Arthur's massive, rage-contorted face was inches from mine.
I scrambled backward, hands up in a useless gesture of defense, bracing for the bone‑shattering impact of his fist or the cold kiss of a blade. My mind raced, searching for a System command—anything that could teleport me out or conjure a weapon.
His arm drew back, snatching the massive longsword leaning against the bedpost. The shinnnng of steel echoed through the chamber. I shut my eyes, every nerve screaming.
But the blow never came.
Instead, the King let out a harsh, bitter laugh—pure contempt. He lowered the sword, the tip dragging across the velvet rug.
"No," he snarled, voice low and venomous. "I won't let you die that easily. A gutter‑rat like you doesn't deserve a quick death. You've earned a spectacle."
He raised one gauntleted hand and snapped his fingers.
The sound cracked through the air. A man in a black, high-collared tunic—some kind of court official—stepped from the shadows near the door. He dropped to one knee instantly, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Summon the Queen's parents," Arthur ordered. "Tell them to return to the castle immediately. Tell them it's a matter of treason and defilement of the royal line. Do not fail."
"Yes, my King," the official murmured, rising and vanishing as quickly as he'd appeared.
Arthur turned away from me, his attention locking on his trembling wife. His sword pointed at the stained bed—the visible evidence of betrayal.
"And you," he said coldly. "Don't move. Don't touch a drop of water. You will stay exactly as you are until your family arrives to witness your disgrace."
She gasped, tears spilling freely.
"If you try to hide the truth," Arthur added, his tone icy and precise, "your entire bloodline will pay for it. I will see them stripped of every title and privilege. Do you understand me?"
"Y-yes," she whispered.
He sheathed the sword with a harsh scrape and strode to the door without another glance in my direction.
"The guards will be posted," he said flatly. "Don't move, either of you."
The heavy door slammed shut. The lock turned with a final, echoing thunk.
Silence.
I was still alive, untouched—but now I was a prisoner, the centerpiece in a royal scandal. The King was planning a spectacle. The Queen was broken. And me? I was the evidence.
I glanced at the trembling woman on the bed, then at the glowing System display in my vision.
Life Expectancy: 30 Days.
The timer was no longer about survival.
It was about escape—before the Queen's family arrived.
The heavy thunk of the lock still echoed in the room.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the Queen's quiet, ragged sobs.
I was still crouching on the floor, the metallic scent of Arthur's rage and the sweet, musky scent of our violation heavy in the air.
My focus was entirely on the door, planning an escape.
But the Queen suddenly froze. Her trembling became more intense. She wasn't looking at me; she was staring past me, toward the thick wood of the sealed door.
Then I heard it—the low, muffled voices of the guards posted outside. They weren't whispering; they were emboldened by the King's fury and the knowledge of the "treason" taking place inside.
"...The old man's not wrong," a gruff voice muttered. "She's definitely getting kicked out of the country. Probably the block. Cheating on the King..."
Another voice chuckled, low and nasty. "Yeah. But she's still the Queen, though, isn't she? Maybe we could get a quick peek at her before they haul her off. All those fancy dresses, and the King says she's just a common whore."
A third, younger voice joined in, sounding excited and cruel. "Look at the mess. I heard the King shout about the sheets! She's probably just lying there, all slick and hot. Maybe we could contribute some cum to adorn her face before her parents arrive, just to give the King a little extra proof."
The Queen's gasps became sharp—silent shrieks of panic. She scrambled back, pressing herself against the headboard, eyes wide with terror as she realized the full depth of her exposure.
The door handle rattled violently.
"Oi! Queenie!" a harsh voice bellowed from the hall.
The heavy door didn't give, but the small peephole—or whatever gap existed—was enough to hear the rage-fueled, drunken lust: "You owe us, bitch! Because of whores like you, I lost my brother in the last war with the Southern Empire! Too busy getting your pussy filled to notice the world burning, were you?"
The wood around the handle splintered with a sudden, loud crack as the guard outside put his full shoulder into the door.
The heavy lock held, but the internal mechanisms were clearly failing. The gap widened just enough for a desperate, angry face to appear at the break.
With a final, sickening splintering sound, the lock gave way, and the door flew open.
A hulking guard, dirtier and more desperate than the others, stumbled into the room. His eyes fixed on the figure on the bed. He ignored me completely.
His leather tunic was stained and his face was a mask of drunken, grief-fueled fury.
"You think you can just lay there, soaking in that cum, while my brother's rotting in the ground because of your soft life?!" he roared, his voice laced with venom.
He staggered to the bedside, dropping to his knees.
He lunged.
"You're going to pay for it now, you selfish bitch!" he screamed, grabbing a fistful of her golden hair and yanking her head forward, forcing her face down toward his groin.
He fumbled with the clasp of his trousers, trying to get at her exposed face.
"You're going to feel my revenge right here!"