Chapter 33 A Lesson in Kingship
Dante clears his throat.
It is a small sound civilized, almost courteous but it cuts through the hall sharper than steel. Conversation dies mid-breath. Even the crackle of torches seems to falter, as though the fire itself senses it should remain still.
I am still seated on his lap, my back pressed to his chest, the weight of the Western crown heavy on my head.
His arm rests loosely around my waist, possessive without being overt.
From where I sit, I can feel the slow, controlled rise of his breathing measured, deliberate. Not anger out of control.
Anger contained.
He looks out over the court like a man surveying a battlefield he already owns.
"So," Dante says calmly, his voice carrying without effort, "someone explain something to me."
No one speaks.
Eyes dart. Nobles stiffen. Some lower their gazes. Others freeze entirely, as if motion itself might be interpreted as defiance.
"I was informed," he continues, tilting his head slightly, "that my queen is incapable of ruling a single kingdom on her own."
A murmur ripples through the hall nervous, uncertain.
Dante's fingers tighten briefly at my waist.
"And yet," he adds, voice darkening, "she is now ruling an empire."
The contradiction hangs in the air, sharp and undeniable.
He shifts his gaze slow, deliberate until it lands on one man.
Alexander's father.he points at him using his sword
"Step forward," Dante says.
The command is simple.
The man hesitates.
Just a fraction of a second too long.
Dante smiles.
Not warmly. Not cruelly.
Predatorily.
The duke steps forward.
Dante inclines his head slightly, mockingly polite. "Tell me," he says, voice smooth as glass, "how many wars have you fought?"
He straightens, drawing himself up with what dignity he can muster. "I have commanded—"
"How many did you bleed in?" Dante interrupts, the edge in his voice now unmistakable.
The duke swallows. "I—"
"How many battles?" Dante presses.
"I have served—"
Dante cuts him off again, sharper this time. "How many times did you stand in the mud while arrows fell? How many men did you bury with your own hands?"
Silence.
Dante exhales slowly through his nose, almost disappointed.
He turns his head slightly, addressing the room rather than the duke.
"My queen," he says, "has fought at Ashen Ford."
Gasps ripple through the nobles.
"She stood at Blackwater Ridge," he continues, "while the siege towers burned."
More murmurs.
"She negotiated peace in the Marsh Campaign while the ground was still soaked in blood."
I feel his chest rise behind me as his voice lowers.
"She bled. She buried soldiers who were not her own. She prayed over dying men who would have gladly watched her die if ordered."
His gaze snaps back to the duke.
"And you," Dante says softly, "lecture her about rule."
The duke's face flushes red. "This—this is outrageous—"
Dante's smile widens.
"Since you are a man," he says calmly, "and a king in your own right, I will grant you an opportunity."
The hall leans inward, breath collectively held.
"Install fear into her," Dante says. "Show her how a true king behave "
A shudder moves through the crowd.
The duke bristles. "You cannot simply just claim a queen—"
Dante moves.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
Deliberately.
He shifts me from his lap.
The motion is careful, almost reverent. He sets me back upon the throne, ensuring I am steady upright alone.
I remain seated.
The crown remains on my head.
Dante descends the steps.
Each footfall echoes like a countdown to something irreversible.
He stops directly in front of the duke.
"Explain to me," Dante says quietly, "why I cannot simply claim her as my queen."
The duke lifts his chin, clinging to pride like a drowning man to driftwood.
"Because," he says loudly, "she is already betrothed to my son."
A collective gasp tears through the hall.
"You have no authority here," the duke continues, emboldened by his own desperation. "This is her kingdom, not yours. You cannot—"
He points at Dante.
"You have no right."
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then—
Steel flashes.
Dante draws his sword in one smooth, horrifying motion and drives it straight through the duke's chest.
The blade pierces his heart.
The sound is wet.
Final.
The duke's eyes widen, mouth opening in a soundless gasp as Dante leans in pushing the blade deeper.
"My decree was clear," Dante says calmly. "Any who contest my claim upon my queen will be addressed as an enemy of the West."
He twists the blade.
"And," he adds softly, "no enemy of the West survives."
He withdraws the sword.
The body collapses at his feet, blood pooling across marble that has never known mercy.
The hall is silent.
No screams.
No protests.
Only the metallic scent of death.
Dante turns slowly, surveying the room—his blade dripping red, his expression utterly devoid of remorse.
"Let this be understood," he says evenly. "I do not ask permission."
His gaze flicks to Alexander long enough to promise something unspeakable.
Then back to the nobles.
"I do not negotiate with arrogance," Dante continues. "And I do not tolerate men who mistake gender for weakness."
He looks up at me then.
Just for a moment.
Something in his expression softens not enough for anyone else to see, but enough that I feel it.
Then he turns back to the hall.
"My queen is not yours to question," he declares. "She is not yours to judge. She is not yours to correct."
The soldiers tighten their grip on their weapons.
"She rules because she can," Dante finishes. "And she reigns because I will burn the world before I allow anyone to take her from this throne."
He wipes his blade clean on the fallen man's cloak.
"Remove him," he says, voice level, as though ordering a chair moved from his path.
His guards obey instantly.
Two men step forward, grip Alexander's father by the arms, and drag him across the marble.
The sound is awful fabric scraping, bone knocking, blood smearing into dark, widening streaks.
No one looks away fast enough. The stain remains long after the corpse is hauled through the side doors and swallowed by silence.
I scan the hall, my breath shallow.
Alexander is gone.
The space where he stood is empty . Like a tooth torn from a jaw.
Dante notices my stillness.
His gaze sweeps the room once, sharp and calculating. He registers everything the trembling nobles, the pale servants, the musicians frozen mid-note like statues carved from fear.
Then he turns toward the dais where the musicians stand.
"Well?" he says mildly. "This is a celebration."
No one moves.
He arches a brow.
"A birthday," he adds. "Play"
His eyes flick to the musicians. "Play."
They scramble.
Strings scream to life first—too fast, too loud—then correct themselves as the rhythm finds its footing. Drums follow, cautious at first, then stronger. Music floods the hall like a tide forced in through broken gates.
Dante turns to the servants.
"And," he says, voice carrying easily over the music, "serve the food. Pour the wine. If anyone spills a drop, they clean it and pour again."
They bow so deeply it looks painful.
Carefully so carefully they move. Trays appear. Goblets are filled. Plates are set down with trembling hands. No one runs. No one rushes. Fear has made them precise.
The hall breathes again.
Then Dante steps beneath the throne.
He reaches up.
For me.
His hand closes around mine, warm, unyielding. Before I can speak, before I can think, he pulls me down from the dais.
Gasps ripple through the room as my feet touch the marble.
"Come," he says simply.
He leads me past the dark stain spreading across the floor, past the place where a body lay moments ago straight to the center of the ballroom.
To the dance floor.
Where blood still glistens.
Where the marble is slick beneath my shoes.
The music swells as if sensing the moment.
Dante turns to face me, one hand settling at my waist, the other lifting my arm.
"Happy birthday," he murmurs.
My gown fans outward, its skirts sweeping through the blood. The fabric darkens, soaking it up, red blooming against silk like flowers opening in fast-forward. As he twirls me, droplets fling into the air tiny crimson arcs that catch the light of the chandeliers before falling like rain.
Around us, nobles stand frozen, wine forgotten in their hands.
The scent of iron mixes with perfume.
The music grows bolder.
Dante's grip is steady, his movements effortless, leading me as if this is the most natural thing in the world to dance where a man died, to celebrate power with blood still warm beneath our feet.
He dips me low.
For a heartbeat, I see the ceiling