Chapter 313: Meeting With Princess Eleanor

The silence in the antechamber was a thick, suffocating thing. Alaric’s words, a brutal tapestry of truth and threat, hung in the air, stealing the breath from the lungs of the assembled leaders. He had not just offered them an alliance; he had offered them a choice between subjugation and annihilation.

Chieftain Kaelen of the Gryphon Riders was the first to find his voice, a low, dangerous growl. “You ask us to bend the knee, Lord Steele. To swear fealty. The Gryphon Riders have bent the knee to no man, no king, in a thousand years.”

“And in a thousand years, have you ever faced a threat that could erase your entire race from the sky?” Alaric countered, his voice a blade of pure, cold reason. “Your pride is a luxury you can no longer afford, Chieftain.”

Master Forgemaster Borin Stonehand stroked his magnificent, braided beard, his eyes, the color of tempered steel, narrowed in thought. “What you offer is protection. Technology. A shield against the storm. But the price… our sovereignty… it is a high one.”

“Is it higher than the price of your daughter’s life, Master Forgemaster?” Alaric asked softly, his words a precise, devastating blow to the dwarf’s heart. “Is it higher than the price of your forges growing cold, your people starving, your ancient halls falling silent?”

Borin flinched as if struck, his hand instinctively clutching a small, intricately carved amulet that hung around his neck. Inside it, a lock of his daughter’s hair.

Alpha Fenria of the Silver Moon Wolf Tribe simply stared at him, her piercing yellow eyes burning with a mixture of hatred for his arrogance and a grudging, undeniable respect for his power. He had humbled her. He had shown her a strength that dwarfed her own. And a part of her, a primal, wolfish part, was drawn to that strength.

King Reginald of Strathmore, his face pale and tear-streaked, was the first to break. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees before Alaric. “My Lord Steele,” he sobbed, his voice a ragged, desperate plea. “I… I accept. My kingdom… my people… we will swear fealty. Just… just save us.”

His daughter, Princess Eleanor, rushed to his side, her face a mask of shame and desperation. “Father, please! Get up! Have you no pride?”

Alaric simply watched, his expression unreadable. He did not offer the old king a hand. He let him kneel.

He then looked at the others, his ruby eyes sweeping over them. “King Reginald is a wise man. He understands the new reality of our world. The rest of you… you may take the night to consider my offer. But do not take too long. The tide is rising. And I do not intend to wait for the slow and the foolish to decide to swim.”

He turned, his back to them, a gesture of absolute, dismissive confidence. “The banquet is concluded. You may see yourselves out.”

The leaders of the minor factions stumbled out of the antechamber, their minds reeling, their faces a mixture of shock, fear, and a dawning, undeniable, and terrifying hope. They had been offered a choice: to fade into obscurity and death with the old world, or to seize a new, glorious, and perhaps terrifying, future under the banner of a new, self-proclaimed god-king.

The grand ballroom was slowly emptying, the music fading, the chatter dying down. The great performance was over.

King Reginald, still shaken, allowed his daughter to lead him away, his mind a chaotic whirl of despair and a newfound, desperate hope. As they reached the grand entrance, Eleanor paused.

“Father,” she said, her voice a soft, almost inaudible whisper. “I… I saw some rare moonpetal blossoms in the gardens. They are said to bloom only on the first night of the Conclave. I… I wish to examine them. I will be along shortly.”

King Reginald, his mind still consumed by Alaric’s world-altering offer, simply nodded absently. “Yes, yes, my dear. Do not be long.”

He shuffled out into the cool night air, leaving his daughter standing alone in the grand, emptying hall.

Eleanor’s heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, frantic drum. She knew this was not the right decision. She was a princess. She should not be sneaking off to a private, clandestine meeting with a man she barely knew, a man of terrifying power and dangerous reputation.

But the thrill of it… the sheer, exhilarating thrill of the forbidden… it was an intoxicating poison. She clutched the small, folded note in her hand, its edges crisp against her damp palm. Her mind raced with a thousand questions. What did he want? What would he do?

She slipped out of a side entrance, her movements cloaked in shadows, and made her way to the back gardens of the Jorailian pavilion.

The gardens were a masterpiece of magical landscaping, a tranquil, moonlit paradise of exotic, glowing flora and softly murmuring fountains. The air was cool, fragrant with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and moonpetal blossoms.

