Surrendered To The Lord Of Sin-Chapter 46: A foreign feeling

The tearing sensation faded, replaced by the faint hum of stillness. Lucrezia opened her eyes, bracing herself, and found the world had solidified around them. She blinked rapidly, trying to orient herself, but the ground beneath them had no firmness but a strange, pliant pressure that seemed to respond to his hold. When she dared to open her eyes fully, Lucrezia realized they were no longer in the forest clearing.

She felt the unyielding ground beneath her feet when he set her down. Cold surged through her boots, up her bones, sharp enough to steal her breath as she staggered forward, her balance catching only by instinct. Her palms burned from the sudden chill of the air, and when she drew a breath, it tasted ancient like ash, iron, and something older than fire.

They were here, she thought, and looked up where Blackvale unfolded around her in solemn silence.

The scenery twisted like a reflection in water. Tall black stone structures, sharp and jagged, rose from the ground at impossible angles. Lucrezia would’ve assumed it as the one in her dreams had it not been for the dull sky, and the structure that looked the exact opposite. This one was quiet, almost sterile. The towers were smooth, polished in a cold geometry that denied the wild, living chaos of her dream. It rose like frozen blades as their edges caught the dim light with a metallic gleam.

No lightning split the clouds here, only a leaden gray haze that pressed down heavily, swallowing the horizon. And yet, despite the stark order of it all, a part of her could not shake the unease. Her nightmares pulsed with terrible life, while this place pulsed differently.

It stretched before her as she imagined it to be with dark stone walls rising sharply against the low-hanging mist, torches flickering along narrow corridors, and the scent of cold stone mingling with smoke and damp earth when they began to move.

It was not merely a hall, nor a palace, nor a fortress, but all of them layered atop one another like epochs that refused to die. Their footsteps carried them deeper into the hall where the space was colossal, yet restrained. Pillars of black stone rose in measured intervals, each carved from a single slab of granite as veins of dull silver ran through them. The ceiling was arched far beyond mortal comfort, ribbed with stone as no banners or tapestries dared warm it.

Fire burned along the walls in iron sconces in smokeless flames that gave no warmth when they passed by. Light pooled across the obsidian floor, revealing faint sigils carved deep into the stone. They did not glow, yet Lucrezia felt them watching her, measuring her presence.

What is this place? She thought. It seemed to scare her, as she swallowed and kept moving.

Her throat went tight, and a sharp gasp escaped her before she could stop it. Far ahead, the hall widened into a great elevation of steps broad enough to resemble terraces rather than stairs.

Upon them stood a throne unlike any she had ever imagined. It was not fashioned for ease, nor ceremony. It’s back rose like a pair of iron wings fused, fractured and jagged, forged from blackened metal and pale bone that had never known decay.

Her chest tightened again, a mix of awe and something she couldn’t name, and for a moment, she simply stood there, frozen, staring at the impossible scale before her.

As their footsteps carried them deeper into the hall, Lucrezia realized someone was seated on a throne ahead of the dais. It was a grotesque abomination of splendor and excess, crafted from massive, interlocking ribs—some clearly draconic in origin—layered with cured dragon hide stretched taut across its frame. The hide had been treated until it gleamed like polished obsidian, scales intact, stitched together with gold-thread seams that traced the curves of the throne like veins.

The man occupying it looked as immovable as the structure beneath him. He was enormous like a boulder, his pot belly straining against the garments that barely contained it as one arm draped lazily over the throne’s armrest.

He wore a dark and richly dyed ancient robe of heavy fabric, the kind once reserved for emperors or gods long forgotten. The cloth clung and folded over his bulk, stretched thin across his stomach where stitched patterns ran through the material. Bands of gold reinforced the seams, not to support the garment, but to display wealth. The fabric gathered beneath his chest and pooled around his legs, layered upon itself in slow, oppressive folds.

Around him moved silent obedient figures that appeared as servants clad in little more than sheer linens and chains of gold. Their bodies bore sigils etched into skin and bone alike like marks of devotion. Some fanned him with enormous feathers while others offered goblets, platters of fruit too perfect to be real, or merely knelt close enough to be touched should he desire it.

Lucrezia didn’t need to be told to know he was the one reffered as the Nameless King.

She felt the air change as they approached. The pressure settled against her chest like invisible hands and she slowed despite herself. Halfway through the approach, her steps faltered and her eyes shot in alarm. Lucrezia’s vision tilted, panic flaring as she braced for the fall—but firm arms caught her before her body could give way.

