CHAPTER 54: THE SEAL AND THE SILK — PUBLIC OATH, PRIVATE DESIRE

I rose slowly, and silence fell almost at once. Not because I had spoken, but because I had moved. A single gesture, just one, my hand lifted, was enough to freeze the whispers. Their eyes locked onto me, pupils dilated by the flickering light, as though I held their breath between my fingers.

— "Rise."

My voice cracked like a whip, sharp, without raising the tone. The Saint, still kneeling at the center of the hall, lifted her head. Her white hair spilled across her shoulders, her robe stained with traces of travel contrasting with the flawless purity of her pale skin. Slowly, she stood. Her figure detached itself, fragile and yet imposing, within the circle of light I had deliberately left empty for her.

— "Seraphina Veyra."

I let her name roll in the air like a verdict. The nobles straightened in their seats, some blinking in shock, others pressing their lips, unable to hide their surprise.

— "From this moment forth, the Eighth Thorn."

A ripple spread across the hall, a murmur cascading. Jealous, anxious, lustful. Some already ogled her curves, as if the title were merely an excuse to imagine her beneath them. Others stiffened, realizing that a new piece had entered the Council and would disrupt their games of influence.

I made a subtle sign. A black casket was brought by an officer. I opened it before all, revealing the glowing red shimmer of an abyssium ring, forged in the very fire of the Gorge. I took it between my fingers and, slowly, slipped it onto Seraphina’s hand. Her fingers barely trembled, but I felt the tightness in her joints. She knew what this meant. She knew this gesture was not only an elevation. It was a mark. A chain.

I straightened and deliberately raised my voice, so that even the farthest — the most cunning, those who listened while pretending not to — would catch every word.

— "Within a year, you will raise a family as the Ninth Thorn. You will wield the same power as all others on the Council, and thus a direct impact on the future of the demon continent."

I let silence linger, watching their reactions. In my head, one thought cut sharp and clear: This way, they will have eyes only for her. They will seek to buy her favor, to seduce her, to manipulate her. And I... I will only need to pull the strings. Their ambitions will feed her power, and her power will feed mine.

I felt the tension swell in the hall. Nobles exchanged glances heavy with calculation. Some clenched jaws, already insulted at having to contend with this newcomer. Others, eyes gleaming, devoured Seraphina like a possible conquest, forgetting I had just branded her with my seal.

She remained still, head held high. But her lips trembled with a breath she couldn’t quite control.

I smiled. Discreetly. A smile neither warm nor kind. A strategist’s smile, one who had just placed a queen in the center of the board.

Then I advanced slowly to the center of the hall, each step resounding against the flagstones like a hammer’s strike. The abyssium ring on my hand caught the torchlight, throwing red glints across tense faces. All eyes followed me: some with barely concealed pride, others with the frozen fear of those who feel their world shifting.

I let my silence stretch, savoring the sticky tension swelling among nobles squeezed into their too-rich garments. Then my voice rose, clear, deep, each syllable slapping like a whip:

— "Most noble demons. Highborn heirs of pure lines..."

I paused a second, letting my gaze sweep across the crowd before deliberately hooking on a silhouette. A demoness with wide hips, her chest swelling under a crimson corset, lips gleaming with wine. Our eyes met, and I let my smile stretch just enough to send unease rippling around her.

— "... and you, lovely ladies."

A nervous murmur ran through the assembly. Husbands clenched their jaws, wives lifted their chins. Yes, feel it. My gaze spares no one. Not your beds, not your secrets.

I set both hands on the rough wooden table, my fingers crushing against the parchment stained with wine and blood. The surface shook under the impact, and all talk died at once.

— "Everything will continue as before. Your lands... your titles... your ranks... you will keep them."

Shoulders relaxed, breaths escaped. I let that false reprieve settle for a heartbeat, enough for some to believe it already.

— "But..."

I straightened. My eyes swept the hall, slowly, one by one, catching each noble like a personal threat.

— "A new era begins. The integration of abyssium into your markets. Production accelerated. Greater wealth. Your coffers will swell, your banners will shine brighter."

