The Lyonesse captives were being transferred to Lorynth. As a vanquished people, they received no special treatment.
In the eyes of the conquerors, the death of a slave meant nothing. Even the high-ranking nobles were now compelled to march on foot.
Those who once flaunted their power now trudged along the dusty dirt roads, their mouths filled with sand and grit. They were driven forward violently by the Aethelred soldiers.
Some, too obese and spoiled by their luxurious lives, struggled to keep up and were whipped mercilessly—like a herd of sheep driven by a shepherd, daring only to whimper when struck.
Crowds of Lyonesse commoners lined the roadsides. These poor souls, with nothing left to lose, watched the Aethelred soldiers with brazen curiosity.
They pointed and laughed at the nobility being treated like livestock, finding the spectacle utterly bizarre.
"These very ladies used to beat us like dogs," they murmured. "Who would have thought they'd end up being beaten like dogs by the Aethelredans?"
Cheers erupted each time a soldier's whip came down on a portly noblewoman. "Well struck!" the bystanders clapped, delighting in the misfortune of those who had once oppressed them.
What did national ruin matter to them?
It was all the same—the tax collectors still demanded their dues, the local officials still bullied others.
The pot might have a new lid, but the stew remained unchanged.
A carriage jolted along the rough road. A small corner of its curtain was lifted, revealing a pair of exquisite eyes.
Sylas glanced outside, then let the curtain fall with a heavy sigh.
Compared to those outside, he was fortunate enough to ride in a carriage.
But Sylas would have rather joined the marching ranks.
Currently, he was dressed in a high-collared silver silk robe that forced his neck to remain erect. He sat stiffly upright, every mark on his body carefully concealed, managing to project a semblance of dignity.
However, he wore no headscarf nor a man's formal cap. Instead, his hair was styled into an unusual bun secured with a single hairpin, resembling a maid's coiffure. His handsome features could carry any style; this somewhat androgynous knot lent him a peculiar, delicate charm.
Yet, the circular bun stood high on his head, making him look like a silver fish that could be lifted by it at any moment.
His page, Page, seeing his master's despondency and unsure how to comfort him, offered a water gourd. "My lord, some water?"
Sylas glanced at the gourd and shook his head slightly.
Page, confused, uncorked it. "My lord, Her Majesty specifically instructed that you must drink more water. The road to Lorynth is long. It's good for your skin."
Sylas reluctantly took the gourd. He pointed to his throat, unable to utter a word.
Page, being new, hadn't yet learned to interpret his master's signals perfectly. The boy asked dimly, "My lord, is the collar too high? Is it uncomfortable?"
Sylas opened his mouth but ultimately said nothing.
He raised the gourd and took a sip. A bizarre taste flooded his mouth. He wanted to spit it out, but couldn't bring himself to do so in front of Page.
He closed his eyes, forcing the liquid down. Then he pointed at the gourd, his eyes full of question. He couldn't speak.
Yesterday, after the drug's effects had worn off, Sylas had resumed his defiant posture, angering Isolde once more.
Finally enraged, she had, in a fit of pique, used her magic to seal his throat, rendering him mute.
Though outwardly he appeared the same as when he had chosen silence, Isolde was instantly appeased.
This was her doing. A forced change.
Sylas couldn't speak even if he wanted to.
She had then summoned attendants to style his hair and dress him in the exquisite silver robes, turning him into a beautiful silver carp.
Page, unable to guess his meaning, explained, "This was sent by Her Majesty's order. She said only you are to drink it. One gourd a day. If you don't finish it... she said someone would have to pour it down your throat."
"Gack—" Sylas, clever enough to instantly understand what it was, covered his mouth and vomited.
Page hurriedly cleaned the carriage, bewildered.
Why would the young lord vomit from just drinking water? Is he really that delicate?
Sylas wanted to throw the gourd out, but remembered Page's words.
If you don't finish it, they'll force it...
Helpless, he simply held the gourd, leaning his head against the carriage frame, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Damn you, Isolde! You truly make it impossible to live or die!
Now, these conquered slaves were being escorted to Lorynth.
Isolde traveled on horseback; she wouldn't journey alongside Sylas.
Making him ride in a carriage, forced to watch his former country's nobility be humiliated, was another form of warning and insult.
Yet, during these five days of travel, aside from the nausea from drinking the concoction, Sylas felt a strange sense of relief.
Isolde hadn't sought him out. Though mute, the absence of her overwhelming pressure allowed his spirit to recover a little. Just a little.
Finally, the prisoners arrived at Lorynth. This greatest city of the central plains, built against mountains and backing onto a great river, was a magnificent and imposing sight.
The slaves were herded towards the judicial courts.
Sylas assumed he would receive the same treatment. But the carriage driver, seemingly acting on orders, took him on a detour through the city, specifically through crowded areas.
Sylas didn't understand why at first, but as they progressed, he grasped Isolde's malicious intent.
The entire city of Lorynth was abuzz with tales of Isolde's glorious achievements.
Isolde, Queen of Aethelred, First Under Heaven! Where the Aethelred Paladins point their blades, enemies surrender at the mere rumor of their approach!
Such praise was expected. But the best propaganda to highlight a ruler's power was the salacious gossip: how Isolde had tamed the cold, noble son of the Lyonesse Duke into a personal servant for her harem.
This kind of juicy rumor was incredibly stimulating.
Land matched with beauty, conquest paired with violation—they were always intertwined.
Conquer their territory, conquer their people, conquer their family!
"I heard that Lord Sylas looks like a celestial immortal, but the moment he saw our Queen, he started acting like a pleasure-house boy, haha!"
"You don't know what you're talking about. Everyone knows Sylas was the mastermind behind Lyonesse's strategies! He's no pushover. Our Queen breaking him is vengeance!"
"Absolutely right! That little wretch should be tied up and thoroughly used! Don't let me get my hands on him! A seductive fiend like that who ruins kingdoms... makes my mouth water just thinking about him!"
"Ah, but our Queen is so brilliant and mighty... could she be led astray by this vixen? I'm so worried for Her Majesty!"
The street gossip filtered into the carriage.
Sylas trembled upon hearing it, his handsome face alternating between red and white. It was unclear whether he was furious or ashamed.
Even Page found it hard to listen. Though Sylas was an enemy prisoner, after these few days together, Page found him to be a cultured, typical noble scion.
Even if he had been claimed by the Queen, it was out of necessity. How could he be as the street rumors described?
But lies repeated enough become truth, and public opinion was fearsome.
For someone like Sylas, who valued his reputation above all, this was sheer torture.
"Martha, stop dawdling here! Head to the palace at once!" Page snapped at the carriage driver.
There was no reason to bring them here just to listen to this and get upset.
Martha sighed helplessly. "Page, it's not that I want to be here. Her Majesty gave a verbal decree to take Lord Sylas for a tour of the streets. I'm just following orders."
"Enough, enough! Haven't we seen enough? Hurry up! The young lord is hungry. If you starve him, see how Her Majesty punishes you!"
Hearing this, Old Yang immediately urged the horses forward. She was just looking for an excuse to leave. Who wanted to bring someone here to be mocked?
Besides, everyone knew the Queen's... attentions towards Sylas were just a lover's quarrel.
The day Lord Sylas came around and pleased Her Majesty, those who had offended him would surely die without a proper burial.
Thus, Sylas arrived at the Aethelred royal palace.
But no palace chambers awaited him.
He was taken away by two handmaids and directly delivered to a secluded dungeon.