Chapter 224 Queen And Royal Consort’s Journey

The morning after the… vigorous training session with his maids, and the subsequent briefing with his leading ladies, Alaric found himself in the Steele Family’s expansive library.

Not personally studying, of course. He already knew most of what these shelves contained.

He was observing.

Kara and Ulriya sat at separate, large tables, surrounded by stacks of books. Their concentration was absolute, fierce even. The lingering aches from the previous night were likely overshadowed by the overwhelming novelty of the power thrumming within them and the direct command from their Master.

‘Grand Mages studying basic cantrips,’ Alaric mused, leaning against a bookshelf, hidden partly by shadows. ‘A paradox. But necessary. Raw power without control is just a bigger explosion waiting to happen.’

He watched Ulriya frown, tracing a complex rune for a water whip spell with her finger. A nearby pitcher of water trembled, then sloshed violently, soaking the parchment. She sighed in frustration, wiping it clean with a practiced, subservient gesture before trying again.

Kara, meanwhile, seemed to be struggling with a simple earth manipulation spell. Pebbles on the table rattled but refused to lift. He could sense the potent shadow energy swirling within her, almost interfering with the more grounded earth magic.

‘Dual affinities… requires finesse they haven’t developed. Interesting.’

He could step in. Offer guidance. His ‘tutoring’ methods were certainly effective, as the maids well knew.

But no. Let them struggle for now. Let them appreciate the gift, and the difficulty. It built character. And deepened their reliance on him.

He pushed away from the bookshelf, deciding to check on other family matters.

As he walked through the luxurious corridors of the Steele Mansion, he passed his cousin, Fiora. She was sparring intensely with a practice dummy in one of the smaller training yards, her movements filled with the dynamic energy of her Surging Dragon Breath.

She saw him and immediately stopped, her breathing slightly heavy, cheeks flushed from exertion.

“Alaric!” she greeted him, a bright smile on her face. But there was something else too, a hint of nervousness, a slight aversion of her gaze that hadn’t been there before the ‘announcement’ about the maids.

‘Ah, the implications are dawning on the innocent cousin,’ he thought, amused.

“Pushing yourself hard, Fiora?” he asked casually, letting his gaze drift over her athletic form, clad in snug training gear.

“Always!” she declared, though her voice was a fraction less bold than usual. “Got to keep up, especially now…” She trailed off, likely thinking of the new Grand Mages.

“Indeed,” Alaric said smoothly. “Strength is paramount.” He stepped closer, reaching out as if to adjust the collar of her training tunic. His fingers brushed lightly against the skin of her neck.

Fiora flinched almost imperceptibly, her breath hitching. Her cheeks pinked further. “Y-yes. Paramount.”

He gave her a knowing smirk, letting his hand drop. “Keep up the good work.”

He continued on his way, leaving Fiora slightly flustered, her mind likely racing with thoughts she probably felt guilty for having about her powerful, dominant cousin.

‘Good. A little confusion, a little fear mixed with the admiration… keeps things interesting.’

He found his mother, Lyra, overseeing the household accounts in the main study, a task she handled with meticulous efficiency. She looked up as he entered, her usual composed grace firmly in place.

“Alaric. Is there something you require?” she asked, her tone perfectly modulated between maternal concern and deferential respect.

“Just ensuring everything runs smoothly, Mother,” he replied, walking around the desk to stand beside her chair. He placed a hand casually on her shoulder. He felt the slight stiffening, instantly controlled.

“Of course,” Lyra said, her focus returning to the ledgers, though he knew his proximity affected her. Years of ingrained submission, reinforced by carefully cultivated private moments, ensured that. “The estate’s finances are stable, despite the increased expenditure on defenses and mercenary contracts.”

“Excellent,” he murmured, his fingers subtly tracing the line of her shoulder blade through the fine fabric of her dress. “Efficiency is key.”

He saw her knuckles whiten slightly where she gripped her quill.

‘Still so controlled, my dear Mother. But I know what lies beneath.’

He removed his hand. “Carry on.”

He left her to her work, sensing her relief mingled with a faint, suppressed longing.

Cassandra was next, found in the armoury inspecting the equipment of the household guard. Her practical nature often drew her to the martial aspects of the estate.

“Aunt Cassandra,” he greeted her, his voice echoing slightly in the large chamber filled with racks of weapons and suits of armour.

