Chapter 231: Noblemen Visit Steele Family

While the greater world convulsed, caught in the death throes of a kingdom and the opportunistic feeding frenzy that followed, life within the Steele territory maintained its own peculiar rhythm. The shimmering barrier held firm, an invisible wall separating the burgeoning power within from the escalating chaos without.

But walls, even magical ones, cannot entirely stop the flow of information, especially when carried by desperation.

News travels fast when survival is at stake. Whispers turned into rumors, rumors solidified into reports: Queen Margaret, thought lost or besieged in the crumbling capital, was alive. Not only alive, but residing, along with numerous Royal Consorts, within the strangely secure domain of the Steele Family.

This news spread like wildfire among the tattered remnants of Eloriath’s nobility – those lords and ladies clinging precariously to besieged keeps, dwindling supplies, and fading hope.

The Steele territory. A name previously associated with shrewd business and rising martial influence, now became synonymous with something far more precious: safety. An impenetrable sanctuary in a world overrun by demons and shadowy opportunists.

And so, they came.

Carriages, dusty and worn from perilous journeys, began arriving at the Steele border checkpoints. Not demanding entry by force – they knew better than to challenge the infamous barrier – but pleading.

Minor barons whose lands were overrun. Viscounts whose castles were besieged. Counts whose families were trapped in towns surrounded by demonic hordes. They arrived bearing crests, titles, and faces etched with fear and exhaustion.

Their logic, flawed but desperate, was simple. The Steele barrier was impossibly strong, far beyond the known capabilities of a mere noble house. It must be a Royal asset, likely deployed by the Crown itself before the collapse, perhaps entrusted to the Steeles due to the marriage alliance between Young Master Alaric and the Sixth Princess Griselda. Therefore, the ultimate authority over who entered this sanctuary must surely lie with the highest-ranking Royal present: Queen Margaret.

These desperate nobles sought an audience, not primarily with the Steeles, but with their Queen, believing she held the key to their salvation.

Lyra Steele, Matriarch of the house, handled the initial influx with cool, unwavering composure. She met the delegations in a formal reception hall near the manor’s entrance, projecting an aura of calm authority that subtly reinforced who was truly in charge here.

Lord Pemberton, a portly man whose embroidered surcoat was stained with travel grime, wrung his hands. “Lady Lyra, you must understand! My daughters, my wife… trapped in Ashworth Keep! The demons draw closer every hour! We need sanctuary! Just until the tide turns!”

Baroness Cresswell, her face pale but her eyes fierce, stood straighter. “My family has served the Crown faithfully for generations, Lady Steele. We implore you, grant us refuge within these walls. We will offer whatever resources we have left!”

Count Duval, older, leaner, his voice raspy with fatigue, simply stated, “My grandchildren deserve to live, Lady Lyra. This barrier… it’s the only hope.”

Lyra listened patiently, her expression sympathetic but firm. Her blue eyes, so like her son’s in their underlying steel, held no room for negotiation on this point.

“My Lords, my Lady,” Lyra began, her voice smooth and clear, “I understand your desperation. The horrors unfolding beyond our borders are truly grievous. The Steele Family offers its deepest condolences for your losses and hardships.”

She paused, letting the formal sympathy land before delivering the inevitable refusal.

“However,” she continued, her tone leaving no doubt, “the integrity of our defenses relies on strict protocols. The resources required to maintain this barrier and support our current population are already stretched. We simply cannot accommodate additional households, regardless of station or circumstance.”

It was a polite, logical refusal. Resources. Protocols. Integrity.

But the nobles heard only ’no’.

“But Lady Lyra!” Pemberton protested, stepping forward. “This barrier… surely it’s under Royal decree? Queen Margaret is here! She understands duty, obligation! We must speak with Her Majesty!”

“Indeed!” Baroness Cresswell agreed quickly. “The Queen would not turn away loyal subjects in their hour of greatest need! It must be Her Majesty who decides!”

Count Duval nodded grimly. “With all due respect, Lady Steele, this matter transcends family protocols. It is a matter for the Crown. Allow us to petition Queen Margaret directly.”

They genuinely believed Lyra was merely a gatekeeper, perhaps acting under some misguided local authority. The real power, the key to the impenetrable gates, lay with the Queen they had served. If they could just reach her, persuade her, appeal to her sense of royal duty… perhaps even offer her promises of future loyalty, subtly suggesting they could be more valuable allies than the Steeles once this crisis passed…

Lyra’s expression remained impassive. ’Fools,’ she thought calmly. ’They still don’t understand where the true power lies here. They think Margaret holds sway?’ A faint, almost invisible smirk touched her lips before vanishing. ’Let them appeal. It changes nothing. Alaric’s word is law here.’

