Chapter 19: The Claiming Witnessed
Delvin froze in the arched doorway, the warmth of the Imperial Warming Room hitting him like a physical blow. It reeked of sandalwood, expensive oils, and something else, something raw and intimate that tightened his gut. Then he saw them.
Liliana was pressed against the high edge of a polished obsidian table, her white and pink uniform rucked up around her waist, the tulle beneath bunched. Her head was thrown back, soft pink curls clinging to her sweat-dampened neck, eyes squeezed shut. Apollo, the Crown Prince, stood between her legs, his own ceremonial garb pushed aside, revealing the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders. His long blonde hair brushed her skin as he moved.
Delvin's eyes burned with fury as Apollo deliberately thrusts deeper into Liliana's trembling body, marking his claim.
Liliana gasped. "Apollo!" The name tore from her throat, ragged and needy, echoing faintly in the grand chamber. She was lost, adrift in sensation, completely unaware of the horror unfolding in the doorway.
Apollo’s head lifted slightly. His crystal blue eyes, sharp and predatory even now, locked onto Delvin’s over the curve of Liliana's shoulder. A slow, knowing smirk touched his lips. He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath stirring her damp curls. 'It seems we have an audience, little Jaguar.' His voice was a low, rough purr against her skin.
Liliana shuddered, a fresh tremor running through her. 'What?' she gasped, her voice thick, her eyes still glazed, trying to process the words through the haze of pleasure.
Apollo chuckled, the sound dark and amused. 'Oh nothing,' he murmured, deliberately casual. As he grinds his hips deeper, drawing another choked gasp from Liliana, his gaze never leaving Delvin’s murderous stare. Then, slowly, possessively, he slowly pulls out.
He held her there for a heartbeat, making sure Delvin had the perfect, obscene view. So Delvin can see his seed dripping onto the floor. It splashed onto the cool, polished black marble, stark and viscous in the firelight, a brutal claim etched onto the imperial stone.
Apollo sighed, the sound almost one of contentment as he stepped back, adjusting his clothing with infuriating nonchalance. Liliana sagged slightly against the table, trembling, her legs visibly shaking, her breathing still ragged.
'It's nearing the time for my bout,' Apollo stated, his voice regaining its usual controlled cadence, though a flicker of satisfaction still danced in his eyes. 'Which is the final bout.' He reached out, his hand landing firmly on Liliana's bare buttock with a possessive, almost dismissive, pat. 'You'll watch me, won't you?'
Liliana blinked, trying to focus, the lingering haze of pleasure warring with sudden confusion at his abrupt shift. She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. 'Breathy.'
With that, Apollo turned fully, his gaze sweeping over Delvin once more, the smirk returning. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The message was carved in the air, burned into Delvin’s retinas, dripping on the floor. He walked past Delvin as if he were a shadow, a statue, utterly insignificant. The scent of him – exertion, sandalwood, Liliana – lingered in his wake.
The heavy door thudded softly shut behind the Crown Prince.
Silence crashed down, broken only by the crackle of the enormous fireplace and Liliana’s unsteady breathing. She slowly pushed herself upright, her movements clumsy, wincing slightly as she smoothed her crumpled uniform down over her hips. Her eyes, wide and still dazed, finally lifted to the doorway.
"Delvin?" Her voice was small, confused. She blinked, her gaze clearing slightly as she took in his rigid posture, the stark white fury etched on his face, the way his knuckles were clenched so tight they were bone-white. She followed his fixed, horrified stare downwards to the splash on the dark marble floor.
Her breath hitched. Understanding, sharp and mortifying, flooded her features, draining the flush from her cheeks, leaving her ashen. "Oh gods," she whispered, the sound raw. "Delvin, I... I didn't know you were..."
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. The fire in his chest was ice-cold now, a freezing inferno that locked his joints. The image was seared onto his mind: Apollo’s triumphant smirk, Liliana’s oblivion, the evidence left behind like a challenge. The scent of sex and sweat and betrayal filled his nostrils, thick and nauseating. The distant clang of swords from the arena, heralding Apollo’s bout, felt like hammer blows on his skull. He just stood there, a pillar of frozen rage, while Liliana stared at him, her expression crumbling into horror and shame. The only sound was the faint, slow drip onto the marble.
