Chapter 20: The Consort's First Command
The rest of the day's court was more of the same. Kaelen stood at his usual position, hand resting comfortably on his hilt, standing behind the queen. This time he was not just her consort and slave, but now her trusted knight, as well. His face was stoic as ever, but his heart felt warm for her public acknowledgement and generous gift.
The warmth lingered as he followed her through the dispersing crowd, a quiet ember in his chest. They moved not to the Miller’s House, but towards the large granary that had been converted into a command post. The scent of old grain was now buried under parchment, ink, and the sharp, clean smell of ozone that always clung to Sprix, the fire-mage imp, who waited by the door.
“They’re all inside, Majesty,” Sprix said, her orange eyes flicking from Lilith to Kaelen with academic curiosity. “Duchess Voss is… impatient.”
“She is always impatient,” Lilith replied, sweeping past. The interior was a cavern of shadow and lamplight. A massive table dominated the space, strewn with maps weighed down by daggers and empty cups. Elysara Voss stood at its head, tracing a route with a sharp, black nail. Nyra stood beside her, while Sax’s host-body leaned in a corner, the slime woman’s head resting on her own shoulder, eyes closed as if sleeping.
“Finally,” Elysara said, not looking up. “Sentimentality concluded? We have a kingdom to carve up.”
“The sentimentality secured his loyalty in the eyes of the humans watching,” Lilith countered smoothly, taking her place opposite the Duchess. “A stabilized rear is a prerequisite for your forward thrust, Elysara. Or have you forgotten the principles of war?”
Kaelen moved to stand against the wall near the door, a silent sentinel. Flixi took up a post opposite him, giving him a quick, approving wink. Nelin was likely on the roof.
“The principles are clear,” Elysara said, her crimson eyes finally lifting. “The human king is bleeding. His drafts fail. His hangings breed more resentment than fear. Our scout reports indicate organized deserters in the Blackwood, harrying his supply lines.”
Sax’s eyes slid open, a glossy black. “My Judith has not reported,” she gurgled, the sound wet and hollow. “The city of Garmin has sealed itself. They are burning the infected quarters. My spy was likely purified in the flames.”
A cold silence followed. Judith’s fate was a setback.
“Then we do not need subtle spies,” Nyra said, her voice calm. “We need a wedge. These deserters. They are already enemies of the king. But they have cast off their honor and can no longer be trusted. Many are like criminals, murderers and rapists. Still, they are a potential resource. What do you think of them, Kaelen.”
All eyes turned to him. The weight of the room’s attention was a familiar pressure, but this was different. This was a military assessment, not an inspection. He met Nyra’s gaze, then Lilith’s.
“I hunted men like that for the king’s coin, before I saw the truth,” Kaelen said, his voice low and flat. “Raiders. Deserters. They are wolves without a pack. They cannot be trusted. Their word is worth less than the mud on their boots.”
His fingers drifted to the cool, seamless band around his throat. A human who hadn’t been trusted. He understood the shape of that particular hole.
“They have no loyalty but to their own hides,” he continued. “But a collar… a collar changes that. It forges loyalty where none exists.”
Lilith watched him, a calculating gleam in her slit-pupiled eyes. “An ultimatum, then. We find these packs. We offer them a choice. They wear my collar and enlist in my auxiliary forces, or they provide sustenance for my succubi. A mandatory enlistment… or a mandatory end.”
Kaelen saw it instantly. The brutal, clean logic of it. He thought of the two executions he’d witnessed since his surrender. The hangman’s knot was one thing. The succubus’s kiss was another entirely—a languid, horrific draining that left a husk wearing a smile of ultimate pleasure.
“It’s better than most of them deserve,” he stated, the words leaving no room for debate. “But it would make them useful. It would fix what’s broken in them. The collar isn’t a punishment in that equation. It’s a mercy.”
Elysara’s lips curled into a sharp smile. “A pragmatic view from our reformed hero. I approve. We send a legion to the Blackwood fringes. We corral them, present the terms. Those who refuse become a lesson for the others, and a reward for our more… voracious troops.”
“The logistics will be delicate,” Nyra mused, looking at the map. “But it can be done. A show of overwhelming force, then the offer. It disrupts the king further and builds our own ranks.”