She turned, her purple eyes sharp and assessing. Unlike Lyra’s cool composure or Fiora’s youthful confusion, Cassandra often met his gaze with a flicker of challenge, quickly veiled by propriety.

“Alaric. Ensuring our men are well-equipped?”

“A necessary task,” he agreed, picking up a newly forged sword, testing its balance. “Especially with the recent… activities.”

Cassandra nodded. “The demonic presence seems purged for now, thanks to the sweep. But vigilance is required.”

He replaced the sword, stepping closer to her. He didn’t touch her, not this time. Just held her gaze. He saw the flicker again – awareness, a hint of defiance, warring with the undeniable pull of his power and the history between them.

“Your Garuda technique was effective against those Ravagers,” he commented idly.

“It has its uses,” she conceded, looking away first, turning back to inspect a shield.

‘Feisty. I like that. Makes the eventual surrender all the sweeter.’

He left the armoury, satisfied. The women of his family, the pillars of Steele power, were firmly under his influence, each in their own way. Beautiful, powerful, and ultimately, his.

He returned to his private study, the one linked to the defensive array controls. He checked the status monitors. All stable. Power levels optimal. The Seventh Order core hummed contentedly beneath the earth, feeding the intricate network.

‘The fortress holds.’

He settled into his chair, glancing at the black ‘Phone’ artifact.

‘Margaret should be moving soon. Within the week, she said.’

He hadn’t informed Lyra, Cassandra, or anyone else. Why bother them with details until the guests arrived? Let it be a surprise. Their reactions would be amusing.

‘Queen Margaret, Royal Consort Josephine, Archmage Priscilla, dozens of Grandmasters, countless treasures, and the entire Royal Harem… seeking refuge here.’

A slow smile spread across his face.

‘My collection is about to grow significantly.’

Far to the south, nestled deep within blighted lands that pulsed with corrupted energy, lay the shattered ruins of what was once a formidable human fortress. Now, it was known only as the Demon Fortress, a festering heart of demonic power.

The air hung thick and heavy, smelling of sulfur, decay, and something else… raw, untamed magic. Jagged obsidian towers pierced the bruised sky, carved with screaming, blasphemous runes that glowed with sickly green and violent crimson light.

Demons of all shapes and sizes swarmed through the ruins. Hulking brutes patrolled shattered ramparts, winged horrors circled overhead, and lesser imps scurried through corpse-choked corridors, their chittering echoing in the oppressive silence.

In the very center of the fortress, within a vast chamber carved from black rock and lit by floating spheres of balefire, a ritual was reaching its culmination.

The floor was a grotesque mosaic of dried blood and inlaid bone. Chains draped from the ceiling, holding aloft four figures – the desiccated corpses of powerful humans, remnants of the failed Eloriath expedition.

They were barely recognizable. Skin stretched taut over bone, armour cracked and stained, eyes hollow sockets. Yet, even in death, a faint aura of their former power clung to them, warped and tainted.

Archmage Gideon Thorne. Archmage Rahel Klinghoffer. Martial King Patrick. Martial King Madleen Hector.

Heroes of Eloriath. Now, puppets awaiting reanimation.

Tendrils of viscous, black energy snaked across the floor, converging on the suspended bodies. They pulsed rhythmically, siphoning power from the very stones of the fortress, from the countless lesser demons nearby, concentrating it into the dead flesh.

Overseeing this unholy process stood a towering figure wreathed in shadow and flickering embers.

Ingranad. Lord of this Fortress. Archdemon of Ruin and Corruption.

His form defied easy description. Hulking, yet possessing a terrifying grace. Skin like cracked obsidian, glowing faintly from within with trapped fire. Multiple eyes, burning like malevolent coals, scanned the chamber. Horns swept back from his brow, pulsating with dark power.

He radiated an aura of ancient malice and overwhelming strength that forced lesser demons to prostrate themselves, quivering in fear and adoration.

Ingranad watched the final stages of the revival, a low rumble of satisfaction vibrating in his chest.

‘Such potent vessels… wasted in their fragile mortality.’

The energy flow intensified. The corpses began to twitch.

A finger here. A spasm there.

Then, a collective gasp, a rattling intake of corrupted air.

The four figures shuddered violently, chains straining. Their hollow sockets ignited with hellfire, burning with newfound, malevolent intelligence.

