Chapter 305: Special Dresses For Zylle and Priscilla

The Azure Ice Cavern, Alaric’s private sanctuary and the stage for Professor Maelis’s exquisite downfall, was a place of profound, echoing silence. The air, usually crisp and cold, was thick with the lingering, musky scent of their marathon of passion. Alaric sat on the edge of the fur-strewn ice platform, his magnificent body still glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, a picture of sated, predatory power.

Professor Maelis lay nearby, a beautiful, broken ruin amidst the furs. Her athletic body, a testament to her Archmage power, was marked with the evidence of his claiming. Her breathing was deep and even, lost in the depths of an exhaustion so profound it was almost a spiritual state.

He had just finished his… final lesson… for the day. A lesson that had involved reasserting his dominance with a thoroughness that left them both breathless and her utterly, blissfully pliant.

He was contemplating his next move—perhaps a visit to his wife, Griselda, to play the part of the gentle, devoted husband, a delightful contrast to the brutal master he had just been—when the insistent, magical chime of his Phone Artifact cut through the cavern’s stillness.

He glanced at the device, which lay on a nearby ice shelf. The caller ID glyph pulsed with a familiar, elegant signature. Queen Ondine Bellerose.

A slow, satisfied smile touched Alaric’s lips. ’My beautiful, cunning Queen. So eager to report.’ He had left her with a kingdom to tame, a complex web of intrigue to weave. He was curious to hear of her progress.

He activated the connection, his voice a low, intimate purr. “Ondine, my dear. I was just thinking of you.”

Ondine’s face materialized on the screen, a vision of dark, regal beauty. She was in her private study in the Bellerose Mansion, the candlelight casting flattering shadows on her high cheekbones. The moment she saw him, her queenly composure melted away, replaced by the soft, adoring gaze of a devoted servant.

“My Lord Alaric,” she breathed, her voice a husky whisper that was a caress in itself. “Forgive the intrusion. But a matter of great import has arisen. The world has come knocking at our door. And I believe… it is time we gave them a proper answer.”

Alaric’s interest sharpened. He leaned back, his powerful frame relaxed, but his ruby eyes were cold and focused. “Speak, my Queen. What has happened?”

Ondine’s report was a masterpiece of concise, strategic intelligence. She recounted the arrival of the Celestial Dragon Empire’s emissary, High Minister Chen Bo. She detailed the summons to the Conclave of Five Peaks, the legendary neutral ground where the fate of continents was decided. She listed the attendees, her voice a low, respectful murmur as she named the great powers of the world.

“The Rimefrost Imperium’s Empress Anastasia Volkov,” Ondine began, her dark eyes fixed on Alaric’s image. “The Celestial Dragon Emperor Huang Long. The Kensei Shogun Minamoto Yoshitsune. A high-ranking legate representing the Radiant Theocracy’s Pontifex Maximus Tiberius, a Cardinal Alistair Cromwell. And a councilor, Zahir Al-Fariq, from the Suntouched Confederacy.”

She paused, letting the weight of the names sink in. “They have invited me, as the new Queen of the Jorailian Empire, to join their council. To discuss trade, alliances against the remaining demonic threats, and to… formally recognize the new political landscape.”

Alaric listened in silence, his expression unreadable. He had not anticipated this. A grand summit of the world’s most powerful rulers. It was a move of surprising speed and coordination from the old powers.

“They are wary of us, my Lord,” Ondine continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The speed of Jorailia’s stabilization, the power of your artifacts, the utter annihilation of the Confederacy’s legions at our border… it has sent a wave of fear and suspicion through their courts. This summit… it is not an invitation. It is a test. They wish to size us up. To probe our strengths, our weaknesses. To understand the nature of the power that stands behind my throne.”

Alaric’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. “So, the old lions are growling, are they? They wish to see the new queen of the pride, to see if she is a true ruler, or merely a pretender.”

“They wish to see you, my Lord,” Ondine corrected softly, her devotion absolute. “They may not know your name, not yet. But they feel your shadow. And they are afraid.”

Alaric leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful, almost gleeful light in his ruby eyes. This was perfect. Better than he could have planned. He had intended to slowly, methodically, extend his influence, to play the long game. But the world, it seemed, was impatient. It was bringing the game directly to his doorstep.

“Ondine,” Alaric said, his voice a low, decisive command. “You will accept their invitation. Without hesitation.”

