Chapter 295: Archmage Priscilla’s Submission

The morning after his… thorough re-education… of his mother and aunt, Alaric felt a deep, primal satisfaction. The Steele Manor, now nestled in its icy northern sanctuary, was a fortress not just of magic and stone, but of absolute, unquestioning loyalty. His core harem was solidified, their wills utterly bent to his.

But the world outside continued to churn, a chaotic symphony of war and intrigue that demanded his attention. He sat in his private study, the same room that had witnessed such exquisite depravity just a day before, now clean and orderly. He held his Phone Artifact, its dark surface cool against his palm.

It was time to set his other kingdom in motion.

He activated the connection, a silent command reaching across the continent to Lysandra, the capital of Jorailia. Queen Ondine Bellerose’s beautiful, cunning face appeared on the screen almost instantly. She was in what looked like a royal war room, yet the moment she saw him, her entire demeanor shifted. Her queenly authority melted away, replaced by the soft, eager deference of a devoted servant.

“My Lord Alaric,” she purred, her voice a low, intimate whisper despite the formal setting. “You called. I was hoping you would.”

“Ondine,” Alaric’s voice was calm, but carried an undercurrent of absolute command. “Your reports have been… adequate. But the time for consolidation is over. The time for action is now.”

“Anything, my Lord,” she breathed, her dark eyes shining with adoration. “Your will is my command.”

“Prepare your forces,” Alaric stated, his ruby eyes cold and sharp. “All of them. The Bellerose legions, the royalist generals who have sworn fealty to you, every mercenary company in your pay. We are going to launch a full-scale offensive against the demonic forces infesting the fallen Eloriath Kingdom.”

Ondine’s eyes widened slightly. “A full offensive, my Lord? But General Tauron advises a more defensive posture, to solidify our own borders first…”

“General Tauron is a fine soldier, but he lacks vision,” Alaric cut her off, his tone brooking no argument. “The demons are a festering wound. We will not wait for the infection to spread further. We will carve it out. Now. While they are still reeling from the Phantom Assembly’s… desperate last stand.”

“I want your legions marching within the week, Ondine,” he continued, his gaze intense. “Sweep through the eastern provinces of Eloriath. Eradicate every demonic outpost. Burn their nests. Slaughter them all. You will be the hammer that shatters their eastern flank.”

“And what of Ingranad’s main fortress, my Lord?” Ondine asked, her mind already racing, calculating the logistics.

“Leave the fortress to me,” Alaric said, a predatory smile touching his lips. “Your task is to cleanse the surrounding territories, to draw their attention, to bleed their legions. I will deal with Ingranad and his Archdemon lapdogs personally, when the time is right. Now, go. Fulfill your purpose, my Queen. Do not disappoint me.”

“Never, my Lord Alaric!” Ondine vowed, her face flushed with a mixture of excitement and awe. She loved this. The power, the ambition, the sheer, godlike confidence of the man she served. “Jorailia will be your sword!”

He cut the connection, leaving Ondine to set in motion a war that would reshape the continent. He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. Jorailia was his hammer. Now, he needed to sharpen his own personal spear.

He spent the next few days in a whirlwind of focused activity. He oversaw the training of the Mystic Ice Sect disciples and the Steele household guards, their power growing daily under the guidance of Lyra, Cassandra, and Meng Yao. The Royal-level cultivation techniques had transformed them into a truly elite fighting force.

But amidst all this preparation, a single, irritating loose end remained.

Archmage Priscilla.

She was the last of the Archmages within his immediate sphere of influence who had not yet been… fully integrated. She was a powerful asset, her loyalty to the former Eloriath crown and her own professional pride creating a frustratingly resilient barrier against his more… direct methods of persuasion.

Alaric, however, had decided that the time for subtlety was over. With his Archmage power now fully consolidated, he no longer felt the need to hide his… appetites… behind a veil of professional courtesy. In fact, he found a certain perverse pleasure in being blatant, in forcing Priscilla to confront the new reality of his domain.

He began to hold his… intimate sessions… with Queen Margaret and Royal Consort Josephine not in the seclusion of their chambers, but in the open, sunlit gardens of the Sunken Pearl Estate.

Priscilla, whose duties included overseeing the security of the estate, would inevitably “stumble” upon these scenes. She would be walking a patrol route, her expression stern and professional, only to round a hedge of flowering moonpetal bushes and find… a tableau of utter, shameless depravity.

Alaric, his magnificent body bare and gleaming with sweat, would be taking Queen Margaret from behind, her royal gown hiked up around her waist, her magnificent buttocks jiggling with each powerful thrust, her cries of pleasure a shocking, melodic counterpoint to the buzzing of insects in the garden. Josephine would be kneeling before them, her own gown in disarray, her mouth eagerly working Alaric’s balls, her eyes glazed with a mixture of lust and devoted submission.

Priscilla would freeze, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. She would avert her gaze, her cheeks burning with a mixture of professional outrage and a strange, unwilling flicker of… something else. Arousal? Curiosity? She would quickly turn and walk away, her heart hammering against her ribs, the image of her Queen being used so crudely, so publicly, seared into her mind.

’This is… obscene,’ Priscilla would think, her mind reeling. ’He doesn’t even try to hide it! He wants me to see this! He’s… he’s taunting me!’

And he was. Each time she witnessed such a scene, the message was clear: ’This is my domain. These women are mine. And you, for all your Archmage pride, are powerless to stop me.’

