not to disturb them.

The escort slowed at the final door.

"His Majesty is expecting you."

That was, Liam thought, a deeply irritating sentence. George had been expecting him for years whenever the family needed a technical miracle, a bloodline convenience, or an omega-shaped silence.

Still.

Liam stopped before the reflective panel inset beside the doors and looked at himself once. He was healed and looked as good as he could get with a shower, decent tailoring, and active resentment.

The doors opened.

Liam stepped inside prepared to meet the king.

There was no one there.

Of course.

He stopped three paces into the room and let the silence confirm it. No rustle of clothing from the inner alcove. No soft, courtly cough meant to remind him he had entered a superior man’s presence. No king.

Naturally George was late.

When had George ever waited for anyone? Men like him treated punctuality the way they treated accountability: as something other people owed.

Liam looked around.

Then immediately regretted having eyes.

The room was luxurious, yes, but not in any way that suggested intelligence had been consulted during its creation. It had the sort of wealth that arrived first and taste that never arrived at all. Gold ornamentation climbed the walls in thick, unnecessary lines, each curl and flourished edge trying so hard to look important that the whole room felt as though it had been decorated by an insecure treasurer with access to a monarchy. The ceiling was painted in pale allegories no one living had likely cared enough to understand. The drapes were too heavy, the carpets too ornate, the tables too carved, and the chairs too proud of themselves. Every surface gleamed with effort.

Nothing harmonized.

Nothing breathed.

It was not luxury that Liam resented.

Luxury, when done well, could be quiet. It could have line, proportion, and intention. This had none of that. This was money laid over insecurity until the insecurity became architecture.

His gaze moved from one gilded offense to another, and his irritation grew with every second.

The room looked expensive in the way a lie looked elaborate.

Then his eyes landed on the piano.

It stood near the far windows, half-turned toward the light as though the room had failed to deserve it and it knew. A grand piano, black and deep as still water, its lacquered surface catching only what light it wanted. The lines were clean. Elegant. The legs were carved, but with restraint instead of money panic. The keys, visible beneath the raised lid, were ivory and dark wood rather than polished veneer. Even at a glance, Liam could tell the instrument had not been chosen to impress guests. It had been made to be played.

Which made it entirely wrong for the room.

Liam walked toward it almost despite himself.

The closer he got, the stranger the contrast became. The rest of the chamber shouted. The piano did not. It carried itself with the confidence that the room around it had spent a fortune attempting and failing to emulate.

He stopped beside it and looked down.

There were faint marks near the bench. Tiny abrasions in the floor lacquer. Real use. Not much. Not recent. But enough to tell him the instrument had not lived its entire life as decoration.

His fingers hovered over the polished edge of the body, not touching. The craftsmanship was extraordinary. Not new, either. Older than the room, perhaps. Older than most of the things George likely valued enough to name.

"Of course," Liam muttered to the empty chamber. "The only object in this room with any dignity is probably here by accident."

The silence offered no correction.

He glanced back toward the door.

Still no king.

Wonderful.

George had summoned him mandatorily, dressed the room like a terrible dowry, and then failed to appear on time to his own performance. Liam would have been offended if he had not already built so much of his emotional infrastructure around low expectations.

He turned back to the piano.

There was something deeply offensive about its presence here. Not because it was beautiful, but because it was beautiful here, surrounded by all this gold-plated vulgarity like a living thing trapped in a tax collector’s fantasy.

Liam narrowed his eyes at it.

"Who did you belong to before this room ruined itself around you?" he asked quietly.

"Do you like it?" A voice broke the silence of the room.