CHAPTER 69: HAND OF THE DIVINE

The heavy silence was broken.

Alaric spoke—not loudly, but the sound cut through the chamber like a blade through silk.

"Caldrith,"

He said, voice unshaken, sovereign.

"Stand up. You two as well."

The three kneeling figures flinched slightly. The air hadn’t lessened its weight—but his words gave them motion. They rose slowly, careful not to overstep, but unwilling to remain groveling once permission had been given.

They stood—barely steady, still reverent.

Then came Alaric’s voice again, colder this time, like truth unadorned.

"Before we begin... let me make one thing absolutely clear."

His eyes—though veiled in shadow—felt like they pierced bone.

"I do not trust any of you."

There was no softness in his tone. No diplomacy. Just fact.

Caldrith bowed his head again—not out of fear, but deference.

"Lord Aurelian... I don’t know how I’ll earn your trust,"

He said, voice heavy, but honest.

"But if you are willing... then I am willing—willing to become your slave."

Alaric raised an eyebrow, faint amusement flickering beneath divine detachment.

"I see."

He leaned forward slightly.

"But are your subordinates willing to do the same?"

Caldrith paused—he hadn’t thought of that.

He turned his head slightly, as if to gauge them—but then answered instead with truth.

"...I don’t know about my subordinates. But I am ready."

"I see,"

Alaric murmured.

Then his gaze turned.

He looked at the other two directly.

Their spines straightened instinctively.

"Then let me ask you both directly,"

He said.

"What is it that you want?"

His voice was no longer cold—but it wasn’t warm either. It simply was—undeniable, unignorable.

This time, it was the woman who spoke first. Her voice was tight but controlled.

"We wish to serve, Lord Aurelian... If you’ll have us, we would like to be retained under you."

The man beside her nodded silently.

"We will be of service... willingly."

Alaric nodded slowly.

"Good,"

He said.

"But I’ll make this crystal clear. You see that girl over there?"

He gestured slightly toward Auralyne, who stood just beside the curtain, still composed, her silver gaze steady.

"All you have to do is drink her blood."

He paused.

"But don’t misunderstand,"

He added, his voice hardening.

"This isn’t some perverse slave ritual. That kind of thing isn’t my cup of tea."

The three glanced at each other—uncertain.

"I don’t need obedience,"

Alaric continued,

"I need secrecy. That’s all. The moment any of you try to speak of me—my name, my plans, even my existence—I will know. And you will suffer."

He didn’t elaborate what "suffer" meant. He didn’t need to.

Dozens of possibilities unfolded in their minds, none of them gentle.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes,"

All three said in unison.

Their voices still held fear—but also relief.

He wasn’t enslaving them. He was binding them. That was... easier to accept.

Alaric gave a single nod.

"Good."

Then he spoke the next name—softly, but with command.

"Auralyne."

Auralyne stepped forward in silence.

Her platinum blonde hair shimmered faintly under the golden glow of the throne room. Her amethyst eyes, though widened briefly by the weight of the moment, quickly returned to their calm, glasslike stillness. She moved with measured grace—poised, elegant, regal.

From her spatial ring, she withdrew a slender silver knife—etched in runes, ceremonial in shape. No hesitation.

She cut across her palm—clean, controlled.

Then, without a word, she let a drop of blood fall into each of their open mouths.

As the blood met their tongues, something shifted.

The very mana within the throne room stirred as though recognizing the ancient rite being enacted. Invisible threads bloomed, each one forming a bond—a luminous line between Auralyne’s chest and each of theirs.

The strings pulsed once.

Alive. Binding. Final.

And then—they faded.

But what had been done would not undo.

The silence settled again.

And from the throne—still seated, still unmoving—Alaric spoke.

His voice bore no pomp. No ceremony.

Only truth.

"From this moment forward,"

He said,

"you three belong to her."

He raised a single hand, not in gesture—but in statement.

"To Auralyne Viresta Caelthorn. One of My loyal Vessel."

His words rang like iron through silk.

"After our plan succeeds, she will take the throne and lead our people. Your lives, your loyalty, your purpose—they are hers now. And by extension, mine."

He let that truth settle in the sacred air.

"You cannot betray her. You cannot harm her. You cannot speak of her or of me, or of anything tied to us. If you try—you will suffer. And I will know."

