Chapter 75: Training In His Custom Training Chamber

The early morning light filtered through the tall, arched windows of the grand dining hall, casting golden beams across the rich wood paneling and gleaming marble floors. The table before Alaric was an opulent affair, laden with silver platters piled high with succulent meats, fresh fruits, and delicate pastries. He sat at the head of the table, his striking blonde hair catching the light like strands of molten gold. His broad shoulders, encased in an expensive tunic, were relaxed as he surveyed the room.

The women were seated across from him, their postures hunched in quiet submission. They wore dresses of fine silk and lace, each one fitted to accentuate their curves, but the clothing seemed to do little to hide the air of dread that hung over them. Their eyes were downcast, faces pale, as if the mere presence of the man at the table had drained all the color from their skin. The soft clink of silverware against fine china was the only sound that filled the silence, aside from the occasional scraping of chairs or the distant echo of servants tending to other parts of the mansion.

Alaric leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, studying them with a look that was equal parts disdain and cold amusement. He had come to enjoy the broken spirits that now sat before him—so easy to control, so simple to bend to his will. His lips curled into a slight, almost imperceptible smile as he observed the way the women avoided his gaze.

“Ladies,” Alaric began, his voice smooth and rich, with a sharp undertone that carried just enough edge to make the atmosphere tense. “I trust that you’ve had time to reflect on last night’s… encounter.” He paused, savoring the silence that followed, letting it hang heavy in the air. “I certainly hope it was a… lesson well learned.”

The women flinched at the word “lesson,” but they said nothing. They simply nodded, their eyes still fixed on the polished table before them, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Yes, Master Alaric,” came the soft, synchronized reply from each of them. Their voices were thin, tremulous, like whispers of ghosts from a forgotten world. Each word seemed to cost them something, though they knew better than to defy him now.

A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of Alaric’s lips as he let the silence stretch on. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the table, his eyes locking onto the woman nearest to him. Her name was Evanthe, though he hadn’t bothered to remember it. In his eyes, she was just one of many, interchangeable and easily broken.

“You understand your place now, I take it?” Alaric’s voice was low and dripping with venom, though it held a certain satisfaction that reflected how much pleasure he drew from this power.

Evanthe swallowed hard, her throat tight as she forced herself to speak. “Yes, Master Alaric,” she muttered, her voice little more than a trembling whisper. “We understand our place as your… sluts.”

The words stung, even if they weren’t exactly unexpected. But Alaric didn’t flinch. He simply took a sip from his goblet, savoring the fine wine as he allowed the weight of his words to settle in the room.

The other women, sensing the subtle shift in tension, bowed their heads further, their faces flush with shame. They said nothing. What could they say? There was no room for defiance, no room for rebellion. They had been taught that lesson the night before—taught in a way that left scars deeper than any physical wound could.

Alaric’s smile deepened as he leaned back in his chair, savoring the power that filled the air. It was intoxicating, almost as much as the wine in his cup. “Good,” he said, voice now slick with satisfaction. “You see, your foolishness last night has consequences.” His eyes sparkled with cruel amusement as he took a deliberate pause, watching their faces closely. “Your step-daughter, Yvonne, has been captured.”

At the mention of Yvonne’s name, a visible shudder ran through the women. Their pale faces turned even paler, their eyes flashing with fear. They glanced at one another in silence, too terrified to speak, but the panic in their eyes was unmistakable.

“She’ll face punishment in the dungeons of my family’s mansion,” Alaric continued, the words flowing from him like a slow poison. “I thought you might like to know that. A reminder of what happens to those who defy me.” His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of cruelty in his words that chilled the room.

The women gasped in unison, their bodies stiffening as though struck by an invisible force. It was as if the very breath had been stolen from them. They had not expected that.

“No…” Evanthe whispered, her voice shaking as she stared at the table, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge of her chair. “Please, Master Alaric, she’s only a child. She didn’t mean—”

Alaric raised a hand, cutting her off with a sharp gesture. “Don’t plead with me,” he said coldly, his eyes narrowing. “She made her choices, just like you. And now she will pay for them.”