She waited.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. Her initial excitement began to curdle into a nervous, anxious fear. Had he forgotten? Had it been a cruel joke?

Her heart was a wild bird trapped in her chest, its frantic beating the only sound in the silent garden.

And then, she felt it.

A sudden, silent presence behind her. A warmth that was not her own. Strong, powerful arms circling her waist, pulling her back against a hard, muscular chest.

A scream caught in her throat, a choked, terrified gasp. She struggled, her hands flying to the arms that held her, but they were like bands of steel.

She twisted, her heart pounding with a primal, instinctual fear. She turned, her eyes wide with terror, and found herself staring up into the handsome, smiling face of Alaric Steele.

“You came,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate purr that sent a shiver down her spine.

The fear vanished, replaced by a wave of dizzying, overwhelming relief. And something else. A hot, liquid excitement that pooled deep in her belly.

“You… you scared me,” she whispered, her voice a little breathless.

“Did I?” he chuckled softly, his arms still holding her tight against him. “My apologies, Princess. I am not accustomed to announcing my presence.”

She took a deep, steadying breath, a flicker of her royal composure returning. “You made me wait,” she said, her tone a little sharper than she intended. “A gentleman would not keep a lady waiting in the dark.”

“And a proper lady would not sneak off to a secret meeting in a moonlit garden,” he countered smoothly, his smile widening. “It seems we are both… unconventional.”

She couldn’t help but smile back, a little nervously. “Why… why did you ask me to come here, Lord Steele?”

His smile faded, his ruby eyes becoming serious, intense. “Because, Eleanor,” he said, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur, “I am a man who appreciates beauty. And you, my dear Princess, are the most beautiful, most precious jewel in your father’s crumbling kingdom.”

He paused, letting the compliment, and the subtle, underlying threat, sink in. “And because I know that you, unlike your father, are not a fool. You see the truth of your kingdom’s situation.”

“Strathmore is dying,” he stated, his voice a blade of cold, hard fact. “It is being squeezed between the Rimefrost Imperium to the north and the encroaching ambitions of the Dragon Empire to the east. Your father… he is a good man. But he is a weak king. He lacks the strength, the ruthlessness, to navigate these treacherous waters.”

As he spoke, his hands began to move. One slid up from her waist, its fingers tracing the delicate line of her spine, sending a jolt of pure, electric pleasure through her.

“The great empires… they offer him vassalage,” Alaric continued, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper against her ear. “But vassalage is just a polite word for slavery. He would lose his freedom. His kingdom would become a mere province, its resources plundered, its people conscripted into foreign wars.”

His other hand moved to her front, its fingers splayed across her flat, trembling belly. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin silk of her gown.

“And that is before the demons arrive,” he murmured, his fingers beginning a slow, deliberate journey upwards. “When they come, your kingdom will be the first to burn. A convenient sacrifice to blunt their advance.”

His hand reached her ribs, his thumb brushing against the underside of her magnificent, full breast. Eleanor gasped, her body arching into his touch, a soft, involuntary moan escaping her lips.

“My Lord… what are you doing?” she whispered, her voice a little shaky.

“I am explaining the situation,” he replied smoothly, his hand now moving with a bold, possessive confidence. His fingers slipped beneath the bodice of her gown, beneath the delicate lace of her chemise, his palm closing over the soft, warm flesh of her breast.

“Ah!” Eleanor cried out, a jolt of pure, exquisite pleasure-pain shooting through her. She tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron.

“Your father has powerful subordinates,” Alaric continued, his voice still a calm, serious murmur, as if he were discussing a matter of state, not groping a princess in a moonlit garden. “But he himself… he is not a powerful king. He will succumb to the pressure. It is inevitable.”

His thumb found her nipple, already pebble-hard with arousal, and began to circle it, his touch both gentle and firm. Eleanor’s knees went weak, her head falling back against his shoulder, a low, guttural moan rumbling in her throat.

She found her voice, a desperate, breathless whisper. “How… how is this related to you, my Lord?”

“It is naturally related to me, my dear Princess,” he replied, his voice a low, possessive growl. “Because I am going to save him. I am going to save your kingdom. I will help your father manage his lands, his subordinates, his wealth. I will give him the strength he lacks.”

As he spoke, his other hand began to move, his fingers finding the ties of her gown. With a series of deft, practiced movements, he began to untie them.

