Chapter 5: Kneel or Bleed
The council chamber was chaos.
Advisors in robes of state argued in hushed, urgent clusters around the central obsidian dais. The low, rhythmic chanting that usually filled the air had dissolved into a discordant murmur of speculation and anxiety. No one knew why they had been summoned on such urgent, unprecedented notice. Rumors of a security breach, of an external threat, of a coup in its infancy, swirled like fog in the bioluminescent light cast by the giant veins pulsing overhead.
The enormous doors, twenty feet high and forged from a single piece of darkened alloy, split open with a sound like a mountain sighing.
The chaos died.
It wasn’t a gradual quieting. It was an instant, absolute vacuum of sound.
Ullan entered.
His polished boots struck the obsidian floor with a clean, definitive click that echoed in the new silence. He wore no ceremonial armor, only the layers of black and grey she’d seen him in earlier, his long hair tied back severely. He looked like a blade himself—honed, sharp, and utterly unconcerned with the fifty pairs of eyes now glued to him.
Dolores walked a half-step behind, as instructed. The whisper of her burgundy silk skirt was the only other sound, a soft, living counterpoint to the hard tap of his steps. She felt the weight of every stare like a physical pressure. It was worse than the servants’ smirks. This was a tidal wave of shock, disbelief, and icy assessment. She kept her eyes on the back of Ullan’s shoulders, on the way the fabric stretched across them, and breathed.
Their footsteps resonated, a twin percussion marking the impossible length of the hall.
Ullan reached the dais and the two thrones. One was his, carved from crystal and the fossilized bone of some leviathan, austere and towering. The other, slightly smaller, had stood empty for centuries. He didn’t pause. He turned, held out his hand to Dolores. His expression was unreadable to the council, but she saw the faint, warm assurance in his eyes. He guided her to the empty throne beside his and indicated, with a slight nod, that she should sit.
She sat without a word, the cold, smooth material of the seat leaching through the silk of her dress. She folded her hands in her lap, back straight, and looked out.
Ullan settled into his own throne. The motion was familiar, practiced, a body reclaiming its space after a long journey. He leaned back, one arm resting on the throne’s arm, and let his gaze sweep over the assembled council. They stared back in pure, unadulterated shock. Mouths hung open. An elderly advisor in deep blue robes looked faint, a hand fluttering to his chest.
A slow, mocking smile touched Ullan’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ve returned,” he said. His voice, casual and clear, carried to the farthest corners of the silent chamber. He let the statement hang for a beat, then lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “Oh, and I brought the Empress, by the way.”
The council remained silent. The information was too vast, too catastrophic to process. The missing emperor, presumed dead by many, vanished for years, was just… back. And he’d brought a stranger, a mortal from a backwater world, and placed her on the consort’s throne as if she belonged there. The delicate earthen vase holding Dolores’s wildflowers, which Ullan must have placed there himself, seemed to tremble on the arm of his throne.
The stillness was a live wire.
Then, movement.
From the front rank of military advisors, a man stepped forward. He was tall, though not as tall as Ullan, with sharp features and dark hair cropped close to his skull. He wore the functional blacks of the imperial guard, but with additional silver pauldrons denoting high rank. General Zaltar.
He didn’t look at Ullan. Not at first.
His dark eyes, burning with an intensity that made Dolores’s breath catch, were fixed squarely on her. He held her gaze as he walked, each step measured and deliberate, to the base of the dais stairs. The challenge in his look was unmistakable, an appraisal that stripped away the silks and the hairpieces and sought the woman beneath.
Then, in one fluid, resonant motion, he drew his sword. The sound of the blade clearing its sheath was a sharp, metallic cry in the quiet. He reversed his grip, planted the point of the sword against the obsidian floor with a definitive click, and dropped to one knee. He bowed his head, his eyes finally leaving Dolores’s to fix on the floor between them.
“My sword, my life, and my loyalty,” Zaltar’s voice rang out, strong and unwavering, “are yours, Emperor Ullan. And yours, Empress Dolores. Until the stars go dark.”
The spell shattered.
It was like watching a forest fall in a chain reaction. A senior advisor in crimson robes gasped, then lurched forward, dropping heavily to his knees. The one beside him followed. Then another, and another. The sound was a wave of rustling fabric, clinking jewelry, and impacting knees. Voices, hesitant at first, then gaining strength, rose in a disorganized chorus.
