Chapter 233 Discussion With Archmage Priscilla

The first blush of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold as Queen Margaret and Royal Consort Josephine made their way back towards the Sunken Pearl Estate. The meticulously kept paths of the Steele gardens felt unnaturally firm beneath their feet.

Walking wasn’t painful, exactly. Alaric, for all his brutality, had a strange knack for pushing them to their absolute limits without causing lasting injury. But every muscle protested. There was a deep, internal soreness, a lingering thrum between their legs, a tenderness to skin marked by his hands and mouth.

Margaret tried to maintain her usual regal posture, but her steps were fractionally slower, her back perhaps a little too stiff as she compensated for aching thighs.

Josephine walked beside her, her head held high, but there was a subtle sway to her hips that wasn’t entirely voluntary – a consequence of legs feeling slightly like jelly after hours of being wrapped around Alaric or spread wide beneath him. Her usual serene expression was tinged with exhaustion, though her eyes held a secret, satisfied glow.

They didn’t speak much. What was there to say? They had endured – no, experienced – a night of relentless, overwhelming dominance. They had danced like courtesans, pleased him like slaves, and been rewarded with shattering waves of pleasure that had left them utterly spent, their bodies claimed, their minds subtly rewired.

‘He didn’t even tire,’ Margaret thought, recalling the seemingly limitless stamina, the sheer force of his possession. ‘How can one man hold so much… intensity?’ The memory sent an involuntary shiver down her spine, part fear, part lingering arousal.

‘My legs still feel weak,’ Josephine lamented silently, though a faint smile touched her lips. ‘But gods, it was worth it. That final round… taking us together…’ She blushed faintly at the memory. ‘He truly is a force of nature. Our King.’

As they approached the elegant facade of the Sunken Pearl Estate, the ornate doors guarded by alert Steele sentries, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the portico.

Archmage Priscilla.

She stood waiting, calm and composed as always, her Archmage robes immaculate despite the early hour. Her piercing eyes, sharp and analytical, immediately took in their appearance.

“Your Majesty. Lady Josephine,” Priscilla greeted them, her voice neutral, though her gaze lingered perhaps a fraction too long on their slightly flushed faces, their subtly awkward gait. “You were out late. Or rather, early.”

Margaret met her gaze, schooling her features into placid neutrality. “Archmage Priscilla. Good morning. Yes, matters required our attention.”

Josephine offered a polite, slightly weary smile. “Indeed. Important discussions.”

Priscilla didn’t move aside. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Discussions? All night?”

‘She noticed,’ Margaret realised. ‘Of course, she did. She misses nothing.’

“Young Master Steele wished to brief us thoroughly on the wider strategic situation regarding the demonic incursions and the… shifting political landscape,” Margaret explained smoothly, drawing on the practiced ease of courtly prevarication. “It was a complex and lengthy conversation.”

Priscilla’s frown deepened almost imperceptibly. “A conversation requiring both of your presences, throughout the entire night, in his private chambers?” The question was softly spoken, but the skepticism was clear.

‘Does she suspect?’ Josephine wondered, feeling a flicker of nervousness. ‘Does she think he… forced us? Hurt us?’ The thought was absurd. Alaric didn’t need force. His presence, his command, was enough. And the pleasure… oh gods, the pleasure…

Priscilla’s own mind worked rapidly. ‘All night? With Alaric? Alone?’ Her protective instincts flared. Margaret was the Queen, Josephine a high-ranking Consort. Alaric was powerful, yes, but still young. And undeniably male. Could he have…? No. She pushed the thought away almost immediately. ‘That’s unthinkable. He wouldn’t dare disrespect the Queen, Griselda’s own step-mother, in such a manner. He’s always been courteous, a gentleman, if perhaps a bit intense. And Griselda clearly adores him. He wouldn’t risk jeopardizing that.’ Her conventional understanding of noble conduct, alliances, and marital propriety simply couldn’t reconcile with the brutal reality of Alaric’s appetites and methods. ‘He’s ambitious, perhaps ruthless in strategy, but surely not a degenerate who would force himself upon royalty under his protection. There must be another explanation. A genuine, if unusually long, strategic meeting.’

“It was indeed a complex discussion, Archmage,” Margaret reiterated calmly, sensing Priscilla’s internal conflict but offering no clarification. “The situation beyond these walls is deteriorating rapidly. Young Master Steele possesses insights and intelligence networks that proved… illuminating. It required detailed analysis and contingency planning.”

“I see,” Priscilla said slowly, though her eyes still held a trace of doubt. She took another look at their slightly disheveled state, the faint marks perhaps visible on Margaret’s neck if one looked closely, the undeniable exhaustion clinging to them both. ‘A very… intense discussion, it seems. Perhaps involving strong disagreements? Raised voices? Still… all night seems excessive.’