“No! Please! Don’t!” Eleanor cried, her voice a mixture of genuine fear and a burgeoning, undeniable excitement. She struggled, her hands pushing against his chest, but it was like pushing against a mountain of solid rock.

He chuckled softly, his breath hot against her ear. “Hush, my dear. Do not fight me. I am your savior, remember?”

The gown fell from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her standing in the moonlight in nothing but her delicate, lace-trimmed chemise and petticoats.

He turned her to face him, his ruby eyes devouring her. “So beautiful,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the magnificent curves of her body, the full, heavy breasts straining against the thin fabric of her chemise.

He reached out, his hands closing over her magnificent breasts, his thumbs rubbing her nipples through the thin lace. Eleanor gasped, her back arching, a low, keening moan escaping her lips.

“You… you are just like them!” she cried, her voice a desperate, breathless accusation. “The other empires! The great powers! You just want to take over our kingdom! To use us!”

Alaric chuckled, a low, dark sound of pure, masculine amusement. “My dear Eleanor,” he purred, his voice a silken caress. “You judge me with the heart of a villain. I am not taking anything. I am… offering my assistance. I will, of course, leave all the power in the hands of your father.”

The lie was so blatant, so audacious, that it was almost… charming.

“You… you are a rascal,” she whispered, her voice filled with a mixture of unhappiness and a strange, unwilling admiration. “A villain. You… you are taking me. Right here. In a garden.”

But even as she said the words, she knew it was a lie. He was taking her, yes. But a part of her, a deep, secret, shameful part, wanted to be taken. And the other part, the pragmatic, desperate part, knew that her kingdom, her father, her people… they needed this man. They needed his power. This… this was a necessary sacrifice.

He smiled, a slow, predatory expression. “I am,” he agreed. And with a single, swift movement, he ripped her chemise from her body, the delicate fabric tearing with a soft, final sound.

She stood before him, naked save for her elegant, lace-trimmed underwear, her magnificent, mature, voluptuous body bathed in the cool, silver light of the moon.

He didn’t give her time to protest. His mouth descended on hers, his kiss a brutal, possessive claiming. His tongue plunged into her mouth, a hot, wet invasion that stole her breath and her will.

While he kissed her, his hands were not idle. He unhooked her corset, his movements deft and practiced. It fell to the ground, freeing her magnificent, heavy breasts, which spilled into his waiting hands. He groaned, his hands kneading and squeezing her full, heavy flesh, his thumbs rubbing her nipples until she was moaning and writhing against him.

He broke the kiss, his mouth moving down her neck, his teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin of her throat. His hands moved lower, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her drawers, his fingers finding the soft, damp curls between her thighs.

“So wet,” he murmured against her skin. “So ready for me.”

He found her clit, a small, hard pearl of pleasure, and began to circle it with his thumb. Eleanor screamed, a raw, animalistic sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy as a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure washed over her.

He brought her to the edge of a shattering orgasm, his masterful touch a tormenting, exquisite pleasure. Then, with a final, swift movement, he ripped her drawers from her body, leaving her completely, utterly naked.

He pushed her back against the cool, smooth bark of a large, ancient tree, his body pressing her against it. “Look at you,” he growled, his ruby eyes devouring her. “A perfect, untouched princess. Ready to be claimed.”

He unfastened his trousers, his own magnificent, large dick springing free, hard and erect and pulsing with a life of its own in the moonlight.

Eleanor stared at it, her eyes widening in a mixture of fear and a strange, primal fascination. It was… immense. Terrifying. And beautiful.

He opened her legs, his hips settling between her thighs. He positioned himself, the massive, purple head of his dick pressing against her wet, virgin entrance.

“Are you ready for your salvation, Princess?” he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

She couldn’t speak. She could only nod, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a desperate, all-consuming need.

He smiled. “Then take it.”

He thrust.

One single, brutal, powerful motion.

He drove into her with a slick, wet sound, her body accommodating him with a tight, virginal resistance that was both a challenge and a welcome. He broke through her maidenhead with a single, decisive tear, her cry of pain and pleasure a sharp, piercing sound in the silent, moonlit garden.

He was inside her. All of him. Filling her completely, stretching her, claiming her.

He was her savior. He was her conqueror. He was her king. And she, Princess Eleanor of Strathmore, was now, and forever, his. The first, willing conquest of his new, burgeoning empire.