Lilith nodded once, the decision made. “See to it, Nyra. Take the Voss legion’s third cohort. And take the consort. His knowledge of their tactics, and his… new blade… will be of use.”
Nyra’s gaze flicked to Kaelen, a flash of that remembered heat quickly banked behind duty. “As you command, Majesty.”
The council dissolved into planning details—supply lines, timelines, which succubus coven would accompany them. Kaelen listened, but his focus was pulled to Lilith. She was a statue of contained power, but he saw the faint tension in her shoulders, the way her tail gave a single, slow twitch against her thigh. She was dismissing him. Again.
Hours later, the plans were set. Kaelen followed Lilith back to the Miller’s House through the deepening dusk. The door clicked shut, sealing them in the thick, private quiet. The moment the lock slid home, the queenly demeanour shattered.
She turned, and in two swift strides had him pinned against the heavy wood. Her kiss was not gentle. It was a claim, deep and searching, all tongue and sharp teeth. He tasted her power, a metallic tang like a storm.
“You were magnificent today,” she snarled against his mouth, her hands clawing at the fastenings of his tunic. “Giving you that blade was the most terrifying thing I have done in a century.”
He ripped the tunic over his head, helping her. “Why?”
“Because it means I believe you.” She bit his lower lip, drawing a bead of blood. “And belief is a vulnerability.” Her hands slid down his chest, over the old scars, and cupped the agonizing bulge in his pants. The obsidian ring was a perpetual, maddening presence. “This is mine. All of you is mine. Never forget it.”
“I don’t,” he gasped, his hips jerking into her touch.
“Prove it.” She stepped back, her eyes burning like coals. “On your knees. You can worship your queen before you go to war for her.”
He dropped, the movement instinctive. Her crimson dress was a complexity of ties and clasps. His large, swordsman’s fingers fumbled until she grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. “Use your teeth, you brute. Or are you just a pretty symbol after all?”
The goad ignited him. He bent forward, catching the delicate silk at her hip with his teeth and tearing. A long, ragged seam opened. He did it again, and again, a wild animal stripping its prize, until the dress hung in ruins. Underneath, she was bare. Her pale skin glowed in the firelight, the elegant curve of her hips, the dark triangle of hair between her thighs.
“Better,” she purred, her hand back in his hair, guiding him forward. “Now taste what you fight for.”
Her scent, musky and rich, flooded his senses. He buried his face in her, his tongue finding her slit and plunging deep. She was already wet, her folds slick and swollen. He licked her like a starving man, broad, flat strokes over her clit before spearing inside again, drinking her essence.
“Yes… fuck, just like that,” she moaned, her thighs clamping around his ears. Her hips began to grind against his face, fucking his mouth with abandon. “Your tongue is a better weapon than your sword, slave.”
He redoubled his efforts, adding fingers, curling them inside her to find the spot that made her cry out. Her juices coated his chin, his throat. The taste of her, the sound of her ragged breaths, the way her claws scraped his scalp—it was a more potent magic than any he’d ever known.
Her climax hit suddenly. Her back arched, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as she gushed over his mouth, her cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers. He drank every drop, relentless, until her legs trembled and she shoved his head away.
She was panting, her chest heaving. “Up. Now.”
He rose, his own need a painful, throbbing demand. She shoved him backwards towards the large bed, and he fell onto it. She followed, straddling his hips, her wetness smearing his stomach. She reached between them, her slender fingers wrapping around his rigid cock. The obsidian ring at its base felt like a brand.
“Mine!” she whispered, her eyes locking with his as she positioned him at her entrance. “This cock, this seed, this life. All mine.”
She sank down onto him in one slow, devastating motion. The feeling was utterly overwhelming. Her hot, tight cunt sheathed him perfectly, a velvet vise. She threw her head back, a guttural sound of pure satisfaction escaping her as she took him to the hilt.
For a moment, they were still, joined completely. Then she began to move.
She rode him with a ferocious, dominating rhythm, her hips pistoning, her inner muscles milking his shaft with each rise and fall. “Look at me.” she commanded, and he obeyed, drowning in her crimson gaze. “This time we will play a very special game.”
He could only nod, his hands grabbing her hips, fingers digging into her flesh as he thrust up to meet her. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, a raw, wet, obscene music. Her breasts bounced with each impact, her short horns gleaming.