“Very well,” Lyra conceded gracefully, seeing no point in arguing further. If they wished to appeal to the Queen, let them. It would only reinforce the true hierarchy. “I shall inform Her Majesty of your presence and your request for an audience.”

She dispatched an aide, then waited with the nobles in strained silence. The lords fidgeted, rehearsing their appeals, clinging to the hope that royal authority still meant something here.

Minutes later, Queen Margaret arrived. She entered the reception hall with a quiet dignity, Royal Consort Josephine a step behind her, offering silent support. Margaret looked composed, regal, though the hardships of the journey and the weight of her current situation were subtly visible in the slight shadows beneath her eyes.

She acknowledged the assembled nobles with a gracious nod, her gaze sweeping over their desperate faces.

“My Lords, Baroness,” she greeted them, her voice calm. “Lady Lyra informs me you wish to speak with me?”

Hope surged in the nobles’ chests. They almost stumbled over each other in their eagerness to plead their cases.

“Your Majesty!” Lord Pemberton exclaimed, bowing low. “Thank the heavens you are safe! We feared the worst!”

“Your Majesty, we are loyal subjects!” Baroness Cresswell declared passionately. “Our families face annihilation! We beg you, grant us entry! Allow us refuge behind these blessed walls!”

“Just our families, Your Majesty,” Count Duval added pleadingly. “Not armies, just our wives, our children. We will contribute what we can…”

Margaret listened patiently, her expression sympathetic. She glanced briefly at Lyra, a silent acknowledgment passing between them – Lyra yielding the floor, Margaret understanding the required response.

When the pleas subsided, Margaret spoke, her voice soft but firm, echoing Lyra’s earlier stance almost perfectly, yet imbued with the undeniable weight of royalty.

“My heart aches to hear of your plight,” she began sincerely. “The suffering of Eloriath’s people weighs heavily upon me. Seeing loyal nobles such as yourselves reduced to such desperation… it is a tragedy beyond words.”

She paused, meeting their hopeful eyes directly. “However, I must concur with Lady Lyra’s assessment. The Steele Family has graciously extended sanctuary to myself and my immediate retinue at great risk and expense. The resources needed to maintain this sanctuary, this unique barrier, are immense. To overburden it now would jeopardize the safety of everyone within.”

The nobles stared, stunned. The Queen… was refusing them? Siding with the Steeles?

“But… Your Majesty!” Pemberton sputtered. “Surely… there must be room? We offer treasure! Artifacts passed down for generations! Lands, once they are reclaimed!”

“We offer our unwavering loyalty, Your Majesty!” Cresswell added desperately. “Swear fealty here and now!”

Margaret held up a hand, silencing them gently but firmly. “Your loyalty is noted, and your offers are generous in spirit. But safety cannot be bought, my friends. And practicality must prevail, even in grief.”

Her gaze softened slightly, but her resolve didn’t waver. “I understand your fear. I share your sorrow for our kingdom. But I cannot, in good conscience, override the judgment of our hosts or compromise the integrity of the very sanctuary that protects what little remains of the Royal Court.”

It was final. Delivered with queenly grace, but absolute. She wasn’t just a guest here; she was upholding the decision of the true power, Alaric Steele, as channeled through his mother.

Disappointment crashed down on the nobles, heavier than any demon’s blow. Their last hope had been extinguished. The Queen, their Queen, had deferred to the Steeles. The rumors were wrong. The power here wasn’t royal. It was something else.

Their faces fell. Shoulders slumped. Some looked angry, betrayed. Others simply looked defeated.

“I… I see,” Count Duval murmured, his voice hollow. “Thank you for your time, Your Majesty. Lady Lyra.”

He bowed stiffly and turned to leave, the others following suit, their desperation now mingled with a chilling realization about the new order of things. They were escorted back to the border, back out of the shimmering shield, back into the maelstrom.

As the last carriage disappeared from view, Margaret let out a quiet sigh. It wasn’t easy, turning away desperate people, former subjects.

“You handled that well, Your Majesty,” Lyra commented calmly, stepping beside her.

Margaret offered a faint smile. “One does what is necessary, Lady Lyra. And what is… expected.” She knew Alaric would approve of her reinforcing the Steeles’ authority.

Just then, a household servant approached discreetly. “Your Majesty? Lady Josephine?” he bowed. “Young Master Alaric requests your presence in his private study. For a… discussion.”

