"Ravenhold has twelve waterwheels, renowned across the lands—masterpieces of engineering. They brought immense convenience to the city. And who designed them?" Isolde continued her interrogation.
Jade's voice was a thread of sound. "Sylas did…"
"And there is a faction in Lyonesse called the 'Duskrain Order.' Who founded it?"
Jade didn't want to speak anymore. She could only lift a trembling arm and point weakly at Sylas.
"Heh, see? I knew our young Lord Sylas was playing dumb with me," Isolde said, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "So talented, yet so unwilling to be honest. Very well, Chancellor Jade, you may go to Lorynth first to... scout the way. We can discuss your loyalty another time."
With a dismissive wave, she had Jade escorted out.
The room was now empty save for the two of them.
"Well, Lord Sylas?" Isolde teased. "Anything to say for yourself now?"
Sylas slowly raised his head, forcing a weak smile. "Your Majesty, these were just minor diversions. I thought you were asking about major state projects. Yes, I suggested these things... but I wasn't the mastermind behind them!"
"Still making excuses!" Isolde was genuinely amused.
She cupped his face, turning it this way and that as if inspecting a jewel.
It had to be admitted, the young man was exquisitely handsome. Yet most who met him overlooked his mere looks, captivated instead by his intellect and presence.
For a nobleman like him, appearance was his least remarkable asset.
Isolde gazed at him with a kind of infatuation. "You lied to me. That's the crime of deceiving your ruler. You'd best make it up to me, or I'll have you experience your late King's imperial bed firsthand!"
"I..." Sylas feared the consequence she described. But he didn't want Isolde to discover any more of his merits.
When you detest someone, you'd rather be seen as trash in their eyes.
So he continued to debase himself: "Your Majesty, I'm truly useless, you—"
Isolde's smile was one of dark release.
Thank you, Sylas, for giving me an excuse.
She stood and, without another word, dragged him toward the ornate couch in the study.
Sylas finally panicked. "N-no! This is... this is the Royal Study! It's not a place for... for sleeping!"
"Don't you think achieving my satisfaction right here would be incredibly rewarding?" Isolde purred.
"Not at all! I find no reward in it whatsoever...!"
"Your lack of reward is precisely what makes it rewarding for me!"
Sylas fell into hopeless silence. She's a true monster...
Isolde pushed him down onto the couch and began leisurely removing his clothes.
Sylas couldn't stop her. Being coerced in his own home had been humiliating enough.
Now, being pinned down on the couch in the Royal Study of his fallen kingdom's palace? This was the ultimate disgrace!
He remembered the pride he once felt being summoned here for an audience with his King.
And now?
Now he was being forced to serve the enemy queen in this very place—the place that had once symbolized his highest honor?!
As his clothes were nearly stripped away, the light finally died in Sylas's eyes.
He turned his head to the side and lay completely still.
Struggle was useless. Compliance was useless. He might as well just give up.
Bored by his sudden passivity, Isolde stopped and tapped his cheek. "Given up?"
Sylas looked at her with vacant eyes, his face pale. "Tyrant..." he murmured.
"Hmm? Still daring to insult me?!" Isolde's anger finally ignited.
She sneered. "It seems you're determined to suffer." She took a deep breath to control her temper.
Then she spoke calmly. "Lord Sylas, here is my thought. Those waterwheels are highly effective. I wish to find their designer and put them to good use.
Even if it's you, I can let bygones be bygones. And that Duskrain Order also shows promise. But since you refuse to cooperate, I will abandon the idea of working with you.
I'll have what needs killing, killed.
What needs dismantling, dismantled.
We return to Lorynth tomorrow. You can take up residence in the royal harem then."
Sylas lay sprawled on the couch, stunned.
Was his hearing failing him? Did she... want to employ him? Could it be that Isolde was, in fact, a capable ruler?
But these past few days, all she'd seemed interested in was the bedroom.