Evanthe bowed her head, as did the others, their eyes filled with tears that they refused to shed. They knew better than to show weakness. But the thought of Yvonne in his hands, the child they had tried so hard to protect, made their hearts quake with dread.

“You will stay in line,” Alaric continued, his voice colder now, his eyes steely. “And if I even suspect you’re plotting something against me, well… I’ll send your children’s heads to you. Do you remember where they are, or have you forgotten?” His words were deliberate, slow, as if he enjoyed making them tremble.

The room went still, the air thick with tension. They all knew what he was referring to—his agents in the Capital, holding their children as hostages, their fates hanging by a thread. They had learned that lesson the hard way when they had dared to cross him.

“Yes, Master Alaric,” Evanthe whispered, her voice small and quivering. “We… we remember. We won’t… won’t defy you again.”

“See that you don’t,” Alaric said, his voice hardening. “Remember who holds the power here.”

He took another sip from his goblet, the crimson liquid staining his lips as he watched them squirm. “I expect obedience, and I expect you to keep yourselves useful to me.” His eyes narrowed, scanning each of them in turn. “And don’t forget—you’re living in a mansion, not a prison. Keep your bodies clean and beautiful, for my pleasure.”

The words hung in the air, laden with expectation, and the women knew better than to protest. They nodded once more, their movements stiff, resigned. Fear had long since taken root in their hearts, and there was no room for rebellion now.

With a final glance at the women, Alaric pushed his chair back and stood, smoothing out the front of his tunic with one hand as he surveyed them one last time. His gaze lingered just long enough to make them feel as though they were being appraised, their worth measured by his standards. He relished it, the power, the control—it was what he had always wanted, and now it was his.

He turned toward the door, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the marble floors. “Enjoy your day, my beauties,” he said over his shoulder, his voice carrying a casual finality. “I’ll be visiting this mansion regularly to enjoy your sexy bodies. And when I do, I expect nothing less than your full cooperation.”

With that, he left the dining hall, his figure disappearing through the heavy double doors, leaving behind a silence that seemed to press in on the women like a suffocating weight. They remained seated for a long moment, the room spinning with the events of the past hours.

No one spoke. No one moved.

They were prisoners in their own lives, and they knew it.

~~

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Alaric rode through the gates of the Steele Family’s sprawling estate, his horse’s hooves striking the cobblestone path with a steady rhythm. The mansion loomed ahead, a magnificent structure of gray stone and towering spires, framed by lush gardens and the distant glimmer of a fountain. Alaric’s mind, however, was far from the picturesque beauty of his home. His thoughts were singularly focused on his daily training—a routine as relentless as it was essential.

Sliding off his horse, Alaric handed the reins to a waiting stable hand without a word. His stride was purposeful as he entered the mansion, passing rows of servants who bowed their heads respectfully. He didn’t acknowledge them. His focus was elsewhere.

The corridors echoed with the sound of his boots as he climbed the stairs to his private chambers. This was no ordinary room; it was a sanctuary of discipline, equipped with tools and artifacts designed to sharpen both body and mind. The air itself seemed charged with energy, a faint hum emanating from the magical training equipment that lined the walls.

Alaric closed the door behind him, the noise from the outside world cut off entirely. The chamber was vast, with high ceilings and walls adorned with enchanted runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light. In the center of the room was his primary training space, a circular area marked by glowing sigils embedded into the floor. Surrounding it were various contraptions: a rack of enchanted weights, an agility course of shifting platforms, and a series of magical simulators designed to replicate combat scenarios.

“Let’s see how far I can push today,” Alaric muttered to himself, his lips curling into a determined smirk. He shrugged off his coat and tunic, leaving him in a sleeveless training vest that revealed his lean, muscular frame. His blonde hair, usually neat, fell messily over his forehead as he tied it back with a strip of leather.

He began with stretches, moving through the routine with practiced precision. His muscles, still stiff from the previous day’s training, gradually loosened as he shifted from one pose to the next. Every stretch was deliberate, designed to prepare him for the grueling exercises to come. He could feel the tension melting away, replaced by a growing sense of readiness.

Once warmed up, Alaric activated the agility course with a wave of his hand. The sigils on the floor flared to life, and the platforms began to shift and move in a chaotic pattern. He took a deep breath, focusing on the first jump. As the platform slid past, he leaped onto it, his landing perfectly balanced.