Her breasts bounced with each impact, her short horns gleaming like polished jet. "Like last time," she hissed, her voice raw with exertion and dominance. "You will not come, if you can help it. You will resist, for as long as you can."
Her internal muscles clenched around him, a sudden, vicious squeeze that made his vision blur. "Do you understand? Fight it. Resist me."
He groaned, the command cutting through the haze of pleasure. The last time they'd played, his failure had earned him a day of crawling. "I will." he gritted out, his knuckles white on her hips.
"Liar." She leaned forward, her breath hot against his ear. Her pace became erratic, teasing, a slow, grinding roll that dragged his sensitive head against her front wall followed by a sudden, deep, punishing slam. "You're a tool. My tool. That pretty cock is a leaky faucet I can turn on whenever I wish."
She punctuated her words with another brutal contraction of her cunt, a wet, hot massage designed to shatter his control. "Your body knows its purpose. To pump its seed into it's owner's womb. That's all you are. A living, breathing tool."
Kaelen threw his head back, tendons standing out in his neck. He focused on the cold weight of the collar, on the memory of the obsidian blade she’d forged for him. He dragged his mind away from the exquisite friction, from the smell of their sweat and sex, and found purchase in the pain of his own teeth grinding together.
"You're struggling." she observed, a wicked smile playing on her lips. She lifted herself almost completely off him, letting the cool air kiss his wet, throbbing length before sinking down with agonizing slowness. "It's adorable. A weak male fighting a biological certainty. My cunt is a throne, and your cock is a subject that will always, always kneel."
He lasted longer than he thought possible. Minutes stretched, defined only by the slap of skin and her taunting commentary. She changed rhythms constantly, from a frantic, shallow bounce that stimulated just his head to deep, slow strokes that threatened to touch her very core. Every time he felt the dam start to break, he’d bite his cheek or dig a nail into his palm, using sharp pain to blunt the overwhelming pleasure.
"Look at you." she panted, sweat tracing the valley between her breasts. "So stubborn for me. My perfect, broken hero." She reached down and pinched one of his nipples, hard, twisting it. "But this is the fun part. Watching you will crumble."
The pressure was building beyond pain, beyond thought. It was a tectonic force in his balls, coiling tighter with every stroke. A high, desperate whine escaped his throat.
"You feel it, don't you?" she whispered, her movements becoming fluid and relentless, a perfect, undulating wave. "That pathetic, male drive. Your body struggle to disobey its mistress. To give me what is mine."
His control was a frayed rope. He could feel every ridge and contour of her inside, a velvet vise purpose-built to milk him dry. "Lilith…" he begged, the word a shattered thing.
"That's it!" she crooned, her eyes blazing with triumph. "Say my name while you lose. You're going to crumble now. You've held on long enough to please me. Now give me your failure."
She slammed down onto him one final time and went utterly still, clamping down with an impossible, supernatural strength. Her cunt became a pulsating, greedy mouth, sucking at his very essence.
The rope snapped.
With a ragged, broken shout, he came. It was not a release, but a surrender. Thick, virile spurts, supercharged by the ring she’d locked on him, flooded her depths. He jerked beneath her, helpless, as she milked every last drop from his shuddering body, her own quiet sighs of satisfaction the only other sound in the room.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. She finally lifted herself off him, his spent cock sliding out with a wet, soft sound. She settled beside him on the bed, one hand resting possessively on her lower belly.
He lay there, wrecked and empty, staring at the ceiling beams.
"You held out for much longer this time" she said conversationally, tracing circles on her skin. "A marked improvement from last time, I'd say. I am… impressed."
He turned his head to look at her. The consequence. The longer duration. Dread pooled in his gut, colder than any post-coital chill.
She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. Then her lips curved into a small, genuine smile that didn't touch the fierce possessiveness in her eyes. "The consequence of losing our game is not a day of crawling, my knight."
She took his hand and placed it flat over her womb, where his seed was even now taking root. Her skin was warm.
"The consequence is nine months. And then eternity." She held his stunned gaze. "You just gave me a child. You will be the sire of my heir."
The words hung in the air, monumental and terrifying. The collar around his neck felt lighter than the weight of that single sentence. He had given her his loyalty, his service, his body. Now, he had given her a dynasty.
