The iron chains binding Damien's wrists were gone.
Yet, the weight pressing down on him was far heavier than steel.
He sat on the **Throne of Obsidian**, its cold, jagged surface pulsing with dark magic that felt as though it were testing him—measuring his worth. The moment he had seized power, he could feel it coursing through him, an ancient force demanding to be wielded.
The grand hall of the **Black Citadel** stretched before him, its towering stone pillars bathed in the flickering glow of braziers. Before him knelt the kingdom's most powerful figures—the nobles, generals, and sorcerers who had once plotted his downfall.
Now, they trembled before him.
Damien's cold blue eyes swept across the gathered court. The once-mighty **Grand Council** had been reduced to cowards. They had expected a **villain's downfall**, a final act where the condemned king would be executed, his throne taken by the so-called hero.
Instead, Damien had rewritten fate.
*"No one will take this throne from me."*
The thought settled deep within him as he leaned forward, his white hair catching the torchlight, his aura washing over the court like an unseen storm. It was a power they could not resist—one that made them **fear** him, yet **admire** him in equal measure.
Silence reigned.
Then, a single voice shattered it.
**"We must establish order, my lord."**
Lady **Seraphina Ashbourne** rose from her kneeled position, her violet eyes locked onto his. The **Duchess of Blackthorn**, renowned for her cold cunning and ruthless ambition, stood tall despite the trembling in her fingers.
She was stunning.
Dark, cascading curls framed her porcelain face, and her figure—wrapped in an exquisite midnight gown—was the picture of noble perfection. A woman who had ruled with an iron will, used to **commanding lesser men**.
But Damien was no lesser man.
Seraphina had been one of the key players behind the council's attempt to **remove** him. Not because she had been loyal to the previous ruler, but because she had calculated **that Damien would fall**.
She had **gambled**.
And she had lost.
Damien's lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. **"Order?"** he mused, his voice smooth, edged with amusement.
Seraphina hesitated for the briefest moment, but she did not back down. **"The kingdom is on the brink of war. The hero will come. The people fear you. If you are to rule, you must give them a reason to follow you—not just to fear you."**
The words were bold. Calculated.
Yet, Damien could see the truth beneath them.
Fear was a powerful tool. But **devotion**… **desire**… those were even greater weapons.
He stood.
The tension in the hall thickened as he descended the steps of the throne, his presence suffocating yet irresistible. Each step was measured, slow, deliberate.
Seraphina did not move.
But when Damien finally stood before her, looking down at her with those piercing blue eyes, he saw it—
**The crack in her resolve.**
She **hated** how his presence unsettled her.
She **hated** how her body reacted to him before her mind could catch up.
He reached out, trailing a gloved finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. **"And tell me, Duchess…"** his voice was a near whisper, silk laced with steel, **"would you follow me?"**
A shiver ran through her. He felt it.
For a woman like Seraphina, submission was **not** something freely given. She was used to controlling men, manipulating them with carefully placed words, with fleeting glances and icy smiles.
But Damien… Damien did not **ask** for power. He simply **took it**.
Her lips parted.
She didn't answer.
Not yet.
Instead, she **lowered her gaze**, her long lashes hiding the war within her. A battle between logic and something far more dangerous.
Desire.
The court held its breath.
And Damien knew then—**it had begun.**
The fall of the old order.
The rise of his reign.
And the first piece of his **conquest**.