She decided not to press further. Accusing the host, especially one as powerful and vital as Alaric Steele, based on mere suspicion and awkward appearances was unwise. And potentially dangerous.

“Forgive my concern, Your Majesty,” Priscilla said, stepping back slightly, resuming her role as protector. “My duty extends to your well-being. If such lengthy strategic discussions are necessary in the future, perhaps my presence would be beneficial? My own arcane knowledge and understanding of large-scale threats might offer valuable perspective.” She subtly offered her assistance, partly out of genuine duty, partly as a way to potentially chaperone future ‘discussions’.

Margaret inclined her head graciously. “Your diligence is appreciated, Archmage. Should your specific expertise be required for future consultations, I shall certainly inform Young Master Steele.” It was a polite, noncommittal agreement. ‘As if Alaric would allow a chaperone during those kinds of consultations,’ she thought wryly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Priscilla replied, accepting the answer for now. “Please, get some rest. You both appear… fatigued.”

“We intend to,” Josephine murmured, eager to escape the scrutiny.

Margaret nodded and swept past Priscilla, Josephine following closely. They entered the quiet luxury of the Sunken Pearl Estate, the doors closing softly behind them, leaving the Archmage alone on the steps, staring thoughtfully into the distance, still puzzling over the ‘complex discussion’.

Once inside and out of earshot, Margaret leaned against the cool marble wall of the entryway, letting out a long breath. Josephine did the same beside her.

They looked at each other. A shared glance, heavy with the memory of the night, the exhaustion, the lingering pleasure, the terrifying thrill of their submission.

“She almost suspected,” Josephine whispered, a nervous giggle escaping her.

Margaret managed a faint smile. “Almost. But she cannot comprehend… him.” She touched her neck subconsciously, feeling the faint sting where he had bitten her. “Come, Josephine. We need rest. Our… King… demands much of his subjects.”

They supported each other slightly as they made their way towards their private chambers, leaving the curious stares of the few early-rising servants and consorts behind them. They collapsed onto their respective plush beds, sleep claiming them almost instantly, their dreams likely filled with ruby eyes, possessive hands, and the echo of shattering pleasure.

While Eloriath’s royalty recuperated from their ‘discussions’, the newly freed Abyssal Lord Krýllos wasted no time enacting his vengeance.

The Suntouched Confederacy, already reeling from the initial coastal assaults, found itself facing a new level of terror.

Krýllos, despite being weakened from his millennia-long imprisonment and adapting to the surface world’s lower pressure, was still an entity of catastrophic power. He didn’t need legions initially; his presence alone was a weapon.

He strode through the Confederacy’s southern territories, an avatar of the crushing deep. Where he walked, the very air grew heavy, charged with oceanic pressure. Water spontaneously condensed, then froze, coating the sun-baked land in unnatural frost. Geysers of freezing brine erupted from the earth, summoned by his will.

He commanded the sea monsters already rampaging along the coast with effortless authority. Krakens obeyed his silent decrees, pulling down watchtowers. Merrow legions surged further inland, guided by his abyssal senses. Leviathans created unnatural whirlpools offshore, swallowing Confederacy patrol vessels.

He personally engaged the Confederacy’s elite Sun Mages. Their potent beams of light, capable of incinerating lesser demons, seemed to hiss and dissipate against the crushing cold aura that surrounded him. He retaliated with blasts of pressurized water that could pulverize rock, or shards of abyssal ice sharper than any steel, freezing mages solid before shattering them.

His humanoid form belied the sheer monstrous power he wielded. He moved with surprising speed, his scaled fists capable of shattering enchanted shields, his chilling touch leeching warmth and life.

The Confederacy, known for its resilience and powerful magic, found itself facing an enemy unlike any before. This wasn’t just a demonic horde; this was an elemental force, an ancient grudge embodied. Casualties mounted horrifically. Villages near the coast were literally submerged by summoned tidal waves. Oases froze over. Entire patrols vanished into sudden abyssal fogs.

The news reached the Confederacy High Council swiftly. The threat was existential. Their forces engaged in ‘stabilizing operations’ within the carcass of Eloriath were desperately needed at home.

The order was given, swift and absolute: Withdraw. All Confederacy units operating within Eloriath were recalled immediately to defend the homeland against the Abyssal Lord and his tide of sea monsters.

Their departure was abrupt, leaving a significant power vacuum in the southern Eloriath territories they had been loosely policing.

This withdrawal had immediate consequences.

Ingranad, receiving reports from his lieutenants, let out a booming, grinding laugh that echoed through the Demon Fortress.

“Excellent! The Sun-scorchers flee! Krýllos proves his worth already!”