The only sound was the faint, slow drip onto the marble. That cold, wet sound pulled Liliana’s wide, horrified eyes down again. She flinched, jerking her gaze back to Delvin’s face, the shame burning her skin.
“It wasn’t…” she started, voice cracking, useless. “He just… Apollo, he wanted…” Words tangled, failing her completely. She saw the frozen fury shatter in his green eyes.
They ignited. A furnace door blown open. His jaw clenched, tendons standing out like cables in his neck. Liliana instinctively took a step back, bumping the obsidian table.
"I'M GOING TO KILL HIM." Delvin growled. It wasn't loud, but the violence in it vibrated the air like a plucked, strained wire. His hand twitched towards the empty scabbard at his hip – his practice sword discarded hours ago. The promise hung, lethal and absolute.
Liliana sprang forward, panic overriding her own shock. "Delvin, no!" Her fingers clamped onto the hard muscle of his forearm, nails digging through the thin fabric of his training tunic. "You can't!"
He didn’t even look at her. His gaze was fixed on the door Apollo had exited through, seeing only the Crown Prince’s mocking smirk, the deliberate display on the floor. With a sharp, brutal motion, he snatched his arm away. Her fingers stung. "I said," Delvin repeated, his voice lower now, terrifyingly steady, "I’m going to kill him." He turned his head slowly, pinning her with eyes like chips of glacier ice. "I’m up against His Majesty in the final bout."
Understanding slammed into her, colder than the marble floor. The arena. Apollo’s final fight. Against Delvin. He meant to do it there. Publicly. She shook her head violently, pink curls whipping her cheeks. "This isn’t you, Delv!" Desperation sharpened her tone. "Look at me! You fought your entire life for this position! Blood, sweat… everything! You can’t throw it away now!"
The raw plea barely registered. The image of Apollo over her, in her, the possessive touch, the dripping proof – it roared back, drowning her words. His control snapped. "NO!" Delvin practically yelled, the sound raw and echoing slightly in the vast, perfumed room. He took a step towards the door, radiating a palpable heat, a promise of violence. "I CAN'T LOSE YOU."
He didn't wait for her reply. Didn't look back. He turned on his heels, the movement sharp and final as a blade stroke. He stalked towards the exit, boots striking the marble like drumbeats announcing war. Bloodlust radiated from him in waves, thick as the sandalwood scent, chilling the warm air. The heavy door creaked open under his hand.
He was gone, leaving Liliana alone with the crackling fire, the lingering scent of sex and sweat, and the stark, wet stain gleaming on the dark floor. Distantly, the roar of the arena crowd swelled, a hungry beast awaiting its final spectacle. Liliana sagged against the obsidian table, the cold surface biting through her uniform. "Oh gods," she breathed, staring at the door. "What have I done?"
The cold bite of the obsidian table finally registered through Liliana’s shock. What have I done? The question echoed, sharp and accusing, mingling with the phantom scent of Apollo and the horrifying image of Delvin’s shattered expression. That wet gleam on the floor felt like a brand. He was going to get himself killed. Or executed.
She shoved herself away from the table, her legs shaky. The distant roar of the arena crowd was a rising tide, pulling her towards disaster. She had to get there. Now. Fix this, somehow. Stumbling slightly, she yanked her crumpled uniform straight, a futile attempt to erase the evidence of what happened. The perfumed air suddenly felt suffocating, cloying. She practically ran for the door, ignoring the lingering ache Apollo had left behind, the fear for Delvin eclipsing everything else. Her pink tulle whispered frantically against her boots.
Pushing into the packed Imperial Viewing Box felt like diving into a furnace. The air vibrated with anticipation, thick with sweat, roasted meats, and expensive perfumes gone sour. Below, two minor nobles circled each other in the sand, blades clashing with dull thuds, but the crowd’s attention was already shifting, buzzing about the coming finale. Liliana squeezed into her designated seat, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her eyes scanned the arena entrances desperately, searching for a glimpse of gold-trimmed white or cool blonde.
