Today, Emberfell opened its gates to kings, alphas, and vultures.
The air in the capital didn't smell like the usual pine and cold stone; it was thick with the scent of foreign wolves, expensive tobacco, and the metallic tang of polished armor.
From the balcony of the Rose Suite, Soraya could hear the blast of bronze horns echoing off the mountain peaks.
Allies. Trade partners. Rival Alphas. They had all descended upon the palace for the Conquest Tribute—the day the Alpha King distributed the "spoils" of his latest victories to those who remained loyal to his throne.
In Emberfell, slaves were not just labor. They were living trophies.
Beyond the palace walls, in the lower courts and outer yards, the slaves were gathered in their hundreds. Men and women from fallen territories stood barefoot on cold stone, stripped of names, stripped of status. They had been herded out before sunrise and ordered to wash themselves in the open basins—no screens, no privacy, no dignity granted.
Their clothes—rough linen, undyed and shapeless—were stacked in piles nearby, to be worn only after inspection.
A whip cracked through the air.
"Stand straight!" a voice barked.
The Overseer of Chains paced before them, thick-armed and scarred, the lash coiled in his hand. Any slave who moved too slowly, who dared to cover themselves, who trembled too visibly—felt it.
Pain was instruction in Emberfell.
A second crack split the air. Someone cried out.
That was when Althea Kaine arrived.
She moved through the courtyard like she owned it—deep violet skirts brushing the stone, jewels catching the light. Her gaze skimmed the naked bodies with open contempt, her lip curling as if the sight offended her.
Pathetic, she thought.
She stopped suddenly.
"Where is she?" Althea asked coolly.
The question carried weight. Heads lowered immediately.
One guard hesitated. "My lady?"
"The Northern Princess," Althea said, irritation sharpening her tone. "The slave. Soraya."
The guard stiffened and turned toward the Overseer.
Before he could speak, the overseer answered.
"Princess Soraya is not here."
Althea turned.
"She is royal blood," he continued. "She will not be washed like cattle."
"That makes no sense," she said sharply. "Half of these slaves are royal blood."
Her gaze lingered on a young woman near the basin—chin lifted despite the bruises on her throat. A fallen duchess, if Althea had to guess. Nearby, a man with the posture of a former prince knelt in silence, wrists shackled like the rest.
"They're nobles," Althea continued, her voice cutting. "Kings' sons. Princesses. Bloodlines older than Winterfall."
She turned back to the Overseer, fury beginning to coil beneath her skin.
"So tell me," she demanded, "why are they naked in the dirt—while Soraya of Winterfall is not?"
The Overseer shifted uneasily. Sweat gleamed at his temple.
"My lady," he said carefully, lowering his voice, "I only follow Alpha Damien's orders."
Althea's nails bit into her palm.
"She was not to be brought out with the others," the Overseer continued. "She was not to be touched. Not to be washed publicly. Not to be dressed by servants of the yard."
Althea felt something cold slide down her spine.
"She is to be prepared separately," he finished. "By palace maids. In a chamber."
Althea turned away sharply, skirts snapping around her legs.
Let her enjoy it, she thought darkly.
The ceremony hasn't begun yet.
....
Back in the rose suit, a knock at the door signaled the end of her solitude.
Four maids entered, followed by two high-ranking guards in ceremonial black leather.
They didn't bring the sheer, shameful silk from the night before.
Today, the goal was different.
Today, she had to look like a Princess—so that her fall would look even more satisfying to the visitors.
They dressed her in a gown of slate-grey silk, high-necked and long-sleeved, tailored so perfectly it felt like a second skin. It was the color of a winter sky before a storm. Around her waist, they cinched a belt of blackened silver.
Then came the brand of the ceremony.
The head maid approached with a set of Ceremonial Irons.
These weren't the rusted, heavy shackles of the dungeon. These were thin, delicate gold chains that connected her wrists, ending in a long lead that would be held by a guard.
They were beautiful.
Which made them ten times more insulting.
"Do not speak unless a King addresses you," the maid whispered, her eyes full of a strange pity.
"And for the love of the Mother, Soraya… do not look the Alpha King in the eye today. He is not a man today. He is the Host."
The Great Hall of Emberfell
Tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and dark wine. At least a dozen Alphas from neighboring territories sat in the tiered galleries, their eyes scanning the center of the room where the tributes stood in silent rows.
There were nearly fifty of them.
Young men from the border skirmishes. Scholars from the fallen libraries. Daughters of minor lords.
They all stood with heads bowed, their names and "crimes" being read aloud by a herald.
Soraya stood at the very end of the line, her slate-grey silk gown a stark contrast to the others. Beside her, the ceremony was already a scene of carnage and depravity.
To her left, a row of younger slaves had been ordered to strip completely, their clothes discarded in heaps on the floor.
