The hall was silent now. Not with respect—with fear. The nobles didn't breathe too loud. Nobody looked Allen in the eye. He didn't have to raise his voice to command the air.
He stood tall at the center of the dais, half-draped in black silk, cock still glistening, the leash from Queen Soreya's collar dragging like a scepter behind him. She lay at his feet, ruined and moaning softly.
Allen raised one hand.
"Bring in the next sinners."
The doors creaked open.
Three noblewomen were dragged into the hall.
Lady Halene of House Marrowvale. And her daughters—Miris, twenty-two, proud and polished like a marble statue, and Valea, twenty, delicate and terrified, trembling in her gold-laced slippers.
The audience turned stiff. Murmurs buzzed under their breath.
Halene walked without resistance, shoulders straight, chin high. Her daughters followed, bare feet silent against the marble. One looked around as if the walls might save her. The other stared straight ahead, lips bloodless.