She saw the storm in his eyes and leaned close, her voice a soft, undeniable law. "Your first duty as a father will be to secure the world She will inherit. You leave for the Blackwood at dawn. Now sleep. You have a war to win for your family."
He stared at her, the words echoing in the silent room. His mind, still fogged with the aftershocks of pleasure, struggled to forge a connection between the abstract concept of a future and the warm, living reality beneath his palm. A child. His child. Hers.
He was a commoner. A knight, yes, but born in a straw-roofed house that smelled of wet earth and pigs. Who was he to sire a princess? The sheer, staggering impossibility of it locked his breath in his chest. His gaze dropped from her serene face to his own rough hand, splayed over the smooth skin of her belly where a dynasty now slept.
“A… child?” The word felt foreign, too small for the universe it contained.
Lilith watched the shock move through him like a seismic wave. She saw the fear, the awe, the flicker of unworthiness in his eyes. A soft laugh escaped her, not mocking, but rich with a secret triumph. “Yes, you magnificent fool. A child. Who did you think you were serving all this time? A mistress who keeps a pet for her bed?”
She shifted, propping herself on an elbow to look down at him. The firelight carved the lines of her face, softening nothing. “You demanded your place as my consort-slave with your boon after our battle. You begged for the collar. But I chose you for this. Long before you knelt in that field, I was searching. Three centuries of kings and champions and sycophants, and not one was fit to plant a seed in me.”
Her fingers touched his jaw, turning his face back to hers. “I never thought I’d find my equal. But as it turned out, my equal found me. A stubborn, broken, honorable man who looked at a demon queen and saw a woman.” Her crimson eyes held his, allowing a terrifying sliver of naked truth to show. “I can think of no one I’d rather have a child with.”
The last vestige of thought crumbled. Without thinking, driven by a surge of emotion that bypassed all caution and protocol, he wrapped her in his arms, pulling her against his chest. He held her, this ancient, terrifying being, as if she were something fragile. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of sex and roses and her.
For a heartbeat, she stiffened, surprised by the sudden, crushing intimacy. Then, with a sigh that seemed to leave her bones, she melted. Her body softened against his, her head resting on his shoulder, her tail curling loosely around his calf. It was a vulnerable moment, stark and quiet in the aftermath of their raw, physical war. Her claws, which could shred steel, gently traced the scar along his ribs.
They lay tangled in the quiet for a long time, the fire popping, their breathing syncing. The world outside, with its war councils and ultimatums, ceased to exist. There was only the heat of skin, the steady beat of her heart against his, and the silent, growing truth between them.
Finally, she stirred. The moment of softness sealed itself away behind the regal mask, but her eyes remained less guarded when she looked at him. “Dawn comes early,” she murmured, though she made no move to extricate herself. “Nyra will expect you at the head of the column. She is a competent general. Listen to her. But remember who you return to.”
He nodded, his voice thick. “I will.” His hand drifted back to her stomach, a gesture of wonder now, not shock. “Will you be…”
“I am the Demon Queen,” she said, a flicker of her old fire returning. “I could be eight months gravid and still incinerate a battalion. Do not fuss.” She paused, then added more quietly, “Sax will monitor things. I am not… entirely without caution.”
He kissed her then, not with the desperate hunger of before, but with a slow, deep certainty that felt like a vow. She yielded to it, her mouth softening under his, before pushing him gently back.
“Go,” she said, her voice regaining its edge. “Sleep. I have reports to review. And you have wolves to collar.”
He dressed in the dark, the weight of the new obsidian blade at his hip a comfort. As he pulled on his boots, she was already at her desk, a sphere of witch-light hovering above a map, her profile sharp and focused. The Queen had returned, but the woman she’d just let him hold lingered in the space between them, a silent promise.
The muster at dawn was a spectacle of controlled chaos. The Voss legion’s third cohort was a mixture of disciplined lilin infantry, squads of chittering imps, and a contingent of lamia scouts who moved with eerie silence. At its head, Nyra Voss sat astride a nightmare steed, its coat the colour of bruised shadows.
She saw Kaelen approaching and gave a curt nod. “Consort. Ready to hunt some stray dogs?”
“Ready to offer them a choice,” he corrected, swinging up onto his own horse, a sturdy gelding taken from the king’s own stables.