“My loyalty to the Emperor and Empress!”
“The throne is restored!”
“By the stars, welcome home!”
Dolores watched, her heart hammering against her ribs. The sea of bent heads, the echoed pledges—it was nothing like the movies. It was raw, messy, and filled with terror. These people weren’t just pledging loyalty. They were scrambling for safety, choosing a side in a game whose rules had just been rewritten in front of them.
She looked at Ullan. He hadn’t moved. His mocking smile was gone, replaced by a calm, remote satisfaction. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod to the kneeling Zaltar. Then his hand shifted, just a few inches, along the arm of his throne. His fingertips came to rest against the simple, fired clay of the earthen vase. They brushed the petals of one of her dried wildflowers—a sprig of lavender from her garden, now a million miles from home.
His touch was deliberate. A quiet signal, for her alone.
This, it seemed to say, is why. This chaos, this fear, this power. It was all to make a space safe enough for something as fragile as a wildflower. For her.
The pledges of loyalty continued to echo, filling the bioluminescent air. Dolores sat perfectly still on her throne of crystal and bone, the alien empress, and understood for the first time the terrifying, bloody love that had brought her here.
The echoes of the last forced loyalty oath faded into the humming, bioluminescent air. The silence felt thicker now, a gauze packed into an open wound. Every council member held their breath, waiting for the shape of this new regime to declare itself.
From the center of the gathered lords, a man stepped forward. He was older, his face a careful mask of concern over sharp bones. Marquis Voss smoothed his silver-threaded robe. “Your Radiance,” he began, his voice polished. “The relief of your return is… unparalleled. Yet, we were told your scout vessel was lost with all hands. A tragedy. May we ask… how is it you survived?”
Ullan’s face didn’t change. He leaned forward just an inch, a predator noticing movement in the brush. A cynical smile touched his mouth. “What excellent timing for your curiosity.” He didn’t raise his voice. “Seize Lord Tecklan.”
Movement was instantaneous. Two imperial guards, who had seemed like statues by the door, crossed the floor in six swift strides. They flanked a lord in green and copper, a man with a soft, pampered face now draining of color. Their hands clamped on his shoulders.
“Unhand me! This is an outrage!”
They dragged him, his heels scraping and skidding on the polished obsidian, to the base of the throne dais. They forced him to his knees. The lord’s terrified panting was the only sound.
Ullan looked down at him, his head tilted. “You can explain it to me, Tecklan. The ship that ambushed me, that tore my vessel apart and left me for dead in the void… why did it bear the crest of your house?”
Lord Tecklan’s eyes darted around the chamber, seeking a friendly face and finding none. “A… a fabrication! A frame! My ships are meticulously guarded! Someone must have stolen the codes, replicated the transponder! I am a victim of this as well, Your Radiance!”
Ullan let out a long, dramatic sigh, the sound of a man bored by a bad performance. He rested his chin on his fist. “Just tell the truth. You’re going to lose your life for treason, or you’re going to lose it for being an incompetent fool who couldn’t secure his own fleet. One might be quicker than the other.”
The cold finality in his tone broke something in Tecklan. The lord’s head snapped up, spittle flying from his lips. “You are a usurper of tradition! A primitive who consorts with animals!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “Shren is the true heir! Your own brother is more worthy of the throne! He understands our ways!”
A flicker of genuine irritation passed over Ullan’s face. He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “My brother? The one who hates the very idea of sitting here?” He didn’t look away from Tecklan. “The one who wept with relief when he heard he no longer had to be Imperial Regent?”
From the front row, a man who shared Ullan’s strong jaw and height, but none of his severity, stepped forward. Shren’s face was flushed with offense. “I did not weep! I was just… emotionally overcome by your return!”
Ullan snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”
In one fluid motion, Ullan stood. Tecklan watched him rise, the horror in his eyes deepening into pure, animal understanding. Ullan descended the three dais steps slowly. He crouched before the kneeling lord, so their faces were level. The chamber was a frozen diorama around them. Dolores could see Ullan’s lips move, could see the hot whisper gust against Tecklan’s ear.
“Your plan failed,” Ullan murmured, the words meant only for the condemned man. “I came back.”