The black energy surged one last time, flooding into them, reshaping, reforging. Flesh knitted, bones hardened, infused with demonic power. Their tattered armour seemed to melt and reform, becoming extensions of their bodies, dark, jagged, and menacing.

With a final, wrenching groan, they stilled.

Silence descended, thick with anticipation.

Slowly, the figure that was once Gideon Thorne lifted its head. The fire in its eyes burned brighter. Cracks spiderwebbed across its face, glowing with internal heat.

“Power…” it rasped, the voice like grinding stone and burning coals. “Such… power…”

The figure of Rahel Klinghoffer stirred, shadows clinging to her form like a shroud. Her eyes pulsed with arcane darkness.

“Knowledge… twisted… revealed…” she whispered, her voice a chilling echo. Runes, darker and more complex than any she knew in life, seemed to etch themselves onto her demonic flesh.

Martial King Patrick clenched his fists, corrupted Battle Aura flaring around him like black lightning. His form seemed denser, more brutal.

“Strength… unending… purpose…” he growled, the sound guttural, inhuman. The honour and chivalry were gone, replaced by pure, predatory might.

Finally, Madleen Hector moved, her movements sharp, predatory. Her eyes glinted with cruel cunning. Her aura shifted like quicksilver, hinting at a terrifying blend of martial skill and demonic agility.

“Obedience… slaughter… command…” she hissed, a cruel smile twisting her lips, revealing sharpened teeth.

They lowered themselves from the chains, landing silently on the bone-strewn floor. Four figures of immense power, reborn in darkness, their souls extinguished, replaced by demonic entities wearing their memories and skills like masks.

They turned as one, bowing their heads towards Ingranad. Not in reverence born of respect, but in programmed submission to a greater power.

“Lord Ingranad,” Gideon Thorne’s corrupted voice echoed. “We… await.”

Ingranad let out a sound that might have been a chuckle, like rocks grinding together.

“Arise,” he commanded, his voice resonating with absolute authority.

The four former heroes stood tall, radiating menace.

“You recall your lives,” Ingranad stated, not a question. “You recall the kingdom you served. Eloriath.”

“We recall,” Rahel Klinghoffer confirmed, shadows swirling at her fingertips. “Weak. Foolish. Ripe for… correction.”

“Good,” Ingranad boomed. “That kingdom foolishly struck at my heart. They wounded me, yes, but paid a far greater price. Their strongest lights snuffed out.” He gestured towards the four of them. “Only to be rekindled in my glorious darkness!”

“Your task is simple,” the Archdemon continued, his multiple eyes fixing on each of them in turn. “You know the land. You know its defenses. You know its people.”

He pointed a clawed finger towards the north.

“Take my legions. Take the swarms. Take the brutes.”

“Gideon. Rahel. Your magic, amplified by the abyss, will shatter their wards, burn their cities, sow terror.”

“Patrick. Madleen. Your martial might, unshackled by mortal frailties, will crush their armies, break their spirits, reap their souls.”

“Sweep through Eloriath. Leave nothing but ruin and despair. Turn their precious capital into a graveyard. Make them scream my name as their world ends.”

The four undead commanders absorbed the command, their hellfire eyes burning with purpose.

“It will be done, Lord Ingranad,” Patrick growled, flexing his claws.

“Their defenses are… antiquated,” Rahel added, a hint of her former strategic mind surfacing, now bent to destruction. “Especially with their precious Radiant Church faltering.”

Ingranad nodded, a plume of sulfuric smoke escaping his nostrils. “Indeed. Their borrowed light dims. Perfect timing.”

“Go,” the Archdemon commanded. “Feast upon the remnants of your pathetic kingdom. And once Eloriath is ashes… look beyond. The other human kingdoms await their turn.”

“Let the Age of Ruin truly begin!”

With chilling synchronicity, the four figures turned and strode from the chamber, their powerful, corrupted auras preceding them. The legions of the Demon Fortress stirred, sensing the shift, sensing the coming storm.

A tide of darkness, led by the very heroes who once fought against it, was about to wash over the unsuspecting Kingdom of Eloriath.

Eryndal, the Royal Capital of Eloriath, was suffocating.

What had begun as manageable demonic incursions, sporadic breaches dealt with by the Royal Guard and Palace Mages, had escalated dramatically in the wake of the disastrous Demon Fortress expedition and the inexplicable weakening of the Radiant Church.

