Chapter 182: Mercy of a master
Evening light filtered through the stained-glass dome overhead, casting deep violet shadows across the tribunal hall. The golden glow of justice had long since faded—replaced now by the bruised hue of judgment fulfilled. The nobles had been dismissed. The last scroll had been sealed with wax. And the scent of fear, sweat, and submission clung to the stone walls like fog after rain.
Only a few remained now.
Allen sat atop the high dais, one leg lazily draped over the armrest of the tribunal throne. His coat hung open, tunic partially unfastened, revealing the light sheen of exertion on his chest. His posture was relaxed, almost indulgent, but his eyes—sharp and unflinching—never strayed from the trembling woman below him.
Soreya was still bound.
Her arms had been lowered during the recess, but not freed. Her wrists remained shackled behind her back. Her knees were spread wide now, locked into metal braces that kept her lower body exposed, helpless. The collar tugged slightly at her throat every time she moved, and the chain connected to it ran to the base of the tribunal stairs, ensuring she couldn’t crawl far—not that she had the strength left to try.
She knelt on a fur-lined mat now, a mockery of comfort. Every breath she drew was shallow. Her lips were swollen, her jaw sore from hours of silence, her thighs sticky with need and filth.
Allen raised a hand, and the others stilled.
Fina, standing to his right, offered only a small nod before stepping forward and crouching beside Soreya. Her fingers traced lazy lines along the other woman’s inner thigh—absently playing with the shame slick pooling between her legs.
"She’s leaking again," Fina noted casually. "And she still hasn’t been fucked."
Allen didn’t move.
"Is she ready?"
Fina tilted Soreya’s chin upward. "Are you?"