“As you command, my Lord,” she replied instantly.

“This is not a test, my Queen,” Alaric continued, his voice a silken purr of strategic brilliance. “It is an opportunity. A stage. A chance to announce to the world that a new power has risen. A power that will not be cowed, not be contained.”

His mind was a whirlwind of calculation, his thoughts moving with the speed of a striking viper.

’Legitimacy,’ he mused. ’To have Ondine, my puppet, sit at the table with emperors and empresses… it will solidify her rule, and by extension, my control over Jorailia, in the eyes of the world. It will transform her from a usurper into a recognized monarch.’

’Intelligence,’ his thoughts continued, his ruby eyes gleaming. ’To have all my potential rivals, all my future conquests, gathered in one place. I can assess them firsthand. The icy Empress Anastasia. The ancient Dragon Emperor Huang Long. The reclusive Shogun Yoshitsune. I can gauge their power, their personalities, their weaknesses. I can see the women who surround them, the beautiful, powerful assets I will one day claim for my own.’

’Resources,’ his mind shifted to the practical. ’The summit is a marketplace. A place to trade not just goods, but secrets. To forge alliances, however temporary. To acquire rare materials, unique cultivation techniques, anything that will further strengthen my own domain.’

And then, the true, driving motivation behind his decision. The sheer, exhilarating pleasure of the game itself.

’Entertainment,’ he thought, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his handsome face. ’To walk among these so-called gods of the mortal realm, these emperors and empresses who believe they rule the world. To sit with them, to speak with them, to charm their women, all while knowing that I am their superior. That I am the true, unseen king, pulling the strings of their destinies. The sheer, delicious arrogance of it… it is intoxicating.’

He had his plan. Now, he needed his pieces.

“Ondine,” Alaric commanded, his voice now crisp, authoritative. “You will not go to this summit alone. You will go with an entourage that speaks of our new, undeniable power. You will go with me.”

Ondine’s breath hitched, a thrill of excitement shooting through her. “My Lord… you will accompany me?”

“I will attend as the ’Duke of the Azure Peaks’,” Alaric stated. “Your most powerful, most trusted advisor. The architect of your victory. Let them see the power that stands behind your throne. Let them wonder. Let them fear.”

“And you will not be my only companion,” he continued, his mind already assembling his perfect delegation of power and servitude.

“Archmage Priscilla,” he mused, a predatory glint in his eyes. “She will attend as the ’Royal Archmage of Jorailia’. A symbol of the old kingdom’s power, now seamlessly integrated into your new regime. Her presence will lend you legitimacy. And,” his smile was chilling, “it will be a delightful reminder to her of her new, more… practical… duties.”

“And Archmage Zylle Mordan,” he added, his voice a low purr of pure, malicious satisfaction. “She will be introduced as a ’recently surrendered and pardoned’ mage from a ’defunct criminal organization’, now serving as a specialist advisor on… internal security. Her presence will be a silent, brutal message to any in attendance who have dealings with the Phantom Assembly. It will tell them that their secrets are not safe. That their power is fleeting. And that their most beautiful, most powerful assets… can be taken.”

Ondine shivered, a mixture of awe and terror at the sheer, calculated cruelty of his plan. He wasn’t just attending a summit; he was declaring war on the old order, using his own conquered women as living, breathing trophies.

“And for our protection,” Alaric concluded, “General Tauron will lead a small, elite honor guard. A dozen of his finest Grandmaster Martialists. A display of Jorailia’s conventional military might. Disciplined. Unbreakable.”

He looked at Ondine, his ruby eyes burning with an intensity that made her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. “You will be a vision of power, my Queen. Surrounded by strength, by mystery, by absolute, unwavering loyalty. They will not see a puppet. They will see a goddess. My goddess.”

“I… I will not fail you, my Lord,” Ondine whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“I know you won’t,” Alaric replied. “Now, there is one final matter. Your attire. And that of your… fellow Archmages.”

He paused, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. “Such a momentous occasion requires… special garments. Garments that speak of your power, your beauty, your… unique position. I will have my personal artificer, the brilliant Lady Iridelle, craft them for you. They will be… magnificent.”

The final act of Alaric’s gambit was a masterpiece of insidious, sensual artistry.

He summoned Iridelle, his brilliant, devoted head artificer, to his private workshop. He laid out his vision, his ruby eyes gleaming with a mixture of arcane genius and depraved creativity.