The city felt like it was under siege.

Thick, unnatural fog often clung to the outer districts, concealing lurking horrors. Strange whispers echoed in alleyways, driving citizens mad with fear. The constant clang of alarm bells and the distant roar of battles became the city’s grim soundtrack.

Travel between districts was perilous, requiring armed escorts. Food supplies dwindled as trade routes became hazardous. Fear was a tangible presence, hanging heavier than the smoke from burning buildings.

The Royal Palace, a majestic structure of white stone and soaring towers, now seemed less like a symbol of power and more like a gilded cage. While its powerful wards, maintained by Archmage Priscilla and the remnants of the Obsidian Guard and Royal Court Mages, held firm against direct assault, the pressure was relentless.

Small demonic breaches occurred with frightening regularity even within the palace grounds – imps manifesting in servant quarters, shadow beasts attempting to slip through neglected corridors, spectral horrors phasing through walls.

Each incident was dealt with swiftly by the ever-vigilant guards and mages, but the constant vigilance frayed nerves and drained resources.

Archmage Priscilla was the pillar holding it all together. Her calm demeanor, her decisive commands, her overwhelming arcane power were the bedrock upon which the palace’s defense rested. She moved tirelessly, reinforcing wards, coordinating mage patrols, personally obliterating any significant demonic threat that manifested.

Yet, even she felt the strain.

‘Too many breaches. Too few skilled personnel,’ Priscilla thought grimly, dissipating a cluster of energy-draining specters that had materialized near the Royal Library. ‘The wards are strong, but the constant probing… it’s like death by a thousand cuts. And we lost so many Masters at the Fortress…’

She looked towards the Queen’s private wing.

‘Margaret’s plan… it’s drastic. Abandoning the capital? Unthinkable, weeks ago. Now?’ She sighed softly. ‘Perhaps it’s the only way. Protect the Queen, the Consorts, the lineage, the core artifacts and knowledge… regroup elsewhere.’

‘Elsewhere’ being the territory of Alaric Steele.

Priscilla felt a complex mix of emotions about the young Lord. His power was undeniable, his inventions revolutionary. The defensive arrays he’d provided earlier had saved countless lives during the initial demon surges.

But there was something unsettling about him too. An intensity, a ruthlessness hinted at beneath the charming exterior. And the speed of his rise… it defied conventional understanding.

‘Still, his fortress is likely the most secure place on the continent right now,’ she conceded mentally. ‘Especially if their Church truly has collapsed. We need sanctuary. We need strength.’

Inside the Queen’s private chambers, the atmosphere was thick with urgency.

Queen Margaret stood by a window, gazing out at the beleaguered city, her expression tight with worry and determination. Royal Consort Josephine was beside her, pale but resolute, offering silent support.

Around them, frantic activity. Servants carefully packing priceless artifacts into magically protected containers. Royal guards checking enchanted weaponry. Mages double-checking teleportation-dampening security measures around the chosen escape route.

And the consorts… gathered nervously in a corner. Beauties drawn from across the land, accustomed to lives of pampered luxury, now facing a terrifying flight into the unknown. Fear warred with trust in their Queen.

“Is everything ready, Josephine?” Margaret asked, turning from the window.

“Almost, my Queen,” Josephine replied, consulting a checklist. “Treasury vaults emptied of portable assets. Ancestral Library archives secured. Beast cores cataloged. Weapons cache prepared.” She lowered her voice slightly. “The… other consorts are prepared, though frightened.”

Margaret nodded curtly. “Fear is natural. Survival is paramount.” Her eyes hardened. “We leave within the hour. Priscilla has identified a brief lull in the demonic pressure near the western gate. We move then.”

“An hour,” Josephine breathed. “So soon.”

“It must be,” Margaret stated firmly. “Every moment we delay increases the risk. King Alaric… No…Young Master Alaric expects us. We cannot fail him.” The slight slip, the momentary thought of his ‘King Alaric’ title, sent a familiar shiver down her spine, quickly suppressed. ‘Focus. Lead. Survive.’

“Priscilla,” Margaret called out as the Archmage entered the chamber after her patrol. “Status?”

“Stable for the moment, Your Majesty,” Priscilla reported calmly. “The western corridor shows unusually low demonic activity. It is our best window.”