The pressure on the demonic legions in southern Eloriath eased dramatically. Forces previously pinned down engaging Confederacy patrols were now freed up. The corrupted heroes, Patrick and Madleen, found their paths of conquest less obstructed.

“More territory falls,” Syl’keth hissed with satisfaction, observing a shimmering map of captured souls. “The human lines crumble faster now.”

“Focus the pressure!” Ingranad commanded. “Push north! Push west! Let the Church dogs feel our renewed wrath! Let the Assembly rats choke on their stolen lands! Eloriath is ours for the taking!”

The demonic tide surged forward with renewed vigor, washing over lands recently abandoned by the Confederacy, pushing closer to the remaining human strongholds. The fragile balance of the multi-sided war tilted heavily back in favor of the abyss.

News, as always, eventually filtered into the Steele territory. Alaric received the reports in his study – not during an intimate session this time, but via coded messages delivered by his efficient intelligence network (supplemented, no doubt, by reluctant whispers from Brita).

The rise of the Sea Monsters. The appearance of an ‘Abyssal Lord’ named Krýllos. The withdrawal of the Suntouched Confederacy. The renewed demonic offensive.

Alaric processed the information calmly, his ruby eyes scanning the reports, his mind already calculating angles, opportunities.

‘Sea Monsters… An Abyssal Lord, Transformation Stage, likely Arch-level equivalent even weakened… Interesting.’

His first thought wasn’t fear, or concern for the collapsing Confederacy. It was opportunity.

‘Sea Monster cores,’ he mused. ‘Unique elemental properties. Water, ice, pressure manipulation… perhaps even deeper abyssal energies. Valuable. Especially high-order ones.’

The thought of harvesting cores from Krakens, Leviathans, perhaps even this Lord Krýllos himself… it was incredibly tempting. Such resources could dramatically enhance his own power, or be used to empower his subordinates, or fuel even more sophisticated artifacts and arrays.

He made his decision swiftly. A hunting expedition. Not into the demon-infested heartlands of Eloriath, but south, towards the chaos engulfing the Suntouched Confederacy. Target: high-order Sea Monsters.

But rushing in was foolish. The Confederacy, even reeling, possessed powerful Sun Mages. And Krýllos himself was an unknown, likely formidable variable. A direct assault was risky. A covert strike force, capable of swift insertion, targeted harvesting, and immediate extraction, was required.

Extraction. That was the key. Fighting their way out through potentially hostile Confederacy territory after antagonizing both sea monsters and locals was inefficient. They needed a guaranteed escape route.

His mind turned to technology. Magic. Artifice.

‘Teleportation. A reliable, reusable, portable device. Linked back here, to the manor’s energy grid.’

The concept was simple enough. The execution, however, was complex. Standard teleportation circles were large, static, energy-intensive, and easily disrupted. A portable, artifact-based system required miniaturization, efficiency, and stability far beyond current understanding.

And it required mastery over spatial magic, or at least the ability to sense and manipulate spatial coordinates accurately. Something inherently difficult, almost impossible, without reaching the Archmage threshold.

He, a Grandmaster, could feel the potential of space, could utilize existing stable portals, but manipulating it directly, anchoring a destination across vast distances for a portable device? That was beyond him. Even Iridelle, his brilliant head artificer, lacked that innate Archmage-level sensitivity.

‘But,’ Alaric thought, a slow smile spreading across his face, ‘we happen to have an Archmage conveniently residing under my roof.’

Archmage Priscilla.

Her expertise was exactly what he needed. Her understanding of spatial matrices, her ability to perceive and manipulate the fabric of reality on that level… she was the missing component.

He considered how to approach her. Demanding her cooperation was possible, but perhaps less efficient. Priscilla possessed a strong will and a professional pride. Appealing to her intellect, her curiosity, framing it as a collaborative project for mutual benefit (the defense of the territory, the safety of its inhabitants, including her Queen), would likely yield better, more enthusiastic results.

He tidied himself, ensuring he projected an image of calm, focused intellect rather than the ruthless predator he truly was. He then sent a polite message via a servant: ‘Young Master Alaric requests the honour of Archmage Priscilla’s presence in his private laboratory, to discuss a matter of magical theory and potential defensive application.’

Priscilla received the summons with mild surprise. Alaric’s ‘private laboratory’? She hadn’t been invited there before. She knew he was an inventor, but assumed most work was done by Iridelle and her team. ‘Magical theory? Defensive application?’ Her curiosity was piqued. Despite her lingering unease about him, the prospect of a high-level theoretical discussion with a mind clearly as sharp as Alaric’s was intellectually stimulating.

She arrived at the designated laboratory – a large, well-lit chamber filled with arcane apparatus, bubbling alembics, complex runic arrays etched onto workbenches, and shelves laden with rare components. Iridelle was present, looking focused as she calibrated a delicate mana-measuring device, but she nodded respectfully to Priscilla before turning back to her work, clearly accustomed to Alaric taking the lead.

