NTR: Barbarian Harem Conquest

Elyra’s robes spread across the floor.

She stayed down, her chest rising and falling in erratic spasms as the fanatic pride in her eyes slowly curdled into pure, unadulterated terror.

Kane didn’t let the silence sit.

Smashing a gladiator’s bones was just standard combat; breaking a high priestess in front of an audience of her peers was permanent political warfare.

Raising his right hand, he snapped his fingers.

The sharp clack acted like a physical slap, jolting the stunned noblewomen out of their collective daze.

"You," Kane murmured, aiming his index finger at a silver carafe and a matching goblet resting on Lady Vanya’s abandoned viewing table.

"Fetch those."

Elyra blinked, her mouth opening in a dry, soundless protest.

"Fetch them," Kane repeated, dropping his voice into a low, rumbled register that vibrated right through the floorboards.

"Fill that cup with spiced wine. And bring it to me on your knees. If a single drop hits the stone, we are going to find out if your Goddess can regrow a jaw."

Gasps echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

Several older matriarchs visibly clutched the silver chains at their collars, entirely scandalized.

In Milfheim, men served on their knees; men kept their eyes down.

Forcing the spiritual leader of the empire into the posture of a common household breed was an execution of their entire social hierarchy.

Elyra looked up at the throne, desperately seeking salvation.

Sitting like a carved statue, the Empress looked right through her.

The fanatic broke.

After all, it was her own decision to fight him.

Crawling across the floorboards, actually crawling, her fine dress catching on the rough stone beneath the gladiator’s wet blood, Elyra dragged herself to the side table.

Her fingers shook so wildly the silver carafe rattled against the rim of the cup, splashing red liquid over her own pristine sleeves.

She shuffled her knees back across the carpet, stopping right at Kane’s boots.

Lifting the goblet with both trembling palms, she kept her forehead aimed strictly at the carpet.

"Your... your wine, my Lord."

Taking the silver vessel, Kane purposely let his knuckles drag across the top of her bowed head, patting her once like a well-trained hound.

’Much better,’ Kane smiled internally, taking a slow, leisurely sip.

’A little basic obedience does wonders for the local culture.’

Over the rim of the cup, his eyes locked dead onto the Empress.

He didn’t bow.

He simply drank her holy order’s pride and swallowed it whole.

Before Elyra could even scurry backward into the safety of the crowd, a sudden rustle of white linen caught Kane’s periphery.

Princess Misha stepped down from the elevated dais.

She moved without making a sound, her bare feet gliding over the marble like a drifting phantom.

Two armored paladins instinctively reached out to grab her shoulders, but the Empress shot up from her throne, raising a sharp, flat palm to freeze the guards in place.

The matriarch leaned forward, her platinum crown catching the candlelight.

She wanted to watch this.

Misha drifted straight through the open space, entirely ignoring the imaginary boundaries that separated royalty from mercenaries.

She stopped less than six inches from Kane’s chest.

Up close, her hollow, pupil-less eyes looked like two pools of frozen gray water.

She didn’t offer a curtsy or a syllable.

Reaching up with both remarkably frail hands, Misha took Kane’s right palm, the same hand still warm from snapping her champion’s joint, and pressed it flat against her own sternum.

’She’s cold,’ Kane realized, his breath catching slightly at the stark drop in temperature against his skin.

Beneath the thin white fabric of her gown, her ribs felt fragile, vibrating with a frantic rhythm that felt completely wrong.

It wasn’t the steady thump of a human heart; it felt like a cracked crystal trying to shake itself to splinters inside her chest.

’Her shattered core is actively trying to siphon my conqueror aura just to keep itself glued together,’ Kane deduced, his brain instantly mapping the strange sensation.

’She isn’t looking for a political husband today. The poor girl is looking for a literal life support system.’

A sudden pulse of azure light erupted from the point where his calloused palm met her chest.

The brilliant flare washed over the vaulted ceiling, turning the stained-glass windows a deep, electric blue.

Misha’s back arched slightly, her frail fingers digging into the back of his hand to anchor herself against the surge.

[Divine Core Resonance Detected]

[Target: Princess Misha - Status: Fractured Divinity]

[Passive Siphon Initiated: Your Conqueror’s Presence is temporarily stabilizing target’s mana channels.]

[Betrothal Bond: Formally Sealed]

Staring at the floating text right beside Misha’s pale cheek, Kane blinked twice.

’Wait, that’s it?’ Kane thought, genuine annoyance cutting right through the majestic display of ancient magic.

’Formally sealed? I don’t even get to fuck her first to make it official? I just hold her hand like a polite schoolboy, and suddenly I own a cursed royal?’

Releasing a tiny, paper-thin sigh of pure relief, Misha’s rigid shoulders finally dropped.

For the first time since she entered the chamber, the fog in her gray eyes cleared just enough to focus squarely on Kane’s face.

She didn’t smile, but her thumb softly stroked the side of his knuckle, claiming him in her own silent, desperate fashion.

"The Goddess has clearly spoken," the Empress announced, her voice ringing out with triumphant finality as she descended the first two steps of the dais.

"The divine resonance is absolute. The military alliance between Milfheim and the Western Reaches is sealed."

Looking down at the sobbing priestess on the floor, then at the silent girl clutching his fingers, Kane slowly lowered his wine cup.

’Well, this is great.’

"Send the galleons to my border coves by midnight," Kane told the Empress, his tone leaving zero room for negotiation.

"And pack Misha’s things. My household does not like waiting."

The meeting ended, and we returned to our rooms.

Iron bolts slid home with a scrape.

The oak door of the Milfheim guest suite secured them inside, cutting off the distant murmurs of the scandalized court.

Seraphine stood by the threshold.

Her silver chest plate dropped to the floorboards with a loud clatter; holy paladin composure was completely gone, replaced by ragged breathing and eyes blown wide enough to swallow her irises.

"You humiliated our holy order," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"You are a fucking demon."

Leaning casually against the carved pillar of the bed, Kane unbuttoned the top of his tunic.

"I’m your betrothed’s new master," he corrected smoothly.

"And you have been speaking rudely for ten minutes straight. Should I punish you?"

No words left her mouth.

No sword was drawn.

Instead, Seraphine closed the distance between them like a predator.

Grabbing the shirt, she slammed him backward against the solid wooden bedpost.