CHAPTER 181: EMBLEM OF JUDGEMENT

Morning came not with the gentle warmth of sun filtering through linen curtains, but with the stark chill of stone against skin. Soreya’s eyes fluttered open as her knees buckled slightly, the weight of her shackled position pulling at her shoulders. The cold metal cuffs around her wrists were hooked high above her, forcing her to remain upright on her knees in front of the great tribunal doors. Her arms ached. Her thighs trembled. And her skin—still streaked with dried cum, sweat, and the remnants of her own slick—itched with humiliation.

The double doors loomed behind her like the gates of judgment itself, tall and immovable. The chains rattled faintly every time she shifted, and the collar around her neck added another weight to her already broken composure. She was no longer simply a fallen queen—she was a living symbol. The first thing nobles would see. A reminder of the price of arrogance. A warning carved in flesh and silence.

Allen hadn’t allowed her to be washed. He had forbidden it. And so her back still bore the dried ropes of his climax, like calligraphy in filth across her spine. Her hair clung to her cheeks. Her breasts hung heavy and exposed, the nipples still faintly swollen from unrelieved arousal. Between her thighs, soreness pulsed—an ache that wasn’t entirely pain. It was need. The cruel kind. The kind that no longer asked for permission.

The tribunal doors began to groan open behind her.

She gasped—instinctively straightening—but her position held. She couldn’t hide herself. Couldn’t lower her arms. Couldn’t cover the dried evidence of what had been done to her body the night before. The first noble couple entered, eyes wide as they saw her. A moment of stunned silence. Then the woman blanched and looked away. The man swallowed and stepped cautiously around her, giving her a wide berth.

They didn’t speak.

No one did.

One by one, the gallery filled. A dozen nobles, then two dozen. Council aides. Clerks. Servants. A parade of perfectly dressed faces, each greeted first by the sight of a naked, cum-marked queen chained to the doors like a divine punishment. Some slowed. Some stared. Some kept their eyes fixed straight ahead. But none dared laugh. No one mocked. No one asked why she was there. Because they knew. Allen didn’t waste symbols. He made monuments of flesh and memory.

The tribunal’s dais remained empty for a time, the hall left to stew in its discomfort as whispers bloomed like mold in the corners. Soreya remained still, her knees numb, her pulse a steady drumbeat of shame. Every second passed like a blade sliding across skin—not deep, but constant. And then, finally, the doors behind her opened wider.

Bootsteps.

Hard. Measured. Familiar.

Allen entered the hall in silence.

Fina flanked his right, dressed in a flowing obsidian robe with gold trim, her eyes as cold as carved onyx. Rinni was on his left, a looser fit of leather and silk around her body, her expression unreadable save for the ghost of a smirk tugging her lip.

Allen paused just behind Soreya.

She felt him there, the presence like a weight pressing down on her skull. She didn’t dare look back, couldn’t even turn her head far enough with the collar and chains restraining her. Her heart beat faster.

He touched her.

Just a single hand brushing the curve of her lower back, fingers grazing the dried mess from last night. His thumb dragged through it slowly, deliberately, then wiped itself clean on the back of her thigh. Not a word. Just a silent reminder that he still owned her shame.

Then he stepped forward, ascending the platform without another glance at her.

The tribunal began.

There were no delays.

The first case called was a minor noble suspected of using falsified documents to hide the acquisition of underage concubines. Allen didn’t bother asking for a defense. The evidence was read aloud, the testimonies of rescued girls submitted by Fina, and the punishment was swift. Strip him. Brand him. Reassign his estate to a rehabilitation foundation under Allen’s control.

Next case.

Then another.

With each name called, with each life torn open and sorted like old laundry, the fear in the room deepened. The nobles no longer sat tall. Their shoulders hunched. Their fans trembled in gloved fingers. No one adjusted jewelry. No one smiled. The air was leaden with dread—and in the corner, still chained, Soreya knelt as its avatar.

Hours passed.

The hall grew hot with tension, the scent of sweat mingling with old incense. Allen’s voice never rose. He didn’t posture, didn’t monologue. His commands were cold and surgical. When the fourth noble collapsed to their knees and begged to confess everything—names, houses, hidden ledgers—he simply motioned to Fina to take notes and moved on.

By midday, the tribunal adjourned for a short recess.

Allen rose from his seat, and without hesitation, walked down the steps and approached Soreya again. She flinched before she could stop herself.

He crouched beside her.

His hand cupped her jaw and lifted her gaze to his.

Her eyes were bloodshot. Her lips cracked. Her skin a pale sheen of exhaustion and dried shame.

"I said no food," he murmured. "But I didn’t say no water."

He reached into his cloak and pulled a waterskin free, uncorking it slowly.

Her throat tightened with anticipation. She licked her lips instinctively, already shaking.

But he didn’t bring it to her lips.

Instead, he tilted it just above her face and let the cool water drizzle down—over her forehead, down her cheeks, trickling past her lips, her chin, her collarbone. Some of it reached her tongue. The rest simply splashed across her chest and ran down between her breasts.

She moaned softly without meaning to.

Allen smiled, just faintly. "Still wet."

He stood, corked the skin, and left her soaked and shivering.

Rinni approached next. No cup. No leash. Just her. She stood in front of Soreya and dropped to one knee, brushing a hand through her tangled hair.

"You’re a good little centerpiece," she said. "But you need to beg louder if you want to be useful again."

"I—I wasn’t—"

Rinni reached down and slapped her inner thigh. Not hard. Just enough to sting.

"Did I say speak?"

Soreya fell silent.

"You don’t get to stop existing just because they aren’t looking," Rinni whispered. "You’re his now. Even your silence has a price."

Fina passed by them with a new scroll in hand and a bored look in her eyes.

"Let her rest her arms after this recess," she told the guards. "An hour only. Then back up. Higher. Tighter."

Allen returned to the tribunal seat.

Another family entered. The accusations continued.

And beneath the rising voices of justice, in full view of every noble soul still clinging to the illusion of safety, Queen Soreya stayed chained to the doors.

A throne no longer. A servant not quite.

She was the emblem of judgment.

And Allen was far from finished.