The hall stank of sweat, oil, and justice. The scent of ruined nobility clung to the air like perfume gone rancid. Allen hadn't moved from the dais. He stood still, bare-chested, cock sheathed in the remnants of his authority, surrounded by gaping women and shattered legacies.
The nobles still seated along the walls didn't speak. They barely blinked. They weren't watching a man—they were watching a force of nature.
And the storm wasn't over.
"Next," Allen said simply.
The doors opened.
Two guards entered, dragging a regal woman between them—Lady Resha Varnholt, Duchess of Eastmarch, once draped in pearls and velvet, now stripped down to her shift, wrists shackled, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed with something between rage and disbelief.
She was older than the last three, but no less striking. Her cheekbones sharp, lips darkened with rouge, her thighs thick with decades of privilege. She stumbled once, catching herself, and hissed at the guards.
