The great hall still carried the faint smell of smoke and dried cum. The air felt cooler than it had in weeks. Condensation dripped slowly from the high ceiling, hitting the obsidian floor in soft, regular plinks.
No flames roared. No chains cracked. The silver threads that once burned now hung like thin jewelry from wrists, throats, and waists—cool, slack, almost decorative.
Aiden sat on a plain obsidian chair that had risen from the floor at the far end of the hall during the night. No throne of chains. No spectacle. Just a simple seat, wide enough for his shoulders, armrests carved plain. He sat bare-chested, legs spread comfortably, one elbow on the armrest, fingers steepled under his chin.
His golden eyes moved slowly across the gathered people—noblewomen standing or kneeling in loose groups, husbands on their knees in a wide semicircle behind them.
They watched him back. No one looked away.
