chapter 9: return's king

The grand hall of John's estate was silent, save for the faint crackling of torches lining the stone walls. The air was thick with the stench of blood and death from the battle that had raged across the city mere hours before. Outside, the once-vibrant streets of the city now lay in ruin, the echoes of screams and the sounds of carnage still lingering. The city lord and his family were no more—only their dismembered heads atop tall poles served as grim reminders of John's unrelenting power.

As the city burned in the wake of John's campaign, the hall inside the estate stood untouched, its stone floors cold beneath his boots. His mercenaries had gathered in the corners of the room, their grim faces lit by the flickering torchlight. They, too, had become used to the violence, desensitized to the horrors they inflicted on others. They were loyal, ruthless, and silent as they awaited John's next command.

John stood at the center of the room, his posture unyielding. His cold eyes scanned the space, sharp and calculating. His face, as always, betrayed nothing of the emotions that might have once flickered behind his eyes. There was no joy, no sorrow. There was only the grim certainty of what he had become—the inevitable ruler of this city. The throne had been claimed by blood, and it would not be relinquished.

The world outside belonged to him now, but there was still one final piece he needed to address. His gaze shifted to the far end of the hall, where his most trusted men stood at attention. They were silent as he approached, knowing that this moment, like all others, was a calculated step toward solidifying his dominion.

Without a word, John waved his hand. A seasoned veteran, one of his highest-ranking mercenaries, stepped forward. "Go," John commanded in his cold, authoritative voice. "Find her. Tell her to come."

The mercenary nodded once, then turned on his heel and walked out, his heavy boots echoing through the silent hall. The mercenaries remaining in the room didn't move, their expressions unreadable, their loyalty unquestionable. They had fought beside John, seen him rise from a man with ambitions to a king whose word held the weight of life and death. They knew what he was capable of.

John stood by the grand fireplace, the flames crackling as the shadows danced along the stone walls. His thoughts lingered on the actions of the past day. His victory in the conquest of the city had come at a cost—many lives had been lost, many people had been sacrificed, and the blood that had stained the streets would forever be a reminder of what it took to climb to the top. But John had no qualms about that. He had seen enough death to grow numb to it. Power was all that mattered. Everything else was expendable.

His mind briefly drifted to her—her, the woman who had been his pet for so long. The mother of his children. The woman who, for all her defiance, had been broken by the weight of his cruelty. He had used her, manipulated her, and now she carried his heir, . She had served her purpose in the grand design, but she would serve him again—just as he had always intended.

As the heavy wooden doors to the hall creaked open, John didn't turn. He didn't need to see her approach; he knew what she would look like, what she would wear, and how she would hold herself. Her form, now burdened with the weight of her pregnancy, entered the room quietly. She walked with slow, measured steps, her eyes cast downward, knowing full well that her every action was being watched. She had been brought low. What was once an ember of defiance in her soul had long since been extinguished, snuffed out by the harsh reality of her life under John's rule.

The mercenary who had been sent to retrieve her stood behind her, silent and unmoving. He had done his duty, his face a mask of indifference as he awaited further orders. The woman stepped forward, her belly swollen with the child she carried—,

his son. Her face was pale, but it betrayed no emotion. She had learned long ago that to show any sign of weakness was to invite cruelty. Her strength had been drained over time, replaced by an almost eerie sense of resignation.

John finally turned to face her, his piercing eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he appraised her. There was no tenderness in his gaze, no warmth in his voice. There was only the cold calculation of a man who had learned to view everyone as either an obstacle to overcome or a tool to use.

"Come," John said simply, his voice low, but carrying an undeniable authority. "You will go with me to the city lord's palace."

There was no surprise, no reaction from her. She had long since stopped expecting anything different. She had lived in his shadow, obeying his commands without question, enduring the harshness of his rule. It was the only existence she knew now. The fact that John had ordered her to go with him to the city lord's palace seemed no different than any other command he had given her. It was simply the next step in the pattern that had become their lives.

Her legs, weak from the weight of her pregnancy, carried her forward, though she had to fight the urge to stumble. Her body had changed in the months that had passed, and the strain of carrying John's child was beginning to take its toll. But even as she moved toward him, she felt the coldness of his presence wash over her. It was suffocating, a constant reminder that she was nothing more than a possession in his eyes.

John said nothing more, but his command was clear. She would be with him—at his side as he ascended to his new position of power. The city lord's palace would be his new domain, and there, she would remain, her role unchanged. She was not the woman she once had been, but rather a shadow, a vessel for the next generation of his bloodline.

The mercenaries who had gathered in the room stood silent, watching the exchange unfold. They had seen it all before—the way John treated her, the way he treated everyone beneath him. There was no compassion in his heart. There was only the brutal pursuit of power. They had long since accepted that. There was no place for weakness in John's world. Only the strong survived.

As she reached him, John's gaze didn't soften. There was no acknowledgment of her presence beyond the cold, calculated way he examined her. Her role was clear: she would obey him, and nothing more.

"You will accompany me," he repeated, his tone unwavering. "We leave now."

And just like that, she was dismissed from her own life, once again reduced to the role he had carved for her. There was no love between them, no shared history that might have made this moment more than a transaction. She had no name in his eyes, no identity beyond what he had given her. She was a tool, a means to an end, and her purpose would remain as it had always been—serving him.

With a simple nod, the guards surrounding them moved forward, guiding her toward the door. There was no need for further words. John had spoken. The mercenaries who had once stood as silent witnesses now turned to continue their duties, the business of conquest never ceasing.

As she followed John from the hall, her feet heavy and her heart colder than before, she couldn't help but wonder—if she had any choice, if there was any way out of the life he had forced upon her. But the answer was always the same: she was his. And in his world, there was no place for anyone else.