I paused. My smile vanished. My voice turned razor-sharp, each word a blade driven into their throats.

— "But know this... I will never forgive betrayal. Any attempt at plot... any rumor of conspiracy... will be punished by death. Not only yours. But that of your sons, your daughters, your lovers, your whores. The total extinction of your house."

The silence grew unbearable. Only the crack of torchwood and the ragged breaths of hundreds of tense chests could be heard. Some nobles already lowered their eyes. Others, frozen, forced themselves to hold my gaze. Let them understand. Here, I am not a host. I am their executioner on stay.

I seized my cup, raised my arm high. The red wine gleamed like fresh blood. A carnivorous smile split my lips.

— "Then let us drink. To the feast. And to the prosperity of years to come."

For a moment, no one dared breathe. Then applause broke, dry at first, forced, quickly swelling into a roar that climbed to the ceiling. Musicians struck up again, drums rolled, and the orchestra drowned their fear beneath a storm of strings and brass.

I drank a slow gulp, feeling the wine run warm down my throat. In their eyes, I read everything I wanted: terror, fascination, submission. And a troubled desire, too. For even in fear, some still wondered what it would taste like to share my table... or my bed.

The musicians carried on, strings and brass weaving a vast melody that made the hall vibrate. Wine flowed freely. Nobles rose two by two, gowns rustling, corsets too tight, décolletés spilling heat and sweat. Cups overflowed and tipped, red wine splashing painted lips and dripping chins. The air smelled of musk, hot leather, and flesh warming beneath too-heavy cloth.

I had withdrawn a step, my back resting against the high chair. I watched them thrash about, ridiculous and splendid all at once. These were their true colors: greedy, trembling, hungrier for pleasure even than for power.

And then her.

Seraphina.

Her white hair fell in disciplined strands, her scarlet eyes glowed under the red torchlight. She did not advance timidly. No. She cut through the crowd like a blade. Her hips swayed under the pale dress thrown on her for the occasion, her full breasts rising with each breath, ready to burst from the too-tight fabric. All fell silent when she reached me.

She bowed, her voice clear but vibrating, strong enough for every ear to hear:

— "Lord Sora... will you grant me this dance?"

A respectful hush descended, heavy, almost religious.

My smile shaped itself without effort. Let them watch. Let them understand. The Saint kneeling hours ago... now claiming me as her partner. I rose. Leather creaked on my cape, and I seized her hand without hesitation.

The music shifted, livelier. We moved onto the improvised floor. All eyes fixed on us.

I still had memories of my former life — forced soirées, ridiculous lessons in ballroom dance. Back then, I cursed every step. Today, I blessed every damned wasted hour.

My firm hand gripped her hip, feeling the heat of her skin beneath the fabric, my fingers brushing the start of her thigh. Her narrow waist bent under my hold, and I guided her as though she already belonged to me.

She gave the faintest gasp, a short breath only the nearest could hear. Her breasts pressed almost against my chest each time I pulled her close. Her scent — sweat, wax, and a too-subtle floral perfume — filled my nose.

My movements flowed smooth. Back straight. I spun her, her hips following the cadence, her gown flashing a glimpse of pale thighs that made more than one noble swallow hard. I pulled her back against me, her back arched, her chest thrust beneath my torso.

A murmur ran through the hall. Couples had stopped. Other dances ceased. Only ours continued, she and I, at the center of the ball, under hundreds of fascinated or jealous gazes.

I caught her gaze, blazing crimson, and a trembling smile brushed her lips. She whispered low, just for me:

— "You dance... as if you’d done this your whole life."

I laughed, brief, feral. If only you knew, Saint... if only you knew that I too lived a life of balls before playing tyrant.

Then I tightened my grip on her waist, and we spun on, her dress flaring at each move, baring more flesh than she might have wished. Every step a declaration, every gesture a provocation: she was mine. And they all saw it.

The music faded with a final drumroll, and the hall burst into applause. Not for the musicians. For us. For her, the Saint turned Thorn. For me, the man who had led her like one tames a wild mare.

