The transition from the cool, whispering silence of the Scholar Archives to the Infernal Realm was like being hurled from a library into a blast furnace. The portal ripped open with a roar of superheated air, spilling Kaelen and his five queens onto a cracked basalt plain that glowed with veins of molten rock. The sky was a perpetual storm of bleeding ash, jagged obsidian peaks piercing through like the spines of a dying beast. The ground hummed beneath their boots, vibrating with tectonic rage—a world that refused to die quietly, even as the Blight gnawed at its core.
But the real heat wasn't the lava flows snaking through the valleys. It came from the five women behind him, their bonds pulsing with a volatile mix of loyalty, desire, and barely contained fury.
As they trekked across a narrow bridge of cooling basalt—flanked by chasms where magma bubbled like blood—Vespera's lingering "Seed of Doubt" began to sprout. It itched at the back of Kaelen's skull, a insidious whisper that sounded too much like his old corporate partner from Chicago, the one who had framed him and stolen everything. They don't love you, it murmured. They're using you as a filter, a tool to siphon their poison. Once the Blight is gone, you're just a human with no magic of your own. Disposable. Replaceable. A broken anchor drifting in the void.
Kaelen stopped abruptly, hand pressing to his temple. The five brands on his skin flared with discordant colors—violet for Lyra's feral gold, white for Elowen's holy blue, crimson for Seraphina's red hunger, emerald for Isolde's cold pressure, purple for Vespera's intellectual whisper. The clash made his vision swim.
"Kaelen?" Lyra stepped forward, golden eyes narrowing in concern. She reached for him, claws retracted but tail twitching. Through the bond, he felt her possessiveness like a hot needle—protective, but edged with frustration. "You're leaking. Your resonance is jagged, like a blade scraping bone."
"Back off, cat," Isolde hissed, her emerald tail lashing a puff of ash into the air. She coiled closer, scales glistening with sweat from the heat. Her gaze lingered on Kaelen's brands, particularly the newest pearl-serpent one—her own. "He's been redlining ever since he let that bookworm rewrite his brain. If anyone's going to touch him, it's me."
Vespera tilted her head, horns catching the lava glow. "Don't blame me for his depth of thought," she purred, though her violet eyes held genuine worry. She adjusted her translucent silk robe, fingers tracing invisible equations in the air. "He absorbed centuries of forbidden curiosities from my realm. It takes time to process. To integrate."
"Time we don't have," Seraphina added, fangs baring as she glanced toward the towering Shattered Citadel in the distance—the jagged fortress of black iron and flame that served as Lilith's seat. Her porcelain skin flushed with the ambient heat, but her crimson eyes were cold. "Lilith won't wait for him to find his center. She'll crush his mind just to see what spills out."
Elowen remained silent, but her shadows coiled restlessly around her feet, ready to lash out. Through the bond, Kaelen felt her chill calculation—a saintess's judgment, questioning if Vespera's seed was already too deep.
The whispers amplified. See? They're already turning on each other. On you. Tools don't get loyalty—they get used.
Kaelen turned on them, eyes flashing with toxic light. "Shut up! All of you!"
The authority of the Anchor slammed into them like a physical wave—five realms' worth of dominance crashing through the bonds. The queens fell silent, staggering back a step. But the jealousy in the link boiled over, feeding the doubt like oil on fire: Lyra's raw possessiveness, Isolde's haughty pride, Vespera's intellectual detachment, Seraphina's vampiric greed, Elowen's cold precision—all twisting into a knot that threatened to unravel him.
They reached the gates of the Citadel—a massive archway forged from the fused armor of fallen warlords, wreathed in eternal flame. Standing before it was a hulking Demon Centurion, skin cracked like cooling magma, wielding a glaive that dripped liquid fire. His eyes glowed with infernal amusement as he appraised the group.
"The Queen does not receive guests who cannot control their own pack," the demon boomed, voice like grinding boulders. His gaze lingered mockingly on Kaelen's trembling hands, then flicked to the five queens with predatory hunger. "If the Anchor is broken, Lilith has no use for him. Kill the man, and we shall take the queens as war-brides. They'll make fine additions to the harem pits."
The insult was the spark.