He stood up. Tecklan opened his mouth to shriek a final denial.
Ullan’s sword was a silver blur in the pulsating light. It wasn’t a ceremonial weapon. It was the same plain, deadly blade he’d kept sharp on her farm, its edge honed on a whetstone while she made dinner. The arc of the swing was efficient, brutal, and utterly final.
The sound was wet and heavy. A thud.
Tecklan’s body slumped forward. His head rolled a few feet across the obsidian, coming to rest near the foot of Marquis Voss, who took a jerky step back. The bioluminescent veins overhead pulsed a deeper crimson.
Ullan flicked his wrist, sending a single, dark streak across the floor. “Remove it,” he said to the guards, his voice matter-of-fact. He didn’t watch as they hauled the body and retrieved the head. He climbed the dais steps, his boots leaving faint, damp prints. He sat back on his throne, laying the bloody sword across his knees.
He looked out at the pale, stunned faces. “Effective immediately,” he announced, as if discussing trade routes, “all imperial concubines are discharged from service. Each will receive a generous credit allocation and relocation to any region or planet of her choosing. Their positions are dissolved.”
The silence shattered into a cacophony of outraged voices.
“You cannot! This is an affront to centuries of protocol!”
“The alliances those placements represent!”
“My daughter is invested in her station!”
The loudest complaints came from the older lords, their calculated concern from moments ago vanished, replaced by raw, political fury. They were fathers, uncles, brokers. Their family’s influence, carefully cemented within the palace’s inner chambers, was being evaporated with a sentence.
Ullan said nothing. He simply watched the uproar, his bloodied sword resting on his legs, his fingers loosely curled around the hilt. He was waiting for it to exhaust itself. Beside him, Dolores held herself perfectly still, the scent of ozone and copper now threading through the air, her understanding of his love curdling into something colder and more complex in her stomach.
General Zaltar, still standing at the foot of the dais, had not moved. His hand, however, had returned to the pommel of his own sword. His eyes scanned the raging lords, calculating threats, his loyalty a quiet, armed perimeter in the chaos.
His eyes scanned the raging lords, calculating threats, his loyalty a quiet, armed perimeter in the chaos.
The shouting coalesced around a single, furious figure. Marquis Voss, his face mottled with indignation, shoved his way to the front of the dissenting cluster. “My Lord, you cannot do this!” His voice sliced through the din. “The treaties must be respected! Trade agreements, military pacts—they are woven through those arrangements! Business must function!”
Ullan leaned his head back against the cold bone of his throne, exhaling as if bored by a buzzing insect. “And so it shall,” he said, his tone flat and weary. “Only the clause requiring a familial representative within the imperial harem is void. The rest stands. Renegotiate the marriages if you wish. Send your daughters elsewhere.”
Voss sputtered, his hands clenching at his sides. “Not only that, my Lord! You must ensure you have an heir!” The words burst from him, desperate and sharp. “The line must be secured! Stability demands it!”
Ullan arched one eyebrow, his expression utterly dismissive. “I will only have descendants with Empress Dolores.” He said it as if stating the sun would rise, a simple, immutable fact.
The Marquis took a half-step forward, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, pleading register. “I am sure the Empress understands that you have… needs… that require attention.” His eyes flicked to Dolores, a look that was meant to be sympathetic but felt like a violation. “Certain urges, beyond mere procreation, that are a ruler’s due.”
A low, mocking laugh escaped Ullan. He didn’t look at Dolores. He kept his eyes locked on Voss, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “The Empress keeps up quite well with the pace of my… needs.”
“Ullan!” The name was a hissed whisper, scalding with embarrassment.
It cut through the tension. Every lord stilled, their outrage momentarily frozen by this new, profound shock. Ullan turned his head slowly towards her, the cruel smile melting into something genuine and warm. He laughed, a soft, rich sound of pure amusement at her scolding.
Marquis Voss stared, his mouth agape. The Emperor, who had just beheaded a man for treason, was being chided like a schoolboy. And he was enjoying it. The realization dawned on his face, then on the faces of the others—this was not a political alliance. This was something far more dangerous and unpredictable.
Ullan’s amused gaze lingered on Dolores’s flushed cheeks before sweeping back over the council. The warmth vanished, replaced by glacial finality. “The matter is closed. The concubines are gone. My heir will come from my wife. Any further discussion will be considered a challenge to my declared will.” His hand rested on the blood-streaked sword. “We are adjourned.”