I still felt her breath against my cheek, hot, trembling, as she leaned toward my ear. Her voice soft, but each syllable taut like a string stretched too far.

— "Lord... I would speak with you alone."

A shiver ran through me, not desire this time, but anticipation. There it was. She crossed the line herself. All these nobles saw her bow, dance, and now they would see her take me away. The message was clear: her loyalty, her body, her future... all through me.

I did not need to answer. She slid her hand along my arm and led me, her fingers tight as if she feared I might vanish. The crowd parted before us, forming a silent aisle. Heads bowed, burning gazes trailed after us. I caught clenched jaws, pinched lips, courtesan faces flushed with envy. Some men followed the fall of her dress with their eyes, unable to hide the hardness already swelling their breeches.

We passed through the great door. The air shifted instantly. From the stench of wine and sweat, we moved into the discreet scent of corridors: warm wax, damp stone, whiffs of dried flowers stuck in ancient vases. Our steps echoed on marble, my boots hammering a steady rhythm, hers quicker, almost hurried.

She said nothing. Neither did I. I let her lead. I wanted to see where it would take her. A Saint tugging her lord by the sleeve like an impatient lover... that was an image no noble here would ever erase.

We crossed narrow halls lined with demonic statues, wings spread wide. Torch flames flickered as we passed, casting shadows too long across the walls. She still clutched my arm, her hand warm despite the chill seeping through the stone. Her scent grew sharper, sweet, laced with the sweat trapped beneath the dance.

At last, she stopped before a massive door. Blackened wood, iron crossbars, heavy as a vow. She glanced over her shoulder at me, her scarlet eyes gleaming with a tension I knew too well: a mix of fear, desire, and expectation.

She pushed it open. The private office revealed itself.

A scent of incense enveloped us, thick, almost suffocating. The walls draped in red tapestries, the floor drowned in dark pelts. At the center, a massive desk sagged under maps, quills, and seals still wet with wax. The light, spilling from bronze candelabra, bathed the room in a warm, intimate glow.

She entered first, and I followed.

The door slammed shut behind us with a dry breath, cutting off the banquet’s rumble at once. Here, all was different: incense clung heavy to the throat, thick curtains swallowed echoes, and trembling candles cast red and gold across the walls, making shadows dance. The private office looked less like a workplace than an alcove, a snare designed to isolate two bodies and force them to reveal themselves.

Seraphina said nothing at first. She only stared at me, lips parted, breath quick. Then, without pretense, she reached for the lock and clicked it shut with a sharp motion. The sound nearly made me smile. She did not want to be disturbed. She knew what she was doing.

Her fingers then slid to her collar, seeking the ties of her Saint’s robe. The gesture was slow, almost ceremonial. I did not move. I let her, hypnotized by this moment where a priestess’s dignity was about to fall like a useless skin. One knot gave, then a second, and the fabric slipped. The robe poured down her shoulders, brushing her arms, before pooling silently at her feet.

I inhaled, and my gut clenched.

Beneath the sacred garb, she was no saint. She was woman. Entirely clad in black lace, fine enough to seem drawn upon her skin. Her heavy breasts spilled from a semi-transparent corset, their hard tips already piercing the fragile cloth. Her hips were sheathed in fishnet stockings climbing to mid-thigh, etching black arabesques on the brilliant pallor of her flesh. Between her legs, panties so thin they seemed to suggest rather than hide, and I could already glimpse the moist heat of her intimacy behind the lace veil.

Her flat stomach rose and quivered with each breath, betraying the tension trembling through her body. Her hips curved like a promise of lust, her thighs tensed and parted in a nervous rhythm.

But it was her eyes that struck me hardest. Two rubies, red with contained fever, with desire at last confessed. She did not look away. Not once. She wanted me to see. To know. To understand.

A smile broke on her lips, trembling, almost guilty, yet burning with newfound audacity. She whispered low, her voice husky:

— "I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long..."

My cock throbbed violently in my trousers, and I caught myself clenching fists to keep from stepping forward already. Fuck... she’s the one calling for me now.

The candle flames shivered, as though to punctuate her words.

And I knew this was not the end of the evening. It was the beginning.