Chapter 11: Feeding The Throne

Alaric

She was gone.

I listened to her footsteps fade, echoing faintly against the cold stone of the corridor. Not rushed. Not panicked.

Measured.

Every step was deliberate, as if she’d already accepted what she saw, or worse, as if she’d expected it.

She had walked willingly into the oldest truth buried beneath this palace and now, she carried it with her. The scent of blood and iron clung faintly to her skin. It would go away after she bathed, but for now, it would linger. It wasn’t a stain or a mark, but a reminder.

A subtle warning to others.

I stepped further into the corridor, past the heavy threshold where she’d stood motionless, her breath shallow, her pulse humming in the dark. Her presence lingered still; her scent, her breath, the subtle stir of air where her body had paused. Like the last note of a song too fragile to echo.

She had seen enough to ask questions. But not enough to understand.

The blood smeared across the walls, dried and old. The chains suspended from hooks like silver serpents. The floor worn smooth from centuries of dragging feet. The silence, heavy and watching.

She hadn’t looked horrified.

She had looked… curious.

And that was more dangerous than fear.

Fear turned people away. Sent them running, stumbling back to the safety of ignorance. But curiosity? That pulled them deeper. Made them look again. Made them search for the story behind the silence.

That’s what could kill her, if anything did.

I passed the first set of manacles, still dangling from a stone pillar. The chains trembled faintly from where she’d brushed them. Rust had eaten away their luster, but they were still strong. Still sharp. Still capable of tearing flesh from bone.

To some, this was a dungeon. A torture chamber. But not to me.

To me, it was something far more sacred.

Justice.

Not for the nobles. Not for the innocent. For the condemned.

A maid who slit her mistress’s throat in her sleep for the promise of gold. A merchant who peddled stolen children, smuggled in crates and traded like spices. A soldier who betrayed his kin for the favor of a mortal king. Each one tried by the court, found guilty beneath ancient law, branded as unworthy of mortal mercy.

And then brought here.

Where their blood served its final purpose.

Feeding the throne.

Feeding us.

Feeding me.

It was never hidden. Only… forgotten. Like an old cellar in a grand estate, dark, functional, but no longer spoken of once the wine was poured and the feast laid bare. The nobles preferred not to remember what kept their goblets full. What let them walk beneath the moon with crimson lips and glistening eyes.

But I remembered. I never forgot.

I couldn’t forget.

The law was older than my crown. Older than the palace itself. Etched into the founding accords, carved into stone and sealed with blood: The innocent shall not be fed upon. The righteous shall not be bled. But the condemned shall pay in flesh, that we may live unchallenged.

And so they had.

For centuries.

A sound stirred behind me. Not a breath. A movement, a shift in the air.

“I see I was not the only one watching.”

Tristan’s voice, calm and clipped, echoed softly from the shadows. Predictable. Steady. He had always been a creature of habit.

I didn’t turn. “You followed her.”

“Of course I did.” His boots clicked softly across the floor as he approached, voice tight with disapproval. “You let her wander too close.”

“She chose the door.”

“You left it open.”

Now I turned to face him, slowly. “And still, she walked through it of her own will.”

Tristan’s jaw clenched. His posture, ever-rigid, stiffened further. “Mortals don’t understand what this place is. What it means. If she speaks of it-”

“She won’t.”

“You’re certain of that?” His voice sharpened, a low edge of warning beneath the control. “If she tells anyone, another servant, a human, a whisper to someone beyond these walls; the consequences fall on you. Not her. And if you cannot keep her in check...” He stepped closer, his eyes glinting. “I’ll have no choice but to report your negligence to the High Council.”

The silence thickened between us.

My smile came slowly. Cold. “Careful, Tristan. You forget yourself.”

His eyes flicked with restrained heat, but I stepped closer still, letting the full weight of my authority settle into the space between us like a blade.

“The Council serves the law, yes. But the law was written by kings. And kings,” I said softly, “do not answer to those who carry out their will. They command them.”

A long pause.

Tense. Breathless.

Then, finally, he gave a curt nod. The fire in his gaze had dimmed, but not disappeared. “Then I hope...for all our sakes, you can command her.”

He turned and vanished into the dark like a ghost.

I remained.

The corridor, once again empty, seemed to breathe with me. Or perhaps against me.

Annora had come close. Too close.

She had touched a thread in the tapestry no one was meant to see. And the entire weave trembled because of it.

But I would not hide this from her.

I would not apologize for it.

This was the cost of survival. A kingdom with teeth, hidden beneath velvet and gold. A throne built not just on bloodlines, but on blood itself. It was the unspoken truth behind every crown, every silk-draped lie we told ourselves about power and peace.

Later, when the torchlight dimmed and the stones grew colder, I stood still.

I thought of her eyes in the dark. Wide, yes, but not frightened. Searching.

I thought of her voice, soft and raw, barely above a whisper: Are you one of them?

I hadn’t answered.

Not because I didn’t know.

But because I did.

And I didn’t know what it meant anymore.

Once, I had believed in the simplicity of the law. The condemned shall be bled. The innocent shall be spared. Annora was innocent. But Annora had not come into this palace as a noble nor had she risen on privilege or title. She had been stolen, broken, raised as a servant, and yet she stood with the gaze of a queen and the spine of a warrior.

She was innocent.

And still, she was bled.

Not in this chamber, no. Not by law.

But by circumstance. By hands that twisted fate and tore away her childhood. And now, she bore a power none of us understood. A power that could scare the Council. A power that made me pause in ways I had not done for centuries.

Was she condemned?

Or was she the reckoning?

A cold breeze passed through the corridor, sweeping dust and memory in its wake. I looked once more at the chains, then at the smear of dried blood still etched into the floor like an old signature.

She had seen this.

And she had not flinched.

Perhaps it was foolish to hope she would turn away. To expect her to close her eyes and pretend she had seen nothing. Annora had never been blind. She had never belonged to the shadows.

She walked through them, yes.

But she was made for light.

And if that light ever turned on us, it would not be gentle.

It would be blinding.

I left the chamber at last, the door groaning shut behind me. It sealed with a weight that settled deep in my bones.

Annora knew something now. She would not speak of it, not yet; but knowledge never stayed dormant for long. It festered. It spread.

And when it bloomed, it demanded more.

More truth. More lies.

More blood.

I would keep her close. Closer than ever before.

Not just to protect her.

But to prepare her.

For a truth even darker than this one.

One that no door could contain.

One that lived inside me, waiting to be known.