Nyra’s smile was a razor slash. “Semantics.” She raised a gauntleted hand, and the column began to move with a rumble of boots and gear. They rode out of Grainmere, past the gate where the would-be assassin’s body still hung, a grim reminder. The Blackwood was a three-day ride through increasingly rugged terrain.
They made camp on the second night in the lee of a rocky escarpment. The air was cold, smelling of pine and damp earth. Kaelen found a spot away from the main fires, cleaning his blade with methodical care. The sound of light footsteps on gravel announced Flixi before she appeared, dragging a meek Nelin by the hand.
“He’s nervous,” Flixi announced, shoving her husband forward. Nelin stumbled, his black-on-black eyes wide. “Thinks the big bad deserters will eat him. Tell him he’s being an idiot.”
Kaelen looked at the male imp. “Stay high. Watch from the trees. Your eyes are worth more than a hundred swords on the ground.”
Nelin blinked, then nodded fervently. “Yes, Consort. High. Watch. I can do that.”
Flixi grinned, ruffling her husband’s bald head. “See? Not an idiot. Just needs telling.” She plopped down beside Kaelen, pulling Nelin down to sit between her thighs, her arms wrapping around his chest possessively. “You got that look,” she said to Kaelen.
“What look?”
“The ‘I’ve just been told my life is different’ look.” She leaned her chin on Nelin’s shoulder. “It’s the same look he had when I claimed him. All big eyes and quiet terror.” She nipped at Nelin’s ear, making him shiver. “Turns out good, though.”
Before Kaelen could reply, Nyra approached, her shadow stretching long in the firelight. “A word, Consort.”
He followed her to the edge of the camp, where the darkness of the Blackwood loomed like a wall. She didn’t look at him at first, her gaze on the impenetrable trees.
“My mother believes this operation is beneath me,” she said finally, her voice low. “A rounding-up of brigands. She thinks it’s a test Lilith set, to see if I’ll chafe at ‘grunt work’.” She turned, her crimson eyes glowing faintly. “She’s wrong. This is the crucial work. Securing the flanks. Turning the enemy’s refuse into our assets. It’s what will win the war, not the glorious charges.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Kaelen said. “I was the one sent to clean up the king’s refuse for years.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I know.” She was silent for a moment, the sounds of the camp at their backs. “The night before the final battle… at the Spire’s base.”
He stiffened. “That was a mistake.”
“Was it?” She looked at him directly now, the memory vivid in her gaze. “You were still the enemy. I was sent to seduce you, to pry secrets from you. You knew it. I knew it. And yet.” She shook her head, the polished horns catching the starlight. “You were the first male who didn’t look at me and see just a tool of my mother’s, or a pretty vessel for lust. You saw a rival. An opponent worthy of respect. It was… infuriating. And electrifying.”
Kaelen remembered. The tense, clandestine meeting that had spiralled into a clash of bodies as much as wills. The desperate, angry coupling against the cold stone, all sharp teeth and grasping hands and stolen, furious pleasure. It had been confusion and battle-lust, a failed gambit that had left them both raw and strangely seen.
“It was before I understood,” he said quietly. “Before I saw her.”
“I know that too,” Nyra said, and there was no jealousy in her tone, only a stark acceptance. “It doesn’t change what it was. And it doesn’t change what you are now.” She nodded back toward the camp, toward the imps and the lamia and the legionnaires. “They see her knight. The one who kneels by choice. It gives them something to believe in. So don’t die out here cleaning up refuse. She would be… displeased.”
She walked away then, leaving him with the chill of the night and the heat of old memories.
They found the deserters’ camp on the afternoon of the third day. It was a squalid, stinking place nestled in a filthy hollow, a collection of lean-tos and stolen tents. Men, maybe fifty of them, in mismatched remnants of uniforms and stolen civilian clothes. They were alert, posting guards, but they were looking for royal tax collectors or militia, not a full demonic cohort.
Nelin dropped from the canopy, landing soundlessly beside Nyra. “Two sentries in the oak to the east,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “Four more scattered on the ground. They have a pit at the center. Prisoners.”
Nyra’s face went cold. “Scouts, neutralize the sentries. Quietly. Third line, flank west. Lamias, coil through the underbrush and secure the perimeter. No one runs.” She glanced at Kaelen. “You and I will give the offer.”
