They did not bother to pretend it was gentle.
Hands seized Ariaxa by the arms, fingernails biting into her skin as they dragged her toward the central table. Wood and metal scraped as nobles shoved plates and goblets aside to make room for her. She caught one last glimpse of Kaedan on his throne—lounging, unreadable, black eyes like sealed doors—before her back hit the polished surface.
She exhaled with a startled gasp as her spine met cold stone.
“Face the ceiling, little sun,” Queen Rhaelle said, her voice rich with amusement. “I want to see your eyes when they realize what you are now.”
Ariaxa’s wrists were grabbed and pinned above her head. Someone kicked her knees apart, and the table vibrated with the motion. The hall roared in approval, the sound thick with wine and cruelty.
“Raise her up,” Lord Vaelen murmured lazily. “I don’t want to lean for this.”
Hands slid beneath Ariaxa’s shoulders, tilting her so her chest arched, throat bared. Heat flooded her cheeks as the neckline of her already revealing silk dragged lower. The collar at her throat hummed, heavy and tight.
Rhaelle leaned over her, horns casting hooked shadows across Ariaxa’s face. The queen’s crimson fingers brushed her ribs, traveling slowly along the line of her body. Where she touched, faint lines of glowing symbols appeared, light pulsing briefly then sinking into Ariaxa’s skin with a prickle.
Ariaxa flinched. “What are you doing?”
Rhaelle smiled, all teeth. “Marking the Emperor’s spoils for inspection.”
Her hand slid along Ariaxa’s side, lingering at the hollow of her hip before tracing another set of runes on her stomach. The sensation burned cold and hot at once, like ice left too long against flesh. Ariaxa bit down on a sound and stared at the ceiling, refusing to look at the queen’s delighted face.
“Careful, Rhaelle,” Vaelen drawled, stepping closer. His pale eyes glittered like winter light. “If you bruise the canvas too badly, the detail will be lost.” His fingers tilted Ariaxa’s chin. “Pretty,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her mouth. “All that sun blood and nowhere to run.”
She tried to jerk her head away. The hand pinning her wrists dug in harder.
“I wish to taste it,” Vaelen continued, eyes never leaving hers. “Just once.”
He drew something slim and gleaming from his belt—a needle of obsidian, wickedly sharp. Ariaxa’s chest tightened.
“No,” she rasped, struggling. “Don’t—”
He nicked the corner of her lip in one swift motion. Pain stung, sharp and bright. A drop of blood welled up, hot against the cool air.
Vaelen’s thumb caught it. He watched the smear across pale skin, then brought it to his tongue.
The court held its breath.
His eyes shuttered for a moment as he tasted, then opened with a slow, chilling smile.
“Sunfire,” he purred. “Still bright under all that dirt.”
A heavy chuckle rumbled from the other side of the table. Warden Brakus moved into view, massive, scarred, the scent of iron clinging to him like a cloak. His molten eyes traveled down Ariaxa’s body with brutally practical assessment.
“She looks like she will snap in half,” he said. His hand closed around her thigh, fingers spanning almost all the way around. He squeezed, testing muscle, pressing her leg further out. “If she breaks, does she count as ruined stock, Kaedan?”
Ariaxa’s stomach knotted. She forced herself to look beyond Brakus, toward the dais.
Kaedan sat exactly as before.
His posture was relaxed, one elbow hooked over the arm of his throne, cloak spilling in black folds. Seren lounged at his side, a picture of smug anticipation, chin tipped high. Riven stood behind him, still as carved stone, eyes shadowed.
Kaedan’s gaze was on her.
Not on Rhaelle’s runes, not on Vaelen’s bloody thumb, not on Brakus’s hand shoving her thighs further apart.
On her.
Around Ariaxa, the Blood Court descended into a frenzy. Harem slaves were hauled into laps, pushed to the floor, bent over chairs. Chains jingled, fabric tore, laughter bent into low, hungry sounds. Bodies collided at every edge of her vision. Someone screamed in breathless pleasure; someone else begged for mercy and was ignored.
Rhaelle’s hand skimmed higher, fingers pressing into the notch between Ariaxa’s ribs. Another rune seared there.
“Do you know the old protocols, little sun?” the queen asked, voice purring right against her ear. “When a ruler offers a new slave at a Convocation, they show their trust by sharing. No secrets. No favorites. No locked doors.”
Vaelen leaned in on the other side, breath sweet with wine. “And your Emperor has been very rude to keep you to himself this long.”
Brakus’s grip on her thigh tightened, his thumb pressing into the tender inner muscle. Her leg shook.
Ariaxa’s breath came fast and shallow. The collar hummed like a threat, heat pulsing at the base of her throat.
She found Kaedan again.
Their eyes met across the hall, over the heads of writhing slaves and gloating nobles. His face was a mask, carved from the same obsidian as his throne. No mercy. No softness. No outrage she could read.