The final summons came on a warm, sun-drenched afternoon. Priscilla was in her private study within the Sunken Pearl Estate, reviewing defensive schematics, when Queen Margaret entered, unannounced. The Queen’s face was flushed, her hair slightly disheveled, her lips swollen. She was still wearing the same elegant gown she had worn in the garden just an hour ago.

“Your Majesty,” Priscilla said, rising to her feet, a knot of dread forming in her stomach.

“Archmage Priscilla,” Margaret’s voice was a low, husky purr. The usual regal authority was gone, replaced by a strange, languid sensuality. “Lord Alaric… requests your presence. In his private chambers. Immediately.”

Priscilla’s blood ran cold. She knew what this meant. This was it. The moment she had been dreading.

“Your Majesty,” Priscilla began, her voice tight, “I am currently engaged in…”

“Lord Alaric’s requests are not subject to your schedule, Archmage,” Margaret interrupted, her eyes holding a strange, almost pitying light. “He is… waiting. Do not keep him waiting. It would be… unwise.”

The veiled threat was unmistakable. Priscilla knew she had no choice. To refuse a direct summons from the man who held their very lives in his hands… it was unthinkable.

With a heavy heart, her mind a whirlwind of fear and a strange, fatalistic resignation, Priscilla followed Queen Margaret from the Sunken Pearl Estate, across the manicured lawns, and into the main Steele manor. Margaret led her to a secluded wing, to a set of large, ornate doors Priscilla had never seen before. Alaric’s private chambers.

Margaret knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for a reply. “She is here, my King,” Margaret announced, her voice filled with a servant’s devotion. She then stepped aside, gesturing for Priscilla to enter, before bowing deeply and closing the door, leaving Priscilla alone with her fate.

The chamber was a scene of breathtaking, decadent depravity. Alaric was on the massive, fur-strewn bed, naked, his magnificent body a testament to raw, masculine power. Queen Margaret and Royal Consort Josephine were with him, their magnificent, mature bodies marked with the evidence of his recent, thorough attentions. They were clad in ridiculously short, tight village clothing, their large breasts spilling from the low-cut bodices, their magnificent buttocks barely concealed by the tiny skirts. They were in the midst of a passionate threesome, their bodies intertwined, their moans and cries a symphony of unrestrained lust.

Alaric paused, his head turning as Priscilla entered. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “Ah, Archmage Priscilla. Punctual, as always. Come in. Don’t be shy.”

He gestured with a lazy hand towards the foot of the bed. “As you can see, we were just beginning our… afternoon devotions. But there is always room for one more.”

Margaret giggled, a sound utterly unlike the composed Queen Priscilla knew. “Come join us, Priscilla! The King is in a most… generous mood today!”

Josephine moaned as Alaric’s hand squeezed her breast. “Yes! Come! The King has more than enough to share!”

Priscilla stood frozen in the doorway, her mind reeling. The sheer, shameless debauchery of the scene… it was overwhelming. She felt a wave of profound disgust wash over her.

“Lord Steele,” Priscilla said, her voice trembling slightly, but firm. “This is… inappropriate. I am an Archmage of the Eloriath Kingdom. I am not… one of your playthings.”

Alaric simply chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. “Oh, my dear Priscilla. That is where you are mistaken.” He gently pushed Margaret and Josephine aside. They pouted prettily but obeyed instantly, sprawling on the bed in a tangle of naked, willing limbs.

Alaric rose from the bed, his magnificent erection, a testament to his Archmage-level virility, jutting proudly before him. He strode towards Priscilla, his ruby eyes burning with a possessive, predatory fire.

“You are in my fortress, Archmage,” he purred, his voice a silken threat. “You eat my food. You breathe my air. You exist here only by my grace. And everything in my domain, my dear Priscilla… is my plaything.”

He stopped just inches from her, his presence overwhelming. “Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding growl. “Strip. And get on your knees. It is time you learned your true place in this new world.”

Priscilla stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel his immense power, a crushing weight that made her own formidable Archmage aura feel like a flickering candle in a hurricane. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that resistance was futile. He could break her with a thought.

A single, desperate tear traced a path down her cheek. “I… I cannot, Lord Steele,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “My honor… my pride…”

Alaric’s smile was utterly devoid of mercy. “You have no honor here, Priscilla. Only my will. And as for your pride…” He reached out, his hand not gentle, but swift and brutal.

RIIIIIP!

Her elegant Archmage robes were torn from her body in a single, violent motion, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the silent chamber. She stood before him, naked, exposed, her magnificent, mature, voluptuous body revealed to his hungry, lustful eyes.

“Your pride,” Alaric said, his voice a low, triumphant growl as his gaze swept over her full, heavy breasts, her slender waist, her impossibly curvy hips, “is the first thing I shall take from you. And your body… your body will be the second.”

He threw her onto the bed amidst the laughing, eager forms of Margaret and Josephine. “Welcome to the harem, Archmage,” Alaric purred, his voice a promise of endless, exquisite, and utterly devastating pleasure.

“Your education is about to begin.” He pounced, his magnificent body covering hers, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that was not a seduction, but a brand of absolute, undeniable ownership. Priscilla’s last coherent thought, as her will shattered and her body began to betray her, was that being Alaric Steele’s woman was indeed her fortune, a terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly inescapable fate.