The takedown was swift and brutal. A soft thud from the oak, a muffled cry from the brush, and then the camp was surrounded by emerging forms from the trees—tall lilin with expressionless faces, imps with drawn short swords, lamias rising from the leaf litter like nightmares made flesh.
Chaos erupted. Men scrambled for weapons, shouting in panic. One burly man with a rusted axe charged directly at Nyra, bellowing.
Kaelen stepped in front of her, not drawing his new blade. He caught the wild swing on his armored forearm, the impact jolting up to his shoulder, and drove his other fist into the man’s throat. The deserter dropped, gagging.
“Enough!” Nyra’s voice, amplified by magic, cracked through the clearing like a whip. The remaining men froze, staring at the circle of deadly, unfamiliar faces. “Drop your weapons. Now.”
Steel and wood clattered to the forest floor. In the sudden silence, a weak moan came from the pit. Kaelen moved to its edge. The stench of offal and unwashed flesh rose like a physical blow. Three figures huddled at the bottom—a man and two women, their clothes torn, their faces hollow with starvation and fear.
“Get them out,” Kaelen growled, his hands curling into fists.
As imps moved to help, the largest of the deserters, a man with a scarred face and the tattered insignia of a royal sergeant, found his voice. “Demons!” he spat. “Come to finish the king’s work?”
Nyra stepped forward, her poise making the filthy clearing feel like a throne room. “The King of Garmin is a fool clinging to a rotting chair. We are the future. And you are a problem.” She paced slowly, her gaze sweeping over the cringing men. “You are traitors to your crown. Thieves. Rapists.” She gestured to the pit. “Animals. The world has no use for you.”
The sergeant glared. “So kill us and be done with it, hellspawn.”
“An option,” Nyra said mildly. She snapped her fingers.
From the tree line, three figures emerged. They were stunningly beautiful, with deceptively soft curves and eyes that promised everything. Their smiles were warm. The air grew subtly thicker, sweeter. Several of the deserters blinked, confused by the sudden, intense arousal washing over them.
“Succubi,” Kaelen said, the word flat.
“They are… hungry,” Nyra continued. “They can take your life. Slowly. Deliciously. You will die in ecstasy, your final moments a blissful haze as they consume your very soul.” She let that image hang. “Or.”
She gestured, and an imp stepped forward, holding an open chest. Inside, on beds of black velvet, lay dozens of simple, gleaming obsidian collars.
“You can put one of these on. You will join the Auxiliary. You will fight for the Demon Queen. You will have food, purpose, and your lives.” Her eyes hardened. “The collar ensures your loyalty. It does not forgive your past. You will earn redemption with blood, or you will die failing. Choose.”
The sergeant looked from the beautiful, hungry women to the cold collars. His bravado leaked away, replaced by primal fear. He’d faced death in battle. This was something else. His eyes darted to the pit, to his broken comrades, then back to the succubi, one of whom licked her lips, her eyes glowing faintly.
A whimper escaped a younger deserter. He stumbled forward, his hands shaking. “I-I don’t want to die like that. Please.” He grabbed a collar and fumbled it around his own neck. The obsidian clicked shut, seamless. He gasped, a shiver running through him, his eyes clearing of some of the fear, replaced by a numb acceptance.
It broke the dam. Men shoved each other to get to the chest, the terror of the succubi’s promise overwhelming their pride. One man, wild-eyed, turned and ran for the tree line.
He didn’t make it five steps. A lamia’s tail lashed out from the shadows, wrapping around his ankle and yanking him off his feet. A succubus was on him before he could scream, her mouth covering his in a kiss. His struggles ceased instantly, his body going lax, then beginning to tremble with waves of obvious, unbearable pleasure as his life force was siphoned away. His ecstatic sighs were the only sound in the clearing.
The remaining men collared themselves with frantic speed.
Kaelen watched, his jaw tight. He helped pull the last prisoner from the pit—a young woman who clung to his arm, sobbing. “It’s over,” he said, his voice rough. He looked at the newly-collared sergeant, who was staring at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else. “Your first order is to bury your filth. Then you’ll get rations. You belong to the Queen now.”
The sergeant met his eyes, and in them, Kaelen saw the hollowed-out shell of a man being reforged into a tool. It was a brutal, ugly mercy. He turned away, finding Nyra’s gaze. She gave a single, satisfied nod.
The message would spread. The choice had been given. The Queen’s justice, as always, was absolute.