They stood shivering, forced to endure the wandering hands of drunken lords who walked the line, poking at muscles and skin as if they were livestock.
Further down the hall, the atmosphere was even more carnal.
Some kings weren't waiting for the selection to end; they had already claimed "tributes," pulling them onto their laps at the banquet tables.
Soraya watched in silent horror as a girl from the Northern borders was forced to pour wine for an Alpha who kept his hand buried in her hair, yanking her head back every time she stumbled.
The sound of a leather whip cracked against the air, followed by a sharp cry.
A male slave had been too slow to kneel, and his new master was already "breaking" him in front of the laughing court. The cruelty was casual, a sport enjoyed between bites of venison.
Damien sat above the chaos on the Obsidian Throne, draped in a mantle of black wolf fur.
He didn't participate in the laughter. He sat with his chin resting on his fist, his blue-and-orange eyes tracking the depravity with the boredom of a god watching ants.
Beside him, Lady Althea was the picture of royal satisfaction. She sipped from a golden chalice, her eyes fixed on Soraya. Every time a king ordered a slave to strip or crawl, Althea's smile grew wider. She was waiting for the moment the "Winterfall Princess" would be forced to join the filth on the floor.
"And finally," the herald's voice boomed. "The prize of the Winterfall Campaign. Soraya of Winterfall. Unclaimed."
As Soraya was led forward, the gold lead clinking, the room fell into a predatory hush.
Alpha Varick of the Iron Ridge stood up, his face flushed with wine. He walked toward her, the scent of stale ale and sweat rolling off him.
He reached out, his thick, calloused fingers grabbing the gold chain at her wrist, yanking her forward.
"A Princess," Varick mused, his voice loud enough for the whole room. "I've never had a Princess. I wonder if her blood runs as cold as they say."
He looked up at Damien, then back at Soraya with a disgusting sneer. "Strip her. I want to see the quality of the Winterfall line before I pay the iron price for her."
Althea let out a small, breathless giggle, her fan fluttering. She leaned forward, her eyes bright with the anticipation of seeing Soraya naked and weeping in front of the entire kingdom.
Soraya's heart hammered against her ribs. She felt a sudden, violent surge of heat in her chest—a pressure that felt like a scream trying to claw its way out.
"Touch me again, and you won't have a hand to hold that chain."
The words cut through the hall like a serrated blade.
Soraya gasped internally, her mind spinning in a whirlwind of confusion. Where did that come from? She hadn't decided to say that. It felt as if her throat had been hijacked. For a terrifying second, she felt like a passenger in her own skin, watching a ghost speak through her mouth.
The hall gasped. A slave speaking back to a King was a death sentence.
Varick's face turned a deep, bruised purple. He laughed, a harsh, braying sound. "Feisty! I like them with teeth." He looked up at Damien.
"I'll double my tribute for this one, Alpha King. Wrap her up. She's mine."
Every eye in the room turned to Damien.
Politically, this was the right move. Giving Soraya to Varick would secure the Iron Ridge alliance.
But the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The torches on the walls flickered, their flames turning a strange, sickly violet.
"Varick," Damien said. His voice was a low growl that made the wine in the cups tremble. "Let go of the chain."
Varick blinked. "What? Damien, we had an agreement—"
"I said," Damien stood up slowly, the black fur of his mantle spilling around him like shadows, "Let go of the chain."
The power Damien released hit the room like a physical shockwave. Lords who had been whipping slaves suddenly stopped; those who had been pleasuring themselves with "tributes" froze in fear.
Damien descended the stairs of the dais, his boots heavy on the marble.
He walked straight up to Varick, taller, broader, and infinitely more terrifying. He reached out and wrapped his hand around Varick's wrist.
Cr-crack.
The sound of Varick's wrist bones groaning made Althea's smile shatter instantly.
"She is not for sale," Damien whispered. "She is not a tribute. She is not a gift."
He leaned in closer to Varick, his eyes burning with a terrifying, unhinged orange light. "She is the Alpha's personal punishment. And if you ever look at her again with those eyes... I will tear your Ridge apart."
Varick turned pale, releasing the gold lead. He stumbled back, bowing frantically, and retreated to his seat.
The hall was frozen. Damien had just insulted a major ally for a woman he called a slave.
Damien turned to Soraya. He didn't look like a savior. He looked like a man possessed. He grabbed the gold lead from the guard's hand, yanking Soraya toward him so she was pressed against his chest.
"The ceremony is over," Damien announced, his voice booming. "The Princess stays in Emberfell."
He looked down at Soraya, his grip on the lead tightening until the gold links bit into his own palm.
"You think you're safe because I didn't sell you?" he whispered, his eyes searching hers with a mix of hatred and a desire that looked like agony.
"You're not. You've just traded a dozen masters for the only one who knows exactly how to ruin you."