“I need three gowns, Iridelle,” he commanded, his voice a low purr. “For three Archmages. Queen Ondine, Archmage Priscilla, and Archmage Zylle. They must be… breathtaking. The finest fabrics, the most intricate enchantments. They must make every other woman at this summit look like a common milkmaid.”

Iridelle, her violet eyes shining with a mixture of professional focus and personal devotion, nodded eagerly. “As you command, Alaric. I will use the Celestial Silk we acquired from the Royal Archives, interwoven with threads of pure moonlight. They will shimmer with an inner light. And the enchantments… I can weave in subtle auras of authority, of grace, of intimidation.”

“Excellent,” Alaric praised, his hand resting possessively on her hip. “But the true magic, my dear Iridelle, will be hidden.”

He leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Beneath these magnificent gowns, they will wear… something else. Something for my eyes only.”

He described his true design. The enchanted, scandalously revealing undergarments. Bikinis of pure, black Celestial Silk, held together by threads of shadow and desire.

“The gowns themselves will be enchanted with a dual-layered illusion,” Alaric explained, his eyes burning with a possessive fire. “To the world, they will appear as masterpieces of regal modesty. But to my eyes, the eyes of their creator, their master… the illusion will be non-existent. I will see them as they truly are. My beautiful, powerful Archmage sluts, naked beneath their finery, their magnificent bodies displayed for my private pleasure.”

Iridelle’s breath hitched, a faint blush staining her pale cheeks. The sheer, audacious depravity of his plan… it was breathtaking. And undeniably, thrillingly Alaric.

“And there is one more enchantment, Iridelle,” Alaric added, his voice a low growl. “Weave into the very fabric of their undergarments a subtle, continuous arousal charm. Not enough to be obvious, not enough to cloud their judgment. Just a constant, low-level hum of sensation. A warmth between their legs. A tingling in their nipples. A constant, inescapable reminder of their true purpose. To please me. To be ready for me. Always.”

“It… it will be done, Alaric,” Iridelle whispered, her own body responding to the sheer, erotic power of his vision.

The gowns, when they were presented to Ondine, Priscilla, and Zylle, were indeed magnificent. Ondine’s was a cascade of midnight velvet, embroidered with silver stars that seemed to twinkle with a life of their own. Priscilla’s was a column of pure, shimmering white silk, its simplicity a testament to her power. Zylle’s was a creation of shadow and violet, the fabric seeming to shift and writhe like living darkness.

They were breathtaking.

But it was the hidden garments, presented to them in the privacy of their chambers, that sealed their fate.

Ondine, when Alaric showed her the tiny scraps of black silk, the enchanted bikini that was to be her true attire, simply laughed, a low, throaty sound of pure, decadent pleasure. “Oh, my Lord,” she purred, her dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of lust and adoration. “You are a magnificent, wicked devil. To have me stand before emperors and kings, feeling this… this constant reminder of you… it is the most exquisite torment. I will wear it with pride.”

Priscilla, however, was horrified. She stared at the tiny bikini, her face pale with shock and disgust. “I will not wear this… this whore’s attire!” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage.

Alaric simply smiled, a cold, merciless expression. He stepped closer, his Archmage aura a crushing weight. “You will,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “You will wear it. And you will feel it. Every moment of every day. You will stand before the great powers of this world, and you will feel my claim on your body, a constant, undeniable reality. You will remember who owns you, Priscilla. And you will learn to love it.” He left the bikini on her bed and walked out, leaving her to her tears of rage and utter, helpless despair.

Zylle’s reaction was a silent, seething fury. She looked at the bikini, then at Alaric, her obsidian eyes burning with a hatred so pure it was almost a physical force. But she said nothing. She simply took it, her fingers clenching the delicate fabric. She would wear it. She would endure. And one day… one day, she would have her revenge.

And so, the delegation was assembled. A Queen, a Duke, two conquered Archmages, a loyal General, and a contingent of elite warriors. They were a vision of power, of unity, of the new, formidable Jorailian Empire.

But beneath the surface, beneath the silks and the steel, it was a procession of slaves, all marching to the beat of a single, magnificent, terrifying drum. The drum of Alaric Steele’s insatiable, world-conquering ambition. The Conclave of Five Peaks awaited. And the game was about to begin.