Aiden occupied the same simple obsidian chair he had claimed the day before. He sat with casual authority—legs parted, one forearm draped across the armrest, the other holding a goblet of dark wine he barely touched.
His shirt was open at the throat; the silver fracture on his wrist—still unnoticed by most—caught the light like a thin scar of moonlight.
The noblewomen entered slowly, singly or in pairs, as though drawn by gravity they could no longer resist. No one had summoned them. They simply came. Husbands followed at a distance, kneeling along the far wall in a loose, silent crescent—eyes down, chains slack, cocks still locked and leaking in slow, humiliated rhythm.
Aiden did not rise. He simply lifted his gaze and let it settle on whoever stood nearest.
