Chapter 29; Surrender {2}

The throne room was hushed.

Golden light filtered through the stained glass, bathing the black marble floor in fractured colors—blood red, midnight blue, gold like flame. The air crackled faintly, still thick with the remnants of magic. The scent of iron and ash lingered. A single drop of blood slid down Annabelle's collarbone, slow, lazy, forgotten.

She stood tall, barefoot on the steps of her throne, her gown torn at the shoulder, her hair loose and wild from the battle—but her eyes… her eyes burned brighter than ever. Calm. Cold. Infinite.

Malrik, once smug and glimmering with arrogance, was on one knee now. Not by choice at first. Her power had *forced* him down, had made his limbs tremble with the weight of her fury. But now… he remained there, head bowed low, lips parted with something that looked very much like awe.

The cruel vampire prince—rumored to have knelt to no one—was silent before her.

She didn't speak. She didn't need to.

Her presence filled the room like a storm waiting to break. Magic pulsed from her skin like heat waves, making the torches on the walls flicker. Her blood called to the ancient world beneath the surface, to every coven that still remembered her name.

Malrik lifted his gaze slowly.

Eyes dark. Lips parted.

He whispered, almost reverently, *"You are no longer the girl I tried to crush."*

Annabelle tilted her head. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips—dangerous, elegant.

"I never was."

He dropped his gaze again, chest heaving as if the weight of her truth had pressed down on him.

And then… he bent lower. Both knees touched the floor. He placed his bloodied hand against his chest.

"I yield. My Queen."

The silence that followed was sacred.

Even the walls seemed to hold their breath.

And as she stepped down the stairs—slow, regal, glorious—Annabelle knew the court would never forget this day. The day the predator bent his head to the girl he thought had died in the dark.

But she hadn't died.

She had *risen.*

He had knelt. Yes. But not out of devotion.

Malrik was a strategist—a prince of blades and shadows. He knelt because it made sense, because her power was undeniable. Not because he *wanted* to yield. Not because he was hers.

Not yet.

But Queen Annabelle saw through it. The slight lift of his chin. The flicker in his gaze. He was testing her still, waiting for a crack in her fire.

And she gave him none.

She stepped closer. One bare foot before the other, her presence tightening around him like a silk noose. He didn't look up. Didn't dare. But she could smell the lie under his skin. The doubt. The hunger. The *resistance.*

She spoke low, a whisper curled in danger.

**"You're still trying to win, aren't you?"**

Malrik said nothing.

So she touched him.

Just a fingertip to his temple.

And *showed* him.

The full depth of her rebirth. The grave where she once died. The claws that had torn her. The lips that kissed her into undeath. The blood that filled her veins, older than his bloodline, thicker with fate.

He *felt* it—her rage, her hunger, her *divinity.*

She was not made.

She was *claimed by the dark itself.*

Malrik let out a gasp, one hand slamming to the marble floor as pain seared through his mind—*her pain*, invading every memory, every thought, until he was nothing but *hers.*

Then came the whisper—like a breath in his soul.

**"Beg."**

His pride fought.

His heart *broke.*

And then... he crumbled.

Both hands on the floor now. Shoulders bowed. He shook, teeth clenched, sweat beading down his temples.

**"Please."** It was barely a breath.

Annabelle stood before him, a goddess of crimson and night.

**"Please what?"**

Malrik looked up—eyes glassy, lips trembling.

**"Please… let me serve. Let me be yours. I'll give you everything. Even my name."**

And she knew then.

This time, he meant it.

Silence.

The kind that hangs heavy, stretched over the marble floor and velvet walls like a spell.

All eyes were on him—Prince Malrik of the Northern Clans. Once called the Wolf of Vaylen, breaker of cities, tamer of witches.

And now… **on his knees.**

His hands were spread on the floor like a supplicant. Blood from his bitten lip dripped onto the stones. He didn't wipe it. He didn't move.

He was *trembling.*

Gasps rippled through the chamber. Some subtle. Some not. Even the eldest lords of the court—the ones who hadn't bowed to anyone in centuries—shifted.

Queen Annabelle hadn't said a word since he begged. She simply stood above him, calm, ageless, draped in shadow and power. The blood-red of her gown looked almost black beneath the chandelier's firelight.

A courtier whispered, too loud:

**"He was supposed to challenge her…"**

Another:

**"The wolf just *broke.*"**

Someone in the back laughed—nervous, uncertain.

And then one of the Blood Witches dropped to one knee. Then a second. Then a third.

*Thump.*

*Thump.*

*Thump.*

Lords who once eyed Annabelle with suspicion now stared with something new—*fear*. And fascination.

The air grew heavier.

Cassian stepped forward from the shadows of the throne, silent and watchful. Zarek, too, moved with a slow, predatory grace, his eyes locked on Malrik with quiet satisfaction.

But it was **Noctis**—the ancient storm in flesh—who stood just behind Annabelle, watching the court with something close to amusement. Like a god watching ants realize fire burns.

Annabelle finally moved.

She reached down—not to lift Malrik, but to place two fingers under his chin. He flinched, but obeyed, eyes rising to meet hers.

She smiled.

A soft, dangerous, *victorious* thing.

**"Rise, Wolf Prince… not as my rival. But as my creature."**

He rose.

Not fully. Not proudly. But obediently.

And the court understood.

This was no longer a game of politics or bloodlines. This was no longer a *new queen with old enemies.*

This was the reign of a *goddess.*

And **none of them** were safe from her hunger.