Margaret’s heart gave a little jump. Josephine, standing nearby, visibly straightened, a flicker of anticipation in her eyes.

’Finally,’ Margaret thought, a wave of heat washing over her despite the formal setting. The summons. His summons.

“Of course,” Margaret replied, her voice smooth, betraying none of the sudden excitement fluttering in her chest. “Inform the Young Master we shall attend him immediately.”

Josephine met Margaret’s gaze, a silent, shared understanding passing between them. Their ’reward’ was finally at hand. The discussion Alaric wanted likely had very little to do with state affairs.

They excused themselves from Lyra, their steps significantly lighter, quicker, as they made their way through the manor towards Alaric’s private wing. The memory of his possessive glances, the implicit promise of his power overwhelming them, fueled their steps. They smoothed their dresses, checked their hair subconsciously, a primal instinct to look their best for the master who was about to claim his due.

Alaric’s private study was exactly as they remembered – opulent, filled with books and arcane objects, dominated by the large oak desk and the high-backed chair behind it.

He was waiting for them, seated behind the desk, seemingly reviewing some documents. But the moment they entered and the door clicked shut behind them, the facade dropped.

He looked up, and the polite, charming mask was gone. His ruby eyes scanned them slowly, deliberately, from head to toe. It wasn’t the look one gave a Queen or a respected consort. It was the hungry, possessive gaze of a man assessing prized possessions. There was no deference, no hint of respect for their station. Only raw, undisguised lust and ownership.

Margaret felt a shiver trace its way down her spine, a familiar mix of fear and arousal. Josephine blushed faintly under the intensity of his gaze, her breathing quickening.

“Your Majesty. Lady Josephine,” Alaric said, his voice a low purr, devoid of any formal titles now they were alone. He didn’t rise. “Come closer.”

They obeyed instantly, walking towards the desk, stopping a few feet away, their eyes fixed on him. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with anticipation.

“I observed your handling of those pathetic nobles earlier, Margaret,” Alaric continued, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Impressive. Asserting Steele authority while maintaining your queenly facade. Very well done.”

He shifted his gaze to Josephine. “And you, my dear Josephine, continue to be a model of quiet support and loyalty. Ensuring the other… guests… remain content and well-disposed towards their generous host.”

Margaret inclined her head slightly. “We merely acted as we thought would best serve the interests of the Steele Family, Young Mas— Alaric.” She corrected herself quickly, remembering the intimacy demanded in this space.

“As you should,” Alaric replied smoothly. “Your understanding of your position here is… gratifying.”

He paused, letting his gaze linger on the swell of Margaret’s breasts, then drifting to Josephine’s equally impressive curves. “Such commendable behavior… such loyalty… it warrants a reward, wouldn’t you agree?”

Margaret’s breath hitched. “Alaric…”

Josephine swallowed, her eyes bright with anticipation. “We… we only wish to please you, Alaric.”

“Oh, I know,” he chuckled softly, a predatory sound. “And I intend to be very pleased.”

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes darkening with intent. “But first… a demonstration of your eagerness. Your gratitude.”

His gaze swept over them again, lingering. “It would be impolite of me not to reward you properly after such service. But such rewards must be earned anew.”

He gestured towards the open space in front of his desk. “Strip.”

The command was soft, almost casual, yet absolute.

Margaret and Josephine exchanged a quick, heated glance. This was it. The moment they’d been anticipating.

Without a word, driven by a mixture of ingrained submission, genuine desire, and the eagerness to finally receive his promised attention, they began to undress.

Fingers, slightly trembling, worked at intricate fastenings. Layers of fine silk and embroidered fabrics slid away, revealing the stunning figures beneath. Years of royal pampering, combined with naturally voluptuous forms, had resulted in bodies that were nothing short of breathtaking.

Margaret, taller, more regal, possessed full, high breasts that seemed to defy gravity, a surprisingly narrow waist for a mature woman, and elegantly curved hips. Her skin was pale and flawless.

Josephine, slightly softer, curvier, boasted an even more ample bosom, heavy and round, spilling enticingly as her bodice came away. Her waist was impossibly small, flaring dramatically into wide, lush hips and a generous, perfectly rounded backside. She embodied ripe sensuality.

They stood naked before him, flushed, their nipples hardening under his intense scrutiny, their bodies thrumming with nervous energy and burgeoning arousal.

“Beautiful,” Alaric murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. “Truly, vessels fit for a king… or his replacement.”

He didn’t move from his chair. He simply watched, his eyes devouring them.