Alaric stood before a large blackboard covered in complex equations and diagrams that made Priscilla’s eyes widen slightly. They depicted theoretical models related to spatial distortion and energy transference.

“Archmage Priscilla,” Alaric greeted her with a warm, professional smile, gesturing towards the blackboard. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’ve been wrestling with a theoretical problem, and I believe your unique expertise might provide the breakthrough I need.”

Priscilla stepped closer, her gaze drawn to the intricate diagrams. “Spatial mechanics? This looks highly advanced, Young Master.”

“Indeed,” Alaric agreed. “It pertains to the concept of instantaneous relocation. Teleportation. Specifically, the possibility of creating a stable, portable anchor point linked back to a primary energy source.”

He tapped a section of the diagram. “Standard arrays require immense, localized power and fixed coordinates. But what if,” he continued, his eyes gleaming with intellectual excitement, “we could create a small, reusable artifact containing a miniaturized matrix capable of establishing a temporary wormhole back to a pre-calibrated receiver, drawing power remotely?”

Priscilla stared at the equations, her mind racing. Portable, reusable teleportation? The implications were staggering. Instantaneous troop deployment, emergency extractions, secure travel across hostile territory…

“The energy requirements alone would be astronomical,” she countered, pointing out the obvious flaw. “And maintaining stability across variable distances without a fixed physical matrix…”

“Precisely the problem,” Alaric nodded eagerly. “But I believe the power issue can be solved by linking it to a large-scale source – like our manor’s core-fueled grid. The stability, however… that requires precise spatial coordinate locking. The ability to ‘sense’ the destination anchor across dimensions, to adjust for spatial drift…”

He looked at her directly. “Capabilities inherent to the Archmage rank, wouldn’t you agree? The sensitivity to the underlying fabric of space itself.”

Priscilla felt a jolt of excitement. He wasn’t just asking for help; he was proposing a collaborative project on the cutting edge of arcane science. Something potentially revolutionary.

“You believe it’s possible?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity, her earlier suspicions momentarily forgotten in the face of such a fascinating theoretical challenge. “To create a handheld device capable of long-range, stable teleportation?”

“I believe the theory is sound,” Alaric stated confidently. “But the practical application hinges on bridging the gap between Grandmaster-level energy manipulation and Archmage-level spatial perception. I can design the power conduits, the energy matrix, the failsafes. Iridelle can craft the physical artifact with unparalleled precision.” He gestured towards his quiet head artificer. “But the spatial anchoring, the coordinate locking… that requires your touch, Archmage.”

He stepped back, inviting her closer to the blackboard. “Imagine it, Priscilla. A device, perhaps keyed to specific individuals or linked to our communication artifacts,” he hinted at the Phone synergy, “allowing instantaneous return to safety from anywhere on the continent, simply by activating it.”

Priscilla’s mind lit up. The strategic advantages were immense. Escape routes for vital personnel. Instant retrieval of scouting parties. A safety net unlike any other. Combined with the Phone for communication… it would change everything.

“This… this would be revolutionary,” she breathed, her fingers tracing one of the complex spatial equations. Her caution regarding Alaric warred with the sheer intellectual allure of the project. The potential benefits were undeniable. And the challenge… it was irresistible to a mind like hers.

“My thoughts exactly,” Alaric said, his smile widening. “So, Archmage Priscilla? Would you be willing to lend your considerable talents to this endeavor? For the enhanced safety and security of everyone residing within the Steele territory, of course.”

He framed it perfectly. A fascinating magical challenge, a revolutionary invention, and all for the ‘greater good’.

Priscilla looked from the complex equations to Alaric’s eager, intelligent face. The opportunity to work on something so groundbreaking, to push the boundaries of magic…

“Yes,” she found herself saying, a thrill running through her. “Yes, Young Master Steele. I would be… honored to collaborate. Let us explore these theories further.”

Alaric beamed, clapping his hands together softly. “Excellent! I knew I could count on your intellectual curiosity, Archmage. Iridelle, prepare the prototype components. Priscilla and I have some spatial mechanics to unravel.”

The Archmage, the Artificer, and the ambitious young Lord turned towards the blackboard, united, for the moment, by the pursuit of revolutionary magic. Priscilla, caught up in the intellectual challenge, momentarily set aside her deeper concerns about her host.

Alaric, meanwhile, inwardly smirked. The first step towards his Sea Monster hunt was underway. And he had just secured the enthusiastic cooperation of the most powerful mage under his roof, appealing not to her fear, but to her mind. Sometimes, seduction wasn’t about the body, but about the intellect.