He stood, the motion cutting through the stunned silence. He offered his hand to Dolores. She took it, her fingers trembling slightly in his, and rose. They descended the dais steps, the council parting before them like a dark sea. Zaltar fell into step behind them, a silent, deadly shadow.
The walk back to the imperial wing was a blur of gleaming corridors and bowing attendants. Ullan’s grip on her hand was iron. He said nothing. The quiet between them vibrated with the echoes of the shouted challenges, the wet thud of the sword, the way he had laughed when she’d whispered his name.
He didn’t lead her to her consort’s suite. He led her to his own chambers—the vast, obsidian space with the celestial maps. The door sealed behind them with a hushed finality, leaving Zaltar standing guard outside.
Ullan released her hand. He walked to the center of the room, his back to her, and stood perfectly still for a long moment. The adrenaline, the fury, the performative cruelty—it all seemed to drain from him, leaving a different kind of tension in its place, one that was taut and primal.
“They think you’re a weakness,” he said, his voice low and rough. “They think my attachment to you is a crack in the throne.”
Dolores didn’t know what to say. The smell of blood seemed to have followed him in.
He turned to face her. His eyes were dark, unreadable pits. “Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a quiet command that pulled at something deep in her belly. She crossed the room, stopping just before him. He didn’t touch her. He just looked at her, his gaze tracing the lines of the burgundy dress, the exposed skin of her shoulders, her mouth.
“They have no idea,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. Then his hands came up, not with tenderness, but with a swift, possessive urgency. He grasped the hidden seams at the sides of her bodice and tore. The expensive silk gave way with a series of sharp, ripping sounds, the fabric splitting from under her arms down to the waist.
She gasped as the dress gaped open, cool air washing over her skin. He shoved the ruined material off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. He made quick, brutal work of her underwear, tearing the cotton aside until she stood bare before him, the jeweled hairpieces the only remaining adornment.
“They think I need to spread my seed across the empire to be strong.” He unbuckled his own belt, the leather sliding free with a whisper. His trousers followed, pushed down just enough. He was already painfully hard, his cock thick and flushed. He took himself in hand, giving a slow, rough stroke as he looked at her. “They’re fucking idiots.”
He closed the distance between them. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, surely leaving new marks. He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the massive bed. She fell onto the silken covers, and he was on her in an instant, his weight pinning her down.
There was no gentle preamble, no soft kisses. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, biting the skin there, not hard enough to break it but enough to make her cry out. His hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her wet and ready—her body’s treacherous, eager response to all the violence and power. He growled his approval against her skin.
“This,” he snarled, nudging the head of his cock against her entrance. “This is the only throne I give a damn about.”
He pushed inside her with one deep, relentless thrust. She gasped, arching off the bed, her body stretching to accommodate him. He filled her completely, a harsh, claiming invasion. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each drive of his hips slamming her deeper into the mattress.
“You see?” he grunted, his breath hot on her ear. His pace was ruthless, a physical echo of the power he’d just wielded. “You take all of me. Every fucking part.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only clutch at his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his tunic. The pleasure was a sharp, coiling wire mixed with the ache of his possession. Each thrust jolted through her, a raw mapping of his anger and his need. The obscene, wet sound of their joining filled the silent room.
He hooked an arm under her knee, hiking her leg higher, opening her wider. The angle changed, and he sank even deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision whiten. A broken moan tore from her throat.
“That’s it,” he breathed, his own control fraying. His thrusts became ragged, losing their brutal rhythm for something more frantic, more desperate. “Come on. Let them hear you. Let them know what their Emperor needs.”
His words unraveled her. The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, shuddering wave that clenched around him, pulling a ragged shout from his chest. He drove into her once, twice more, his body locking as he spent himself deep inside her with a guttural groan.
He collapsed atop her, his weight crushing, his breath heaving. They lay tangled in the wreckage of her gown, the scent of sex and sweat and spiced oil thick in the air. Slowly, his breathing evened. He shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping her pinned close, one heavy arm thrown over her waist.
He nuzzled his face into her hair, his lips brushing her ear. “My only heir,” he whispered, the words a sleepy, satisfied rumble. “My only empire.”