“Grandmaster Kaelen reports the vanguard is ready,” Priscilla continued. “Fifty elite Royal Knights, clad in blessed armour. Grandmage Ashley confirms the mage contingent is prepared – thirty Master Mages and ten Grand Mages, focusing on shielding and rapid elemental assault.”

“And you, Archmage?” Margaret asked, her gaze steady.

“I will handle any… significant obstacles,” Priscilla stated simply, her hand resting on the crystalline orb at her belt, a potent arcane focus. Her Archmage aura pulsed reassuringly.

“Good,” Margaret took a deep breath. “Inform everyone. Final preparations. We move in fifty minutes.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Priscilla bowed slightly and departed to relay the orders.

Margaret turned back to Josephine, clasping her hands. “Courage, my dear.”

“Always, Margaret,” Josephine replied, squeezing back. “For Eloriath. And for… our future.”

The unspoken name hung in the air between them. Alaric Steele. Their potential savior. Their potential master.

The escape was frantic, brutal, and swift.

Under the cover of pre-dawn darkness and a magically induced localized fogbank courtesy of Priscilla and her mages, the royal procession slipped out of a heavily guarded postern gate on the palace’s western side.

Queen Margaret, Josephine, and the other consorts were surrounded by a phalanx of heavily armed Royal Knights, their blessed plate armour gleaming faintly. Archmage Priscilla floated near the front, her eyes scanning the surroundings, arcane energy crackling around her. The mage contingent formed a secondary perimeter, their hands already glowing with prepared spells.

Speed was everything.

They moved quickly through deserted streets, the only sounds their own footsteps and the distant, ever-present sounds of battle elsewhere in the city.

“Faster!” Margaret urged, her voice low but insistent. “No delays!”

They encountered resistance almost immediately as they neared the outer city walls. Demons, drawn by the scent of life and magic, boiled out of shadowed alleyways and crumbling buildings.

Imps screeched, hurling themselves forward, only to be incinerated by chain lightning from the mages or impaled on the knights’ swords.

Hulking brutes charged, roaring, but met walls of shimmering arcane force erected by Priscilla, momentarily stunning them before focused blasts of fire and ice magic tore them apart.

Shadow Stalkers attempted flanking maneuvers, phasing through walls, but Priscilla’s senses were too keen. Wards flared, trapping them, before knights surged forward, blessed steel finding demonic hearts.

“Keep moving!” Grandmaster Kaelen roared, his greatsword cleaving a Gorefiend in two. “Protect the Queen! Forward!”

It was a running battle. No time to secure areas, only to punch through.

Priscilla was a whirlwind of destructive magic. A gesture conjured a blizzard, freezing a charging pack of hellhounds solid. A word unleashed a torrent of arcane missiles, shredding a swarm of blood wasps. A focused stare caused a hulking Stonehide Gargoyle to simply implode under sheer magical pressure.

‘Impressive reserves,’ she noted grimly, channeling another powerful spell. ‘But this expenditure… unsustainable if we meet truly overwhelming force.’

They reached the western gate. It was heavily damaged but still standing, manned by a desperate, exhausted garrison.

“Archmage! Your Majesty!” The captain’s face was gaunt, streaked with grime. “We can hold the gate open for a few minutes, no more! They’re massing outside!”

“That’s all we need!” Priscilla declared. “Mages, prepare dispersal fields! Knights, form a wedge!”

The massive gates groaned open just enough for the procession to surge through. Outside, the desolate plains stretched before them, but the immediate area swarmed with demonic figures materializing from the gloom.

“Now!” Priscilla commanded.

The mages unleashed blinding light and concussive force, pushing the demons back momentarily. The knights charged into the gap, swords flashing, carving a path.

The royal group plunged into the chaos, Priscilla acting as the spearhead, her Archmage power blasting a corridor through the demonic horde.

Behind them, the city gate slammed shut with a boom that echoed like a final farewell.

They were out. But the journey had just begun.

They ran. Knights maintained formation, mages unleashed covering fire, consorts stumbled, aided by guards, their terrified whimpers swallowed by the din.

Margaret pushed them relentlessly. Short breaks for water and restorative potions were measured in minutes. Sleep was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

“We must reach the Steele border before our trail is picked up by something worse,” Margaret insisted, ignoring the pleas for rest. ‘Alaric expects us. We cannot be late.’