“Now,” he commanded, his voice dropping lower, becoming husky. “Your performance. Show me how grateful you are. Show me how much you desire your reward.”

He gestured again towards the open space. “Dance for me. Seduce me. Show me the sluts hidden beneath the royal silk.”

A wave of heat washed over Margaret. To dance naked, seductively, like a common entertainer… for him. The degradation should have been humiliating. Instead, it felt electrifying.

Josephine trembled slightly, excitement warring with a residual flicker of noble propriety. But the sight of Alaric watching them, the raw hunger in his eyes, the promise of what was to come… it overwhelmed everything else.

They looked at each other again, a silent agreement passing between them. They would give him a performance he wouldn’t forget.

Slowly, hesitantly at first, they began to move.

Margaret, drawing on some long-forgotten memory of courtly dances, perhaps, adapted it, imbued it with a raw sensuality. She swayed her hips, letting her heavy breasts sway with the motion. Her arms rose, tracing the lines of her own body, fingers brushing against her hardened nipples, her movements fluid and regal, yet undeniably suggestive. She turned slowly, offering him views of her elegant back, the curve of her hips, before facing him again, her eyes half-lidded, promising forbidden delights.

’He wants us to debase ourselves,’ Margaret thought, a thrill shooting through her as she deliberately arched her back, pushing her breasts forward. ’And gods help me, I want to.’

Josephine, less formally trained in dance perhaps, relied on pure, instinctual sensuality. Her movements were slower, more deliberate, emphasizing the impossible curves of her body. She ran her hands down her sides, cupping her own generous breasts, squeezing them slightly, her head tilted back, lips parted. She bent forward slightly, giving him an enticing view of her cleavage, then slowly straightened, running a hand down her flat belly and towards the soft curls between her thighs, stopping just short, teasingly. She turned, showcasing her incredibly wide, round buttocks, swaying them slowly, provocatively, before turning back, her eyes locked on Alaric’s, filled with blatant invitation.

’Like sluts in a whorehouse,’ Alaric observed inwardly, a cruel amusement mixing with his rising lust. ’My Queen and her favorite Consort, naked and dancing for my pleasure. How far the mighty fall.’

He watched their feet, the elegant arch of Margaret’s instep, the softer curve of Josephine’s. He watched their hands explore their own bodies, imagining his own hands replacing theirs. He watched their breasts jiggle and sway, nipples pink and erect. He watched their hips roll and sway, promising deep, wet heat.

They grew bolder as they sensed his appreciation, his darkening gaze. They moved closer to each other, bodies almost brushing. Margaret ran a hand down Josephine’s back, eliciting a soft gasp from the consort. Josephine reached out, tracing the curve of Margaret’s hip with a trembling finger.

They weren’t just dancing for him; they were performing with each other, enhancing the seduction, offering him a tableau of royal flesh entwined in sensual exploration. Margaret knelt briefly before Josephine, kissing her belly, before rising again. Josephine leaned against Margaret, pressing her heavy breasts into the Queen’s back.

The air grew thick with their mingled scents, the faint musk of arousal. Their breathing grew heavier, ragged. Soft moans escaped their lips as their own movements, combined with the intensity of Alaric’s gaze, pushed them closer to the edge.

Alaric remained seated, perfectly still, except for the visible evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers. He let them dance. Let them tease. Let them build the anticipation.

He watched Margaret arch her back again, offering her throat, her breasts thrust proudly forward. He watched Josephine bend low, bracing her hands on her knees, presenting her magnificent backside directly towards him, glancing back over her shoulder with eyes full of need.

’Enough teasing,’ he decided. The performance had been… adequate. More than adequate. It had stoked his fire precisely as intended.

“Good,” he finally spoke, his voice thick, breaking the spell of their dance. “Very good.”

They froze, looking at him expectantly, panting slightly, their bodies slick with a fine sheen of sweat.

“You have performed admirably,” Alaric stated, a predatory glint entering his eyes. “You have shown your gratitude. Your eagerness.”

He rose slowly from his chair, his massive erection fully visible now.

“And now,” he declared, taking a step towards them, “it is time for your reward.”

He reached out, grabbing Margaret’s wrist with one hand, Josephine’s with the other.

“Time,” he growled, pulling them both towards him, towards the large desk, towards the promised oblivion, “to fuck my royal sluts until they forget their own names.”

Margaret and Josephine cried out, a mixture of excitement and anticipation, as he dragged them forward, ready, eager, desperate to receive the ’reward’ they had so willingly danced for.