Though born male, Sylas had always harbored ambitions of achieving great deeds.
The thought of serving in a harem held no appeal.
He swallowed hard, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "You... you must be tricking me..."
Isolde gripped his shoulders, lowering her head to kiss his collarbone.
Suddenly animated, Sylas quickly pushed against her arms.
"I... I can do these things!" he said earnestly.
"Do what, exactly?" Isolde asked, tilting her head with a smile.
"I designed the waterwheels. I founded the Institute. And the Duskrain Order... I can continue this work. I believe I am capable." He mustered his courage, his expression sincere.
"But," Isolde countered, "don't you constantly remind yourself you're a conquered slave, unwilling to serve me?"
Sylas was speechless. He was caught.
He wanted to do things, but he didn't want to be a turncoat.
But he had never officially been a minister of Lyonesse—how could he be a turncoat?
Furthermore, if even Jade had surrendered, what right did he—already thoroughly used—have to cling to principles?
"I can work on projects that benefit the people," he found an excuse. "It doesn't involve court politics."
When survival is possible, one instinctively grasps for it.
Sylas now crafted a belief: he would endure the humiliation for the sake of the people's welfare.
It made the pill slightly easier to swallow.
"Oh, that's one justification," Isolde said, stroking her chin. "But then I'd have no one to warm my bed. What should I do about that?"
You... You're the Queen! You're never short of bedmates! You're just finding excuses!
Sylas wrestled with himself, his face flushed. Finally, he relented.
Fine. I am a prisoner. I must offer concessions.
Unconsciously, he had begun to accept this identity.
Softly, he said, "I can... serve you at night. If you allow me to do meaningful work... I will... serve you properly."
"And what constitutes 'proper service'?"
"Obeying you. Doing whatever you say."
Isolde hooked a finger into his already loosened robe. "And what about right now?"
Sylas, preoccupied with thoughts of meaningful work, had forgotten his state of undress.
He was instantly mortified. But to achieve his goal, he had to endure the shame.
He didn't speak. Instead, he leaned up slightly and gently kissed Isolde.
A wave of impatience swept through her. She wanted to devour him right then. But she needed to shatter his psychological defenses completely.
"That doesn't count," she declared. "You have to say, 'I beg Your Majesty to claim me right here.' Go on, say it!"
She gripped his shoulders, her demand urgent.
Sylas froze, mortified. "N-no... I..."
"Won't say it?" Isolde's tone turned icy. "If you won't say it, then this is just a meaningless tumble. You can't resist anyway. But you'll gain nothing from it. Tsk. Our clever Lord Sylas isn't that foolish, is he?"
It had to be admitted, Isolde was a master at breaking wills.
After a long internal struggle, Sylas finally spoke, his voice strained. "I beg... Your Majesty... to claim me right here... Wuuu..." He couldn't control his sorrow and began to sob.
"Crying again! I'll give you something to cry about! No more crying from now on!" Isolde laughed arrogantly as she bore down on him.
There, in the place he had once revered most, he was subjected to the endless demands of the enemy Queen. And he had to obey, muttering the nonsense she forced him to repeat.
"Did you used to dream of becoming a consort for your dead king?" she taunted.
"N-no..."
"Then why are you so tense? I think you secretly always wanted to climb into an imperial bed, to latch onto someone powerful. Sylas, you're not very virtuous."
"No... I had a betrothal..." Sylas, his mind in disarray, blurted out this crucial secret in a desperate attempt to prove he wasn't an opportunist.
Isolde froze instantly.
A wave of pure rage shot through her.
This infuriating man. He was betrothed? Weren't you supposed to be unwanted? How could anyone want someone as disgraceful as you?
"SYLAS! You! You've truly made me angry now!!"
In a flash, Isolde pulled out a large collection of artifacts crafted for her by Aethelred's mystics.
Sylas took one look and nearly died of fright. He was finally experiencing what true Hell Mode felt like.