Her breath caught. There he was. Delvin emerged from the shadowed tunnel onto the sun-drenched sand. The crowd roared its approval for the Jaguar Commander, a wave of sound crashing over the arena. But Liliana saw only his face. His expression wasn’t the usual focused calm or competitive fire. It was terrifying. A mask of pure, icy fury, his jaw locked tight, green eyes burning with a promise of death. His knuckles were bone-white on the practice sword's hilt. She knew that look. It was the look he got just before he destroyed a training dummy. Only this wasn’t straw he was facing.
Apollo entered moments later, a stark contrast. Radiant golden hair catching the last of the sun, crystal blue eyes scanning the stands with practiced ease, a slight, captivating smile playing on his lips as the crowd’s adoration swelled to deafening heights. He waved, the picture of royal grace in his revealing traditional garb, the gold bands glinting. He looked utterly untouchable. He looked at Delvin, and his smile deepened, sharpened. Liliana’s stomach dropped to her boots.
The signal gong rang. The fight erupted. Not a duel. A slaughterhouse ballet. They collided with shocking brutality, practice swords moving in a blur of bone-jarring impacts. Sand sprayed. Neither held back. Every parry was a hair's breadth from a killing blow, every attack aimed to maim. The sheer efficiency of their violence silenced the crowd, leaving only the grunts of effort, the harsh clang of steel, and the crunch of sand under frantic boots. Apollo flowed, relentless. Delvin struck like a hammer, fueled by rage. Liliana gripped the edge of her seat, nails digging into the plush velvet.
They broke apart for a fraction of a second, chests heaving, circling like wolves. Apollo’s voice, low and dangerous, cut through the tense quiet, audible only to Delvin in the lull. "Commander. That look. Why so angry?" A predatory gleam lit his eyes. He feinted, forcing Delvin to lunge wildly. Apollo grinned. "Ah. I get it."
He closed the distance impossibly fast, his next words a venomous whisper that barely reached Liliana's straining ears, meant solely for Delvin: "You've never gotten to be cocooned in her warmth while she spasms around you." He emphasized the last word, lingering on the memory of Liliana’s climax.
Delvin’s roar was primal. The fury ignited, white-hot, consuming every shred of strategy. He charged, a berserker unleashed, telegraphing his wild overhead strike. Apollo, expecting it, flowed aside like water. His practice sword reversed in his grip. The weighted pommel cracked into the back of Delvin’s skull with sickening force. THUD.
The entire arena gasped as one. Delvin staggered, knees buckling, vision swimming. Liliana choked back a cry. He swayed, then straightened. Somehow. He got up. Blood trickled from his hairline, staining his blonde hair crimson. Apollo sighed theatrically, almost bored. Another exchange, blindingly fast. Apollo trapped Delvin’s blade, twisted. A sickening crack echoed – wrist, maybe forearm. Apollo held the pressure, a fraction away from breaking bone. He released just as suddenly, letting Delvin stumble back.
"No," Liliana whispered, the word raw and broken. "Delv, please. Stay down." She saw the agony in his eyes, the haze of concussion and pain. But the fury burned brighter. He spat blood onto the sand. He got up again. Apollo’s expression hardened. The prince didn’t want a cripple. He wanted an object lesson. He moved with terrifying speed. A spinning kick caught Delvin flush on the temple.
This time, the impact was final. Delvin crumpled face-first onto the sand, utterly still. Silence. Then the crowd erupted. Cheers, screams, a tidal wave of sound celebrating the Crown Prince’s victory. Apollo stood over the fallen commander, breathing lightly, surveying the adoring masses. He raised his sword in salute.
