CHAPTER 177: A LONG DAY

The doors swung open again, hinges groaning beneath the weight of so many horrors already passed, and in the archway stood the next family—another ornate bloodline with smiles lacquered over guilt and powder clinging to pale, worried faces. But before the guards could even announce their names, Allen lifted a single hand.

"Enough."

His voice rolled through the chamber like the final clang of a distant executioner’s bell.

Every breath in the room held still.

The family in the doorway hesitated, exchanging wide-eyed glances. Were they spared? Was this mercy? Or was it just a postponement of the inevitable?

Allen turned his back on them, cloak swirling at his heels like smoke.

"The tribunal is adjourned for the day. No more judgments will be passed until the bell strikes first light tomorrow."

There was no fanfare, no further explanation. Just the soft, stunned murmur of the remaining nobles as the tension in the room dropped—not vanished, but shifted—like a noose being temporarily loosened from the neck.

Some exhaled for the first time in hours. Others clutched handkerchiefs with trembling hands, knuckles white with repressed panic. One woman in violet leaned against a column, legs giving out under her as she sobbed quietly into her gloves. A few nobles nearly collapsed in place, sweat-soaked finery clinging to their spines.

Relief, yes—but not salvation.

They knew better.

Allen’s mercy was not kindness.

It was pacing.

He left the hall in silence, flanked by his personal guard. Behind him, the chained Renarr family dangled like grotesque ornaments of ruined status—living examples of what would happen when inherited cruelty collided with real power. Wax still dripped from their flesh. Words still branded their skin. And every noble left behind knew they had been this close to joining them on the hooks.

In the corridors beyond the tribunal chamber, Allen said nothing. His expression was unreadable, eyes distant, mind already playing through the list of names yet to come. There were dozens more. Maybe hundreds. Each one tied to some hushed atrocity the council had catalogued over the years—most of which had gone unpunished until now.

Outside, the sky had begun to darken.

Evening painted the marble steps in shadow as Allen emerged from the judgment hall. His boots hit the stone with steady rhythm, unhurried, unbothered by the dread still lingering behind him like smoke from a battlefield.

Fina was waiting by the courtyard’s fountain, arms crossed, eyes gleaming beneath the hood of her cloak. Rinni sat lazily on the edge of the basin, her feet dangling just above the water. Both of them looked up when Allen approached.

"Three families broken in one day," Fina said. "That’s restraint for you."

Rinni grinned, though her eyes were a little darker than usual. "You’re making them sweat, babe. That last woman peed herself before she even stepped inside."

Allen didn’t laugh. He just exhaled slowly, then rolled his shoulders.

"They’ll stew overnight. Panic breeds confessions. Tomorrow, more of them will beg to turn each other in."

Fina nodded. "And the ones who run?"

"We’ll chase them."

He turned toward the horizon.

Out beyond the hills, the noble estates still glittered like untouched jewels—safe, rich, powerful. But they were already cracking. Beneath the surface, the rot was being pulled into the open one noble soul at a time.

"I want the Meros family brought in at dawn," Allen said. "And the Trelvine cousins. Both lines have debts to settle."

Fina gave a low whistle. "The Meros keep a private garden of chained concubines. Allegedly."

"They’ll admit it before noon."

Rinni tilted her head. "You stopping early ’cause you’re tired... or because you wanted the rest of the nobles to shit themselves all night?"

Allen didn’t smile. But his silence said enough.

The three of them walked through the quiet palace courtyard, fireflies flickering between the hedges, the moon slipping behind a cloud. Behind them, the tribunal gates closed with a deep, final groan.

Inside, the nobles remained seated in stiff rows, staring at the family still hanging, wax still cooling, words still carved into skin. None of them dared to move first.

Because judgment had only paused.

And tomorrow...

Allen would start again.

The night air was cool against the marble as Allen stepped deeper into the palace, down a corridor few dared to tread. Behind him, the soft clink of metal echoed—Queen Soreya’s leash, still tight in his hand.

She crawled.

Still naked, still collared, still not permitted the dignity of standing. Her knees were red, raw from hours of crawling across stone. Her wrists had long ago gone limp behind her back, locked in tight manacles. And that leash? It hadn’t left her neck since sunrise.

Not even when nobles watched her choke on her own shame.

Allen stopped at a private chamber—quiet, dim, luxuriously cold. The door creaked open with a whisper, and he stepped inside, dragging Soreya behind him like luggage.

Only then did he speak.

"Up."

Not stand—just up. Soreya pushed herself upright on her knees, trembling, lips parted from sheer exhaustion. Her eyes were glassy, smeared with humiliation and dried tears, but she didn’t disobey. She knew better.

Allen’s fingers brushed the collar ring.

Click.

He undid the leash. Her head instinctively tilted forward, as if the absence of the tether left her uncertain of her place. But Allen didn’t give her long to think.

His cock was already out—thick, veiny, hanging like a divine punishment just inches from her face.

"Open."

She obeyed instantly.

Her jaw parted, her tongue already extending, her expression something between reverence and dread. She had gagged on him before—he remembered it clearly. And tonight, she’d do it again.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and slid himself inside.

No preamble. No gentle teasing. Just the steady, merciless pressure of his cock filling her mouth, sliding down her throat, until her nose kissed his skin and her muffled gasp vibrated around his shaft.

She gagged.

Her whole body twitched, shoulders hunching as her throat tried to resist the intrusion—but Allen held her there, buried in him, one hand in her hair, the other resting lazily at his side.

"You don’t get to sit," he muttered, watching her eyes water. "Not until I say so."

He pulled back just a little, letting her suck in a wet, ragged breath—then shoved back in, harder.

Gluck.

Glk-glk.

Spit dribbled from her lips, mixing with tears. The sound of her gagging was almost soothing now, a rhythm he could ride. Her mascara had long since run down her cheeks, and with her hands still chained behind her, she had no way to wipe her face. She was helpless. Just a kneeling, trembling, throat-stretched queen whose crown had been replaced by a collar.

"Remember when you sat on a throne?" Allen whispered, thrusting again, feeling her throat tighten. "When your words had power?"

Another thrust. She gurgled.

"You’re nothing now but a hole."

He let go of her hair, but she didn’t pull back. She couldn’t—not without permission. Her throat spasmed around him, desperate to breathe, but he didn’t move. Just watched her struggle, her chest heaving.

Finally, he pulled out. A long, thick strand of spit clung to his cock, swaying as she gasped and coughed, eyes wild.

He leaned in, grabbed her jaw, and forced her to look up at him.

"You’ll sleep on the floor tonight. Chained. Still naked. No blanket. No food unless it’s from my cock."

She whimpered.

Allen smiled—just barely.

And then he slid back in, slow and deep, until her gag cut off her own moan.