Morning came not with the gentle warmth of sun filtering through linen curtains, but with the stark chill of stone against skin. Soreya's eyes fluttered open as her knees buckled slightly, the weight of her shackled position pulling at her shoulders. The cold metal cuffs around her wrists were hooked high above her, forcing her to remain upright on her knees in front of the great tribunal doors. Her arms ached. Her thighs trembled. And her skin—still streaked with dried cum, sweat, and the remnants of her own slick—itched with humiliation.
The double doors loomed behind her like the gates of judgment itself, tall and immovable. The chains rattled faintly every time she shifted, and the collar around her neck added another weight to her already broken composure. She was no longer simply a fallen queen—she was a living symbol. The first thing nobles would see. A reminder of the price of arrogance. A warning carved in flesh and silence.