But he was watching.
Ariaxa swallowed blood and fear.
Please.
She couldn’t speak it. Her mouth felt full of ash, her body held open, her dignity stretched thin across the table like something about to split. So she spoke with her eyes instead, every thought stripped bare.
Please. Not them.
Take me. Use me. Hurt me if you must. Break me yourself. Just—just don’t let them.
I will kneel. I will obey. I will be what you want.
Just not this.
Rhaelle’s lips brushed the cut on her mouth, tongue flicking out to steal the last trace of blood Vaelen missed. “I like her,” the queen murmured against her skin. “There is so much terror layered over so much pride.” Her fingers slid down Ariaxa’s side again, the new rune blazing briefly before sinking back. “I want to see what she looks like when it cracks.”
Vaelen laughed softly. “I say we begin. We have other entertainments to get to, after all.”
Brakus’s hand moved higher on her thigh, thick fingers dragging the silk aside.
The room blurred.
Ariaxa heard her own pulse louder than the music, louder than the groans and cries. She stared at Kaedan, begging with everything she was not allowed to say. Her hands flexed helplessly above her head, nails scraping raw against the skin of the slave gripping her wrists.
Kaedan’s head tilted the slightest fraction.
Seren murmured something at his side, lips curving in a wicked smile, but he did not look at her. His gaze stayed locked on Ariaxa, on the panic she could no longer hide.
Something shifted in his eyes.
A crack in the obsidian.
Rhaelle’s fingers pressed against Ariaxa’s hipbone, claiming the line of her body with lazy ownership. Vaelen reached for her throat, thumb brushing the collar as if testing its charge. Brakus’s palm flattened, his grip ready to yank her fully open.
Kaedan rose.
He did not roar. He did not call for order.
He simply stood.
The hall felt it—a pressure changing, a new weight sliding into place. Conversations faltered mid-laugh. A harem slave faltered on a lap as her master’s attention snapped upward. The musicians missed a beat.
Kaedan stepped down from the dais, cloak whispering behind him. Each stride toward the central table seemed to drag silence in his wake. Riven followed one step back, a shadow glued to him, but did not interfere.
Ariaxa could not look away. Relief clawed up her throat so violently it almost became a sob.
Rhaelle straightened as he approached, arching a brow. “You are late to your own offering, Kaedan.”
Vaelen smiled, lazy and taunting. “Don’t worry, Emperor. We are handling her very carefully.”
Brakus did not move his hand.
Kaedan reached the table.
He did not look at the Triarchs. His gaze went straight to Ariaxa, taking in the pinned wrists, the parted legs, the smear of blood at her lip, the faint glowing marks fading along her skin.
Then he slammed his palm down beside her head.
The sound cracked like a thunderclap in the stunned hall. Ariaxa jumped, breath hitching. The stone under her skull vibrated.
Kaedan bent over her, close enough that his hair fell forward in dark strands, curtaining their faces from the worst of the staring eyes. His voice dropped, low and lethal.
“No one,” he said, each word a blade, “touches what’s mine.”
Gasps rippled outward in waves.
Rhaelle’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Emperor. The protocol—”
“The protocol,” Kaedan said, without looking at her, “does not overrule my claim.” His fingers curled against the stone, tendons standing out along the back of his hand. “She is my slave. My property. My decision.”
Vaelen’s smile thinned. “Are we to believe you called us here to watch you hoard instead of share?”
Brakus’s grip tightened once in defiance, a challenge flickering in his molten gaze. For a heartbeat the room held its breath, waiting to see if he would ignore the Emperor and continue.
Riven moved a fraction, just enough for the hilts of his blades to catch the torchlight.
Brakus’s hand withdrew from Ariaxa’s thigh.
“That’s better,” Kaedan murmured.
He straightened, his expression cutting across the hall like a drawn sword. “This Convocation has seen my slave,” he announced. “You have inspected her. You have confirmed she exists.” His gaze swept the Triarchs one by one. “That is all you are entitled to. There will be no sharing tonight.”
“You break tradition,” Vaelen said softly.
“You insult us,” Rhaelle added, voice cool.
“You think we will forget this,” Brakus growled.
Kaedan ignored them.
He slid one arm beneath Ariaxa’s back, the other under her knees. The table chilled her for one last heartbeat, then she was lifted, the world tilting as her body left the stone. She grabbed at his shoulders instinctively, silks tangling, breath knocking out of her chest.
Her cheek brushed the rough edge of his cloak.
He turned away from the table without another word, cloak snapping behind him like a banner.
Triarch voices rose in outrage, overlapping—demands, threats, the crackle of offended power—but Kaedan did not slow, did not look back, did not loosen his hold.
Kaedan lifts Ariaxa into his arms and storms out of the hall amid furious Triarch shouts.