no masters or kings when the ritual begins;

[trash_uncle]

'I've never been called 'Your Majesty' before; Would you do me the honor?'

He hadn't expected the man to agree: but then again, everyone had their breaking point. He knew that better than most.

"This world means nothing to me--"

The ring had been held out then and what a small, tempting thing it was, the small gem being the focal point of the tableau painted before him. A man whose love and loyalty to a single person had eclipsed his care for the rest of the world. Pride cracking and breaking, choosing to prioritize a man's life over that of the world and its future, offering out the object needed for the Chosen King's ascension to their enemy. Shakily dipping to a knee, lips pressing together in a tight line, as though struggling, before whispering out:

"Your Majesty."

Choosing one life over the entire world.

It wasn't expected. But in a way, Ardyn preferred that. Surprises were few and far between, this far into his life.

He'd planned on leaving the young retainer bloodied and dying: a physical motive for the prince to ascend, rather than continue prolonging this game. (Emerge from the crystal and be struck down, thwarting the gods' prophecies, or finally be killed and earn oblivion himself. Either option, he was looking forward to.) But now-- now there was another possibility.

As the battered man kneels, ring held out as an offering of loyalty, Ardyn takes a careful step forward, rolling the words over in his mind. 'Your Majesty-' It struck him somewhere in the chest, thrumming like a string had been plucked, reverberating out and into his limbs, his fingertips. A numb, tingling feeling of sheer pleasure at the unexpected acquiescence. He could still kill the man. Still let Noctis ascend. Or--

(take it for yourself. rule as you were always meant to, as the gods denied you. take the ring, the crystal-- take the man. take what the so-called chosen had, make it your own.)

The thoughts echo harshly in his mind- his own, or those of the scourge and darkness manifest within himself, he's never known or cared. The result is the same- nodding along as though to suggestions only he can hear as he carefully reaches out to pluck the ring from Ignis's offering hand. "And I suppose you'd be my first sworn subject, then." With little fanfare, he slips the ring onto one of his own fingers- a small flash of light attempts to gleam from the gem held between the small ornate setting, but it dies quickly enough, coated with a light film of a dark, sludge-like secretion.

Ardyn's lips quirk up, head tilted slightly. This would be an even better offense to the gods and the Kings of Lucis still trapped within the realm of the crystal and the ring.

He holds his hand out towards where Ignis kneels, as though prompting a formal kiss to the gem set on his finger. "Swear it, and your little princeling will go unharmed. You'll have my royal oath." Again, there's that thrum of excitement, of pleasure-- one he'd hardly felt in centuries.

Oh, yes. He could quickly get used to this.