The roar of the crowd washed over Apollo like a physical thing, a wave of adoration he absorbed without a flicker in his crystal blue eyes. He held the salute for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his gaze sweeping the stands, lingering for a fraction on the Imperial Box where Liliana sat frozen, her pink curls stark against her pallor. Then, he lowered the practice sword, its tip scraping the sand near Delvin’s motionless head. A dismissive flick of his wrist signaled the arena attendants. They rushed forward, hesitant at first, then lifting Delvin’s limp form with careful urgency. Apollo watched them carry his rival away, the faintest trace of satisfaction tightening the corner of his mouth before he turned, bathing once more in the crowd’s ecstatic noise, the perfect, untouchable prince.
Consciousness returned in jagged shards. Pain first. A throbbing, sickening pressure at the back of his skull, radiating waves of nausea. A sharper, grinding agony in his left wrist, tightly bound and elevated. The medicinal tang of willow bark and antiseptic herbs clogged his nostrils, thick and cloying. Dim light filtered through heavy canvas – the infirmary tent pitched near the arena’s edge. Delvin groaned, the sound raw in his dry throat. He tried to lift his head. White-hot pain lanced through his temples, forcing him back onto the thin pallet. Straw poked through the rough fabric beneath him. Sweat and sand gritted his skin. Memory flooded back, viscous and vile: Apollo’s smirk, Liliana’s gasp, the deliberate display on the marble, the prince’s poisonous whisper in the arena sand, the crushing impact. Humiliation burned hotter than the physical agony.
“Ah. Awake at last, Commander.” The voice was smooth, silk over stone, instantly recognizable. Cedric. Delvin forced his eyes open, blinking against the blur. The Chamberlain sat on a simple wooden stool beside the cot, impeccably dressed in charcoal grey silk robes that seemed absurdly out of place amidst the infirmary’s utilitarian gloom. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, catching the weak light filtering through the tent flap. One long finger tapped idly against the polished wood of the stool. His expression was unreadable, a mask of polite concern that didn’t touch his pale, watchful eyes. He leaned forward slightly, the scent of expensive citrus oil cutting through the medicinal smells. “That was quite the… performance. His Majesty’s prowess is undeniable. And your dedication to testing it, commendable. If ill-advised.”
Delvin swallowed, tasting blood and dust. His voice emerged as a rasp. “Get… out.” He tried to turn his head away, but the movement sent fresh agony sparking behind his eyes.
Cedric chuckled softly, a dry sound like pages turning. “Tsk. Such ingratitude. I ensured you received the finest care immediately. Concussion, severe bruising, a fractured wrist. Nasty business.” He paused, letting the silence stretch, thick with Delvin’s labored breathing and the distant murmur of the dispersing crowd outside. His gaze sharpened, the polite veneer thinning. “The offer I presented you, Commander Delvin. Before your… unfortunate lapse in judgment on the training grounds.” He traced the air near Delvin’s bandaged wrist, a gesture reminiscent of how he’d traced the hilt of Delvin’s dagger days before. “Have you considered it fully?”
Delvin closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to block out Cedric’s face, to focus past the pounding in his skull. Images flashed: Liliana’s dazed eyes meeting his in the Warming Room doorway, Apollo’s possessive hand on her skin, the seed dripping onto imperial stone, the prince’s mocking words echoing in the arena – "cocooned in her warmth while she spasms around you." The cold fury that had driven him onto the sand hadn’t vanished; it had merely banked, compressed by pain into something harder, sharper. He opened his eyes. The green was glacial, devoid of warmth, fixed on Cedric’s composed face. The raw, impulsive rage was gone, replaced by a chilling clarity. He’d been a fool. A blunt instrument. Apollo played a deeper game. To win, he needed more than a sword.
“Yes,” Delvin rasped, the word scraping his throat. He held Cedric’s gaze, unflinching despite the pain. “I’ve considered it.”
A flicker of genuine interest sparked in Cedric’s pale eyes. He leaned in fractionally. “And?”
“I agree.” Delvin forced the words out, each one an admission of defeat, a pivot towards a darker path. He saw Liliana’s horrified face again, heard her desperate plea – "This isn’t you, Delv!" Maybe it wasn’t. Not anymore. “But first,” he continued, his voice gaining a sliver of strength, the cold purpose solidifying, “I need to know you’re serious. Words are wind, Chamberlain. I need proof.”
