The whispers of a king had not yet faded when Lucius made his next move. The nobles who had bent the knee found themselves summoned not to court, nor to the throne, but to their own ancestral hall, now draped in the Devil's shadow. Invitations were not requests, but commands, sealed with the mark of Lucius Draxion. Those who hesitated quickly learned that refusal was not an option.
The night of the feast arrived with chilling grandeur. The once-proud hall, adorned with gold and marble, now carried the weight of the Devil's presence. Red banners hung across the walls, black candles burned with unsettling flames, and the scent of iron mixed with perfume filled the air. The nobles entered cautiously, their jewels glittering, their pride straining, but their hearts pounding with dread.
At the head of the table sat Lucius, clad in black, his eyes glowing faintly crimson in the candlelight. He was no guest here, no outsider—he was the master of the hall, the throne, and the trembling souls who dared to sit before him.
The council surrounded him, each a figure carved from nightmare. Ravenna lounged with her blades at her side, her smile sharp and cruel as she watched the nobles file in. Cain sat silently, his massive axe resting against his chair, the sound of its weight on stone louder than any voice. Adrian shuffled parchments, already preparing to remind the nobles of the contracts they had signed, his voice a serpent's hiss ready to strike. Victor smirked quietly, noting every glance, every twitch of fear that betrayed desperation.
Silvio leaned forward, fingers steepled, his gaze sweeping the room. "They arrive with crowns on their heads, yet crawl in their hearts. Tonight, we show them their place."
Lucius raised his hand, and the hall fell silent. Servants moved quickly, pouring crimson wine into silver goblets. Plates of food were set before the guests, but none touched them. The nobles knew instinctively that they were to wait, to eat only when allowed.
Lucius lifted his glass, swirling the wine until it gleamed like blood. His voice cut through the silence. "Drink."
The nobles obeyed, their movements hesitant, each sip tasting more like submission than celebration.
Ravenna leaned across the table toward one of the lords, her blade tapping against the wood in rhythm. "Smile," she whispered with a grin. "You are guests of the Devil. Frown, and I will carve it into your face." The lord's trembling attempt at laughter brought a chorus of mocking chuckles from the council.
Adrian began to recite, his voice calm but merciless. "Clause one: by kneeling to Lord Lucius, you forfeit autonomy in times of war. Clause two: your wealth is subject to tithe, as determined by his will. Clause three: should betrayal be suspected, judgment shall be swift and final, without trial." He paused, allowing the words to sink like knives. "Each of you signed. Each of you belongs to the Devil."
Victor clinked his glass lightly, studying them like prey. "You thought crowns made you strong. Now crowns make you useful. And useful is all you will ever be to us."
Cain remained silent, only lifting his axe for a moment to rest it across his lap. The gesture alone silenced whispers and forced heads to bow lower.
Lucius finally spoke, his tone cold but commanding, every word deliberate. "You thought yourselves untouchable." His crimson gaze swept across the trembling nobles. "Now you sit at my table, eating what I allow, drinking when I permit, and laughing only when I deem it fit. We are not equals. You are mine."
A suffocating silence followed, broken only by the sound of a goblet trembling in a lord's hand. None dared challenge him. None dared breathe without his presence weighing upon them.
Ravenna leaned back, licking her lips as if savoring the fear in the air. "Their pride tastes delicious," she said with a laugh. "But their fear? That is a feast."
Lucius raised his goblet higher, his eyes gleaming like the reflection of fire. "You belong to me," he declared, voice sharp as a blade cutting through marrow. "And tonight, let this feast remind you of the truth. The Devil does not beg for allegiance. He takes it."
The nobles raised their glasses reluctantly, their hands shaking, their eyes lowered. To refuse was to invite death. To drink was to admit defeat. They chose survival, and with every swallow, their honor crumbled further.
The council exchanged knowing glances, each aware that the Devil's dominion had deepened. The underworld whispered. The nobles trembled. And now, the city itself began to realize that Lucius Draxion was no longer just feared in the shadows.
The Devil was carving his throne in open daylight.
Yet as the feast ended and the nobles departed, their hearts heavy with humiliation, one lord clenched his jaw in silence. His pride burned even beneath the weight of fear. And in that quiet defiance, seeds of rebellion began to stir.
Lucius watched him leave, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. He had seen it, felt it. He let it live, for now. After all, seeds are meant to grow, and the Devil always knows the right season to harvest.
The night ended with laughter from the council, wine poured like blood, and the city whispering louder than ever. The Devil's feast had not only broken the nobles' pride, it had marked the beginning of something greater.
The Devil was no longer simply ruling shadows. He was teaching kings to crawl.