"Swallow it."
Isolde's hand clamped over his mouth, firm and unyielding.
Sylas thrashed against her, a final, violent surge of defiance—but soon his body stilled, his eyes squeezed shut.
A convulsive swallow. Tears escaped, tracing paths down his dust-streaked cheeks.
"Sweet?" Isolde's voice was a low, triumphant murmur near his ear, laced with mockery.
"Just kill me... I beg you..." The whisper was broken, his head bowed low.
She didn't answer.
Instead, her fingers dipped into the pouch at her belt, emerging moments later with a delicate, crystalline bracelet.
Without a word, she snapped it around his wrist.
Rising to her full height, she looked down at him: "I had this made for you. Truth be told, I pictured you wearing it three years ago."
The piece seemed fragile, almost glass-like, but a visible hum of magic shimmered across its surface—powerful enough to ensure a man of Sylas's slight build couldn't manage to harm himself.
She laughed at the look on his face: "So much resentment, Lord Sylas. Angry that your men from Lyonesse wouldn't die for you? How cruel—expecting soldiers to perish for your honor and comfort."
She tsked softly, her gaze sweeping across the room: "Where's your bedroom?"
Sylas remained slumped on the floor, silent.
Isolde nudged him impatiently with her boot: "Speak. You're a prisoner now. What's the point in playing the stubborn lord? Show some respect to your conquering Queen."
Reluctantly, he gestured toward the rear of the manor.
Bending down, she hooked an arm around him and hauled him over her shoulder like a sack of grain.
"What are you—? Let me go!" he cried out, panic sharpening his voice.
She ignored him, carrying him without effort until she found the bedchamber.
Sylas's room was spare, almost austere—no jewels, no finery, only shelves crowded with books.
Even the fleeing servants had found nothing worth stealing.
She dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor.
"You really are a dull one." she said with a sigh. "No wonder nobody wanted you. Couldn't find a wife? Pathetic."
Sylas turned his face away, seated now on the edge of the bed.
He was beginning to understand her game.
The Queen of Aethelred wasn't just defeating him—she was dismantling him, piece by piece.
Isolde smiled faintly and spread her arms. "Undress me."
"I don't know how," he mumbled.
"Now!" she warned. "Or I'll throw you to my troops and let you become their 'popular heartthrob' for real."
"Must you be so—"
"This is who I am!" she cut him off, one eyebrow arched. "And you are not allowed to call me shameless. I am the victor. Understood?"
Slowly, he rose. I didn't say it, he thought. You did.
He stepped forward and began working on the fastenings of her chainmail.
His mother had been a general, he knew armor. And he was meticulous by nature—even now, even for her.
He focused intently, head bent, struggling with a stubborn clasp near the breastplate.
Isolde caught the faint scent of old paper and ink on him.
His profile was sharp, elegant.
He really is beautiful, she thought.
For years, Sylas had been the cunning strategist who'd cost Aethelred dearly.
Now that brilliant mind was bowed in submission, forced to serve her.
This is victory.
"Having trouble?" she asked, a restless heat stirring in her.
"It's tight," he murmured, absorbed, his face close to her chest.
His lips were slightly parted; she could see the tip of his tongue resting behind his teeth.
The impulse was too sudden to resist.
She darted forward and brushed her lips against his in a quick, teasing kiss.
Sylas jerked back, stumbling onto the bed behind him.
He stared up at her, shocked, hands clutching the sheets.
He turned away, flushed. "Are you insane?" he whispered.
His tone was light, almost flirtatious—unintentionally so.
Isolde didn't answer.
With swift, practiced moves, she finished removing the armor herself, revealing the clothes beneath: a blood-red gown laced over with a brown leather vest.
The red suited her—stripped of her imperial authority, she looked bewitching, like a captivating court dancer.
She hitched up her skirts, placed one knee on the bed, looming over him now, crimson fabric spilling across his legs.
"From the moment I first saw you," she said, her voice imperious, "I thought you were unfit to be a strategist. You belong in my palace."
Sylas's lips parted soundlessly.
He wanted to dash his head against something—end it—but the bracelet on his wrist pulsed softly, thwarting him.
There was no escape.
Isolde's hand came to rest on his shoulder.
Her fingers traced his collarbone before slipping inside the collar of his robe.
"Your Majesty..." His voice was thick, on the verge of tears.
He gripped her hand through the fabric, trying to stop her.
"People of a defeated nation must accept the consequences of defeat." Isolde whispered. "What do you think you should do now?"
"I... wish for death."
"Wrong. Try again. You must please me. You must make me happy."
A wicked grin spread across her face: "Isn't this better in your bedroom? Clean. Private. Now say, 'Thank you, Your Majesty'!"
Sylas blinked miserably. The words lodged in his throat.
She wouldn't relent. She had fought for years to strengthen her nation—wasn't this what it was all for? To reduce a proud man to this?
"Say! it! "
Sylas broke.
"Just do what you want!" he cried, grief and indignation tearing through him.
"You are a Queen! Instead of ruling wisely, you resort to threats in my chamber... You are utterly unfit to rule!"
"What did you say? I'm unfit to rule?" Isolde actually laughed.
She patted his cheek: "Hey. Which one of us is on top? Whose home is this? If I'm unfit, what does that make you? My noble lord, being humiliated by an unfit woman. Maybe you fantasize about being played with by trashy women?"
She pinched his neck and smiled cruelly: "I'm playing with you! In your room now!"
Sylas struggled to say intermittently: "You only won...because of ...the Paladins your general trained! Just wait...one day she'll usurp ...your throne!"
She loosened his neck
Slap!
The blow wasn't meant to seriously hurt, only to silence.
"Never try to sow discord in front of me again." she said, her voice stern. "Watch your tongue."
Sylas held his stinging cheek, coughed and said: "Kill me...then...I won't say another word..."
She'd lost patience.
Ignoring his protests, she began tearing at his clothes.
The refined, scholarly young man was like a delicacy wrapped in leaves—unwrapped, he promised to be soft, pleasing, utterly captivating.
"Alright then." Isolde declared, her voice taking on a new, determined edge.
"Our primary objective now is to teach you how to say pretty things. You will learn to flatter and fawn, Lord Sylas. Aethelred does not tolerate idlers. Consider this your new appointment: you shall be the first official plaything in my court."