Josephine moved among the consorts, offering words of comfort, sharing her own water rations, her gentle presence a small island of calm in the storm. ‘Poor girls. They weren’t made for this. But we must endure.’

Priscilla conserved her Archmage-level spells, letting the Grandmasters and Masters handle the lesser threats, only intervening when a particularly large or dangerous demon appeared. She constantly scanned their back trail, dreading the appearance of a truly powerful entity. ‘No Archdemons yet. Fortunate. But how long will that last?’

They bypassed towns and villages, sticking to wilderness routes Priscilla scouted with magic. They crossed rushing rivers on hastily conjured ice bridges, navigated treacherous mountain passes under the cover of illusion spells.

Days blurred into a cycle of running, fighting, brief rests, and running again. The pace was grueling, pushing everyone to their limits. Several knights and a few mages fell, overwhelmed by ambushes or exhaustion, sacrificed to ensure the main group escaped. Each loss was a heavy blow, but Margaret allowed no time for mourning.

“Forward!” was her only command.

Finally, after nearly five days of relentless travel, covering a distance that should have taken weeks, they saw it.

A subtle shimmer in the air. A faint, almost invisible line stretching across the landscape, marking the border of the Steele territory.

“We’re here!” Josephine breathed, relief washing over her.

The entire group slowed, staring at the phenomenon. It wasn’t like the flickering, often unstable wards of Eryndal. This barrier felt… solid. Permanent. Runes, incredibly complex and ancient-looking, seemed to drift lazily within the shimmering field, pulsing with contained power.

Priscilla floated closer, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She extended a hand, feeling the energy radiating from it.

“Remarkable,” she murmured, genuine awe in her voice. “This isn’t standard kingdom array theory. The power source… it feels immense. Deeply anchored. And the structure… layers upon layers. Interlocking fields. Self-repairing matrixes?”

She shook her head slightly. “Subduing a Seventh Order beast for its core is one thing… integrating it into a stable defensive network of this scale and sophistication? This is… beyond anything currently taught in the academies. Even the Obsidian Tower archives hold nothing quite like this.”

‘Alaric Steele,’ Priscilla thought, her respect deepening, mingled with a healthy dose of caution. ‘You are full of surprises.’

The group gathered behind her, gazing at the barrier with a mixture of wonder and desperate hope. This shimmering wall represented safety, an end to their harrowing flight.

“How do we get through?” Grandmaster Kaelen asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

Margaret stepped forward, retrieving the sleek, black Phone Artifact Alaric had given her. It felt strangely heavy in her hand now, a symbol of their reliance, their submission.

She channeled a tiny spark of mana into it, focusing her intent as Alaric had vaguely instructed. ‘Signal arrival. Request entry.’

She wasn’t sure if it would work. There was no ringing, no confirmation.

They waited. Seconds stretched into an agonizing minute. Doubt began to creep in. Had he forgotten? Was he refusing them entry?

Then, directly in front of them, the shimmering field seemed to thin. The intricate runes pulsed slightly faster, rearranging themselves.

A section of the barrier, perhaps ten meters wide, dissolved smoothly, revealing the peaceful, untouched landscape of the Steele territory beyond. It was like looking through a window into a different world – green, serene, safe.

An audible sigh of relief swept through the exhausted group.

“I just sent a message to Young Master Alaric’s Phone that we have arrived. And now,” Margaret announced to the group, projecting confidence. “Young Master Alaric has granted us passage. Quickly now! Inside!”

There was no hesitation. Led by the Queen and the Archmage, the weary procession surged through the opening. Knights, mages, consorts, servants carrying treasures – all hurried into the sanctuary of the Steele domain.

As the last person stepped across the threshold, the opening shimmered and sealed itself seamlessly, the runes locking back into place.

They were inside. Safe.

They stood for a moment, catching their breath, looking back at the now impassable barrier, then ahead at the peaceful hills and forests of their new, temporary home.

The chaos of Eryndal, the horrors of the journey, seemed a world away.

But as relief washed over them, other emotions surfaced. Uncertainty. Trepidation. They were refugees, albeit royal ones, entirely dependent on the goodwill – and the power – of Alaric Steele.

Margaret met Josephine’s eyes. A silent understanding passed between them. Their ordeal wasn’t over. It was just entering a new, perhaps even more complex, phase.

Priscilla surveyed the surroundings, her senses alert. ‘Secure. Undisturbed. Now… we meet our host.’