He paused—just a heartbeat.

Then added, with that cold, quiet weight only he could carry—

"So you see, it’s a win-win."

There was no applause.

Only silence. And understanding.

The pact was sealed.

And the throne watched in silence.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

Alaric remained seated, still cloaked in veils of white velvet, still silent beneath the golden dome of divine stillness.

Then, once again, the throne spoke.

"Since we’re finished with the formalities..."

His voice was calm. Measured. Almost amused.

"...let me give you all a welcome gift."

The three new subordinates froze.

Their eyes widened—startled, uncertain.

Even Auralyne blinked in faint disbelief. Her lips parted slightly in surprise.

She had never received such a gift.

As if sensing her thought—her momentary flicker of doubt—Alaric chuckled lightly. A sound like dusk wind across marble.

"Don’t worry, Auralyne. Yours will come in due time."

A pause.

Then a tone deeper, firmer—quiet thunder beneath velvet.

"Your gift... will be the kingdom itself."

The words settled like divine judgment.

And still—he had not moved.

Or had he?

A sound echoed faintly in the golden stillness.

Footsteps.

Small. Barely audible. Yet each one felt like a heartbeat from the throne itself.

Alaric rose—not loudly, not with drama—but with weight. The throne no longer bore him, but the world still bowed beneath him.

He walked slowly to the veil.

The massive white velvet curtain—a divine seal in fabric—towered before the room. The curtain did not part. But he stood just behind it, and from within, his voice called:

"Caldrith. Come."

The man flinched. He had been standing in a trance, still staring at the light that had descended from that throne—no longer merely seated royalty, but a figure wrapped in solitude.

Divine. Inescapable.

Caldrith quickly pulled himself together, composed his breath, and strode forward with a steady gait.

Then, before the curtain, he dropped to one knee.

His voice was low, shaken, but reverent.

"At your command... Lord Aurelian."

From behind the curtain, a hand emerged.

And everything changed.

The air shifted.

The mana—already impossibly pure—grew brighter, joyful, as if the world itself celebrated the emergence of that limb. The hand was made not of flesh, but of light—a pulsing golden-white radiance that moved like smoke, like a gentle current of clouds. The fingertips were pale, fully white, glowing softly with inner clarity. The aura was weightless—but inescapable.

Then, that divine hand touched Caldrith’s forehead.

Ting.

A single chime rang out—light, crystalline—and the entire throne room flared.

The golden light intensified.

Caldrith screamed.

He clutched his head, stumbled backward. His legs gave way, and he collapsed.

His subordinates rushed forward instinctively, but stopped. Powerless. They could only watch.

White veins pulsed across his skin, glowing like streams of mana breaking through flesh. His body arched and withered, trembling uncontrollably.

Then—

Snap.

A sharp sound rang through the chamber.

And everything stilled.

The light faded. The air returned to its former, hushed radiance.

Caldrith gasped for breath, drenched in sweat, trembling.

Then he dropped.

Not merely to his knees—he planted them. And then—

He kowtowed.

Forehead to marble.

Hands flat.

A submission that transcended rank or protocol—this was worship.

His voice rang out, filled with awe and sincerity that echoed from the soul.

"Lord Aurelian... you have my deepest respect and my complete devotion. From this day forth, I will serve you to the fullest of my abilities."

From behind the curtain, Alaric’s voice rang again—seated once more on his throne.

A soft chuckle.

"Good,"

He said.

"I expect nothing less from you."

The other two still stood in confusion.

To them, Caldrith had only screamed and collapsed. They had seen pain, not clarity. Suffering, not transformation.

Alaric’s voice reached them again, calm and disarming.

"You don’t need to worry."

He spoke with eerie reassurance.

"I didn’t brainwash him."

A pause.

"That was his own will. A decision born of what he saw, what he felt."

Caldrith nodded firmly, still kneeling. His breath still ragged—but his eyes were clear.

Whatever had happened—it had changed him.

"You can ask him about it later,"

Alaric continued, now returning to solemnity.

"But for now, we have more pressing matters at hand."

His tone sharpened like a blade slipping from its scabbard.

"How We are going to stir the Velmora Kingdom."

And then, the final line—spoken as law:

"And how We will present Auralyne Viresta Caelthorn... as its rightful heir."

-To Be Continued