Cedric’s thin eyebrows arched slightly. “Proof? Of my commitment to… altering the imperial landscape?”
“Proof of your reach,” Delvin stated flatly. He shifted slightly, gritting his teeth against the flare in his wrist. “Proof you can actually do something.” He took a shallow breath, the scent of citrus and herbs suddenly cloying. “My betrothal to Lady Seraphine of the southern isles.” He locked eyes with Cedric again, the green chips hard as jade. “So first, Chamberlain, before anything else… we need to get rid of Seraphine. Or break this betrothal somehow.”
Delvin’s words hung in the thick, herb-scented air of the infirmary tent – we need to get rid of Seraphine. Or break this betrothal somehow. He watched Cedric’s face, searching for any crack in that polished veneer, any flicker that betrayed the depth of the poison he was inviting in. The pounding in his skull was a dull counterpoint to the icy calculation solidifying within him.
Cedric didn’t move. His expression remained smooth, impassive. Only his pale eyes seemed to sharpen, focusing on Delvin with unnerving intensity. He leaned back slightly on the stool, the simple wood creaking under his immaculate silk robes. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth. "Commander," he murmured, his voice a low hum like a wasp trapped under glass. "Ambition is admirable. But clarity is paramount." He paused, letting the distant murmur of the departing crowd fill the silence. "Surely," Cedric continued, his tone dropping into something intimate, conspiratorial, yet chillingly matter-of-fact, "you’ve considered the realities of severing such a politically vital tie."
He leaned forward again, his gaze pinning Delvin to the cot. "There is only one way to truly break the betrothal," Cedric stated, each word precise, deliberate. "Kill Seraphine. And make it look like a flawless accident. An extremely believable accident." His eyes held Delvin’s, unblinking. "Meaning others will likely have to die with her. Collateral damage sells the narrative. A bridge collapse. A tainted feast. A pirate raid gone tragically wrong." He listed the options casually, like discussing the evening’s menu. "The alternative is… messier. Isolating her. Orchestrating a fall from grace so spectacular her own family casts her out. Ensuring the Emperor sees her as a liability, not an asset." Cedric’s lip curled faintly. "But that, of course, means her life will be ruined. Utterly and publicly dismantled." He tilted his head, a predator assessing prey. "Surely, you’ve considered this, Commander." His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet the implication hung heavy: What level of darkness are you truly prepared to embrace?
Delvin’s eyes narrowed. The throbbing in his wrist flared, a sharp echo of Apollo’s cruel efficiency in the arena. He saw Liliana’s dazed eyes in the Warming Room, heard Apollo’s mocking whisper – cocooned in her warmth. The cold fury that had replaced his earlier blind rage crystallized into a single, hard point. He met Cedric’s unwavering stare. "I have," Delvin stated, his voice low but steady, devoid of hesitation. The admission felt like swallowing ground glass. "The betrothal breaks. Seraphine… is removed." He didn’t specify the method. The understanding was absolute.
A spark of genuine satisfaction, cold and reptilian, lit Cedric’s pale eyes. He didn’t smile. He simply nodded once, a minute dip of his chin. "Good." He rose from the stool with fluid grace, the charcoal silk whispering against itself. He looked down at Delvin, bandaged and broken on the cot. "Rest, Commander. Heal." He adjusted a cuff, his movements economical. "You’ll need your strength. And your wits." He turned towards the tent flap, pausing only for a moment, silhouetted against the dimming light outside. "Don’t worry about Lady Seraphine’s upcoming visit to the capital. Or her scheduled tour of the Eastern Terraces." He glanced back, the ghost of that predatory smile returning. "Consider it… my first gesture of goodwill. Imperial favors, you understand, require careful planning." Without waiting for a reply, Cedric pushed the flap aside and was gone, leaving only the scent of citrus oil and the heavy weight of conspiracy settling over Delvin like a shroud. The planning had begun. The blood price was set.