Chapter 62: You Would Be My Wife
That night, King Vance of Dulthmune — a man in his mid-thirties, sharp-featured, arrogant, his brown hair slicked back — lounged in his oversized velvet bed. Two blonde women flanked him, their voices thick with sweet, practiced praise as their fingers traced idle lines across his chest. Vance smirked, tossing out grand promises of riches, titles, and land he had no intention of ever honoring.
Feeling the urge to relieve himself, he stretched, slid out from under the sheets, and wandered lazily toward the adjoining bathroom.
He finished, turned back toward the bedroom — and froze mid-step.
Niel leaned against the stone doorway, wearing his demon face, though the unnervingly bright smile beneath it was unmistakable regardless.
"Long time no see, Vance," Niel murmured.
Vance’s mouth opened, throat tightening around a scream for the guard. Before a single sound escaped, Niel raised a hand and snapped his fingers, triggering Spatial Compaction.
The air around Vance folded inward with terrifying speed. His eyes went wide with mute horror as the space around his body crushed inward violently, bone, flesh, and armor compressing into an infinitely small point. In under a second, the King of Dulthmune had been reduced to a single, dense droplet of blood, splashing harmlessly against the cold tile.
Niel brushed his hands together, stepped through the doorway, and let his form shift. His frame narrowed, hair shortening into slicked-back brown, features settling into a flawless copy of King Vance.
He walked back into the bedchamber. The two women sat up, offering him identical seductive smiles.
"Both of you," Niel said, his voice landing in the exact pitch and cadence of the dead king. "Out. Now."
They blinked at the sudden chill in his tone, then scrambled from the bed, gathering silk robes and hurrying out without daring to question him.
Once they’d gone, Niel crossed to the heavy oak door and summoned the royal advisor. A man in his mid-forties, thinning hair, small spectacles — Alistair — entered quickly, bowing deep.
"Your Majesty? Something wrong?" he asked, eyes lowered.
"Summon every blonde woman in Dulthmune you can find," Niel ordered, leaning against the bedpost, calm. "Grand hall, tomorrow morning. I intend to choose a bride."
Alistair’s head snapped up, shock plain on his face. "Your Majesty — a bride? You’ve turned down the council’s push for marriage for years. What’s changed so suddenly?"
Niel’s eyes narrowed into a cold, flat stare. "Are you questioning me, Alistair?"
Cold sweat broke along the advisor’s neck. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the rug. "Forgive me, Your Majesty! I spoke out of turn — it will be done immediately!"
"Good. Dismissed."
Alistair backed out, trembling, and pulled the doors shut tight behind him.
Niel crossed to the grand stained-glass window, looking out over the sprawling, sleeping kingdom below. Pale moonlight washed across his borrowed face as he folded his arms behind his back.
"The hero plays his part in Warstone," he murmured to the night, smile curling back into place in the dark. "Now, the Sinners shall carve out a home in Dulthmune."
He rested a hand against the cool glass. "Let’s begin."
---
The next morning, sunlight had barely crested the eastern hills when Alistair marched into the capital district flanked by two dozen heavily armored royal guards. Armed with official decree, they swept through streets, inns, and markets, gathering every young blonde woman they crossed.
Near the lower merchant district, guards approached two figures standing by a small fountain. One was a striking young woman with long blonde hair, wrapped in a simple cloak; beside her stood a tall, heavily built man with dark hair, looking distinctly uncomfortable out in the open daylight.
A guard stepped forward, spear angled to block their path. "You there. Maiden — you’re summoned to the grand palace by order of King Vance."
Lydia blinked rapidly and took a timid step back. Draken immediately stepped in front of her, eyes downcast, voice pitched into something weak and frantic.
"P-please, sir!" Draken stammered, bowing low. "We mean no trouble — just simple siblings from a border village, only arrived in Dulthmune yesterday! I’m Eli, and this is my sister, Lya!"
Alistair approached, tapping his cane as he inspected them, eyes moving from Lydia’s hair to Draken’s trembling shoulders. "Unmarried?"
"S-she is, my lord, but she’s delicate! Please, don’t take her from me!" Draken pleaded, squeezing his eyes shut as though terrified of the drawn blades around them.
Alistair scoffed at the display. "She won’t be harmed, fool. The King is choosing a bride. Every eligible blonde maiden is required in the grand hall. If you’re that desperate to stay near her, come along — you can wait in the rear galleries."
"Thank you, my lord! Thank you!" Draken bowed repeatedly, gripping Lydia’s arm as they were folded into the marching line of women.
Lydia shot him a barely perceptible sideways glance beneath her lowered head — a silent warning not to overplay the act any further.
Within two hours, the grand hall of Dulthmune Castle stood packed. Over fifty blonde women lined the marble floor in neat rows, whispering nervously among themselves, ringed by fully armed knights. Family members and guardians, Draken included, waited under close guard toward the back.
The heavy doors atop the dais swung open.
Niel, dressed fully in King Vance’s golden robes and face, stepped into the room, his stride smooth and arrogant as he climbed the throne and sat, one leg crossed over the other. The hall fell utterly silent, every woman’s head bowing at once.
Alistair stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Behold His Majesty, King Vance! Ladies of Dulthmune, you have been gathered here today for an unprecedented honor!"
Niel raised one hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. Alistair’s mouth snapped shut, and he bowed himself out of the way.
Niel rose from the throne and descended the carpeted stairs, boots echoing softly against the marble. He moved slowly through the rows, gaze sweeping left and right with detached, evaluating precision, passing trembling noble daughters, frightened commoners, and nervous travelers without lingering more than a second on any of them.
He passed Lydia on his first sweep through the third row, his eyes barely grazing her before continuing toward the far side of the hall.
Lydia kept her head bowed, playing the frightened commoner convincingly enough, though her fingers twitched slightly beneath her sleeves.
Niel reached the end of the aisle, turned, and started back toward the dais. As he passed the third row again, he stopped dead beside her.
The silence stretched thin across the hall. Guards tensed at their posts, and Alistair leaned forward from the dais, holding his breath.
Niel turned fully to face her, reaching out to tip her chin upward with two fingers until her blue eyes met his borrowed brown ones. He studied her for a long, quiet moment, something knowing flickering through his gaze — something only she would recognize.
He lowered his hand, turned toward the hall, and announced, voice clear and absolute:
"You. You will be my wife."