But instead of igniting against the demon, the internal storm snapped.
"War-bride?" Lyra roared, fur standing on end. But she didn't lunge at the guard. She whirled on Kaelen, pinning him against the obsidian gate with feral speed. Her claws dug into his shoulders—not deep enough to wound, but enough to hold. "Prove it, Kaelen! Prove you're still the one holding the leash! Ground us right here, in front of this trash, or I'm ripping this bond out of my soul!"
The Seed flared brighter. She's challenging you. They all are. Turning against the tool that's outlived its use.
Kaelen's "Fixer" brain—jaded, ruthless, unbreakable—snapped into cold clarity. He didn't fight the doubt. He weaponized it.
He grabbed Lyra by the throat, fingers firm but not crushing. His eyes locked onto hers with terrifying intensity, the five colors swirling like a storm.
"You want a reminder?" he growled, voice carrying the weight of five Sovereigns. "Then kneel. All of you."
The queens hesitated—jealousy warring with the bond's pull—but the command was absolute. One by one, they dropped: Lyra with a defiant growl, Elowen with silent grace, Seraphina with a hungry smile, Isolde with a tsundere huff, Vespera with curious intrigue.
Right there, under the shadow of the Infernal Gate and the stunned gaze of the demon guards, Kaelen didn't just ground them—he reasserted total ownership. It was a six-way display of raw, grimdark power, unfiltered and public.
He started with Lyra—pulling her close, thrusting with punishing force as Elowen's shadows bound her wrists, keeping her pinned. "You think you can threaten me?" he rasped, each word timed with a rhythm that made her gasp.
Seraphina moved in next, fangs grazing his neck as she took her share—blood and body mingling in a vampiric loop. Her hands wandered to Lyra, teasing, drawing the beastkin into the tangle. "Share him properly, kitten," she purred, jealousy turning to shared dominance.
Isolde coiled her tail around the group, pressure amplifying every sensation—squeezing, constraining, turning the ritual into a vice of pleasure. "D-Don't think this means I need you," she stammered, but her body betrayed her, scales humming as she joined the fray.
Vespera intellectualized it—whispering questions that corrupted the doubt into lust. "Feel it, Anchor… why resist when you can analyze every thrust?" Her tail wrapped his thigh, mind-weaving heightening the overload.
Elowen bridged them all—holy light piercing the chaos, shadows restraining and stimulating. Her sadism flared; she raked nails down backs, drawing thin lines of blood that Seraphina licked clean.
The demon guards watched, frozen in awe and terror, as the "broken" Anchor turned the gatehouse into a temple of carnal resonance. Every thrust was a fix. Every bite a recalibration. Every moan a submission.
The whispers of doubt drowned in the flood—Vespera's seed silenced by the sheer physical reality of five queens yielding to their Anchor at once.
The climax was apocalyptic.
A five-fold nova of swirling colors exploded outward, cracking the basalt bridge, sending ash plumes skyward. The guards were blown back; one tumbled into a magma chasm, screaming.
The light faded.
The queens lay panting in the ash—exhausted, purified, bonds humming in perfect sync. Lyra nuzzled his side. Isolde's tail draped loosely. Seraphina licked her lips. Elowen's shadows calmed. Vespera smiled, doubt eradicated.
Kaelen stood among them, naked and glowing, the Seed gone.
The massive gates ground open.
A woman emerged.
Nearly seven feet tall, skin dark obsidian, horns sweeping back like a crown of night. She wore nothing but strategic chains of enchanted gold that accentuated her voluptuous form—curves that commanded obedience. Her presence was a gravitational pull, heat radiating like a sun.
Lilith, Sovereign of the Inferno.
She surveyed the pile of spent queens, then Kaelen—standing tall amid the chaos.
"Impressive," she rumbled, voice deep and sultry, vibrating through his bones. She stepped over a dazed guard's form, tilting Kaelen's chin up with a clawed finger. "You've broken the Seed, Fixer. But my mana isn't a whisper. It's a mountain. Let's see if your little Anchor can hold Hell's weight."
She leaned in, heat scorching. "Or if I'll have to break you myself."
The Inferno awaited.
Five fixed.
Two to go.
And the Blight laughed in the flames.