Those hazel eyes looked at her with indifference, yet something close to concern lingered when he asked, "Are you okay?"

Her heart thrummed wildly against her chest at the tiniest distance between them. Lucrezia could breathe in his scent, and feel his breath against her skin. It sent a shiver through her, leaving her tense and uncomfortably aware of how close he was.

"Y-Yes, Milord," She whispered back, unable to quell her voice from breaking. But how could she not when they were this close!

He didn’t seem to pry more than that and released his grip anchoring her weight. In the absence of his warmth, her body missed the subtle instinctive ache lingering where his presence had been. She drew a slow breath, steadying herself, unsettled by the quiet trace of loss she hadn’t expected to feel at all.

The moment they proceeded, Lucrezia could feel sharp penetrating gazes all over he entire body, making her skin crawl. It made her feel... foreign. Where she felt watched, he was acknowledged, as servants bowed lower as he passed.

Lucrezia forced herself to ignore the bite of their gazes, keeping her attention ahead of the dais once more.

Before him, on a lower tier of the dais, sat two women upon smaller thrones and no less exquisite for their reduced size. They were flawless in a way that stirred envy, and beautiful in a way that made Lucrezia quietly question herself. She knew with a sinking certainty, that she stood nowhere close to them.

Their skin was unblemished, luminous beneath the light, as though it had never known age or strain. The first woman wore her silver hair long and loose, spilling down her back in a smooth, deliberate fall. It caught the light with every slight movement, framing a face that was calm to the point of indifference. She sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, and her posture was effortless without question. When those steady eyes found hers, they held a detached awareness that made Lucrezia feel measured and found wanting. It was light, too light that almost seemed esoteric, staring at her with something close to appraisal yet curiosity.

The silver-haired woman looked away before her thoughts could wander further, dragging her gaze towards her right.

The second woman was warmer in contrast, her hair a soft shade of gold with pale and almost white ends, braided intricately and drawn over one shoulder. Instead of a calm indifference, her expression was different; less distant, and more knowing, making him appear the amiable one. Her eyes were darker and observant, lingering with a faint suggestion of amusement that unsettled Lucrezia more than open scrutiny would have.

Their garments mirrored her own in the form of flowing fabrics, deep slits, and fitted bodices. However, theirs were spun from materials far finer with silks that caught the torchlight and embroidery threaded with gemstones so small and numerous they resembled starlight.

Neither woman spoke. Neither needed to.

The silence that stretched was deep enough to slice through one’s skin. She noticed how all eyes were fixed on her, but none dared move. Only when they stood before the dais did one of the servants step forward.

He was tall and bare-chested with skin marked with sigils. A thin veil of fabric hung from his waist, and nothing else concealed the marks of devotion burned into him as his eyes remained fixed reverently ahead.

Lucrezia found her heart racing for unknown reasons when he opened his mouth to speak.

"You stand before He Who Has No Name and Requires None. Twelfth Sovereign of Blackvale. Keeper of the Crypts. Witness to the First War. The Unquenchable Flame. Ruler of Bone, Scale, Ash, and Oath. Bearer of the Last Covenant. He Who Outlasted Gods and Buried Kings. The Throne That Does Not Yield..." The servant intoned and a pause followed, long enough for the weight of the title to settle, and Lucrezia swallowed.

The title dragged on for close to a minute, until the very end. From the corner of her eyes, she found him still fixed in his position. He didn’t move or attempt to bow in respect. For a moment, Lucrezia was caught in between curtsying or remaining standing, awaiting—perhaps a sign of any sort.

She forced herself not to look up too quickly, every instinct warning her that reverence here was not optional.

The Nameless King chuckled softly. "Oh, do stop," he said lazily, waving a jeweled hand. "You make me sound exhausting. It’ll bore my guests,"

The servant bowed and stepped back into place without another word.

Lucrezia allowed herself a glimpse of his face. It was broad and heavy, cheeks sagging, eyes small and sharp beneath folds of skin. Rings glimmered on nearly every finger, some set with gemstones that seemed to pulse faintly, and others carved with symbols she instinctively knew better than to study for too long.

Finally, he moved, leaning forward slightly. "Lord Vaeron," he called with a voice rich and slow, like oil poured over stone as his lips curved into a sly smile. Those eyes were bright with amusement when it fell on her figure as he added, "... and his beautiful bride," he intoned with a voice that made her stomach churn. "I’ve been expecting you,"