The course wasn’t just a physical challenge; it was enchanted to test his reflexes and awareness. Platforms shifted unpredictably, sometimes disappearing entirely, while magical barriers would materialize without warning, forcing him to duck or weave mid-air. Alaric moved with grace and precision, his body a blur as he navigated the course. A platform tilted beneath him, and he sprang off just as a barrier surged upward, landing neatly on the next surface.

“Too slow,” he muttered as he narrowly avoided a magical projectile aimed at his feet. The course was designed to mimic the chaos of battle, and he treated it as such, every movement calculated yet fluid.

After several circuits, the course powered down, the platforms returning to their dormant state. Alaric wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. That was just the warm-up.

Moving to the strength-training section, Alaric approached the enchanted weights. Unlike ordinary weights, these adjusted their mass based on the user’s strength, creating an ever-evolving challenge. He selected a barbell etched with runes and lifted it with a grunt. The weight shifted as he moved, becoming heavier the higher he raised it.

The strain was immediate. His muscles burned as he completed each lift, his teeth gritted in determination. “Come on,” he growled, pushing himself through the resistance. The runes on the barbell glowed brighter with each repetition, responding to his efforts by increasing the challenge. By the tenth lift, his arms trembled under the strain, but he refused to stop.

Once finished, he set the barbell down with a heavy thud, shaking out his arms as he walked to the next piece of equipment—a weighted vest imbued with gravity-altering enchantments. Strapping it on, Alaric felt the weight settle on his shoulders like a crushing force.

He stepped onto a treadmill-like contraption surrounded by glowing glyphs. As soon as he activated it, the machine sprang to life, forcing him into a sprint. The gravity enchantments intensified with each step, pulling him down as if the air itself had turned to lead. His breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts as he pushed himself to keep up with the increasing speed.

“Faster!” he hissed through gritted teeth, his legs screaming in protest. The machine responded to his words, the glyphs flashing as the pace quickened. Alaric’s focus narrowed to the rhythmic pounding of his feet, his determination unyielding. When the machine finally powered down, he collapsed onto the floor, his body trembling from the exertion.

After a brief rest, he moved to the speed-training gates, a series of glowing arches that would only open if approached at a specific velocity. Alaric’s goal was to sprint through all twenty gates within the time limit. He took his position, his eyes locked on the first gate.

“Go,” he whispered to himself, and his body exploded into motion. The air rushed past him as he raced toward the first gate, which shimmered and opened just in time for him to pass through. Each gate tested his reflexes, opening at the last possible second. One wrong step, and the gate would close, forcing him to start over.

He hit the twentieth gate with a triumphant yell, skidding to a halt as the system powered down. Sweat dripped from his face, his chest heaving, but he couldn’t help the small grin that spread across his lips. He was pushing his limits, and it felt good.

The final segment of his training was magical combat simulation. Alaric stepped into the center of the circular training space, activating the simulators with a complex series of gestures. Illusory opponents materialized around him, each armed with weapons or magic designed to test his skills.

The first illusion lunged at him, a shimmering blade aimed for his chest. Alaric responded with a burst of fire from his palm, the spell so fast and precise that the illusion dissolved before it could strike. Another came at him from the side, and he spun, conjuring a barrier to block the attack before countering with a lightning bolt.

His movements were seamless, a blend of physical agility and magical prowess. He dodged, weaved, and struck with practiced efficiency, his body and mind working as one. The simulators adapted to his tactics, forcing him to think on his feet, to innovate.

By the time he finished, the room was littered with dissipating illusions, their forms fading into wisps of light. Alaric stood in the center, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He deactivated the simulators with a wave of his hand, the chamber returning to its still, quiet state.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in shades of orange and purple, Alaric sat on the floor, his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, his mind reflecting on the day’s training. Every session was a step closer to perfection, a step closer to ensuring he would remain unmatched—both in combat and in power.

With a satisfied smile, he rose to his feet, stretching out the lingering tension in his muscles. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, and he would meet them head-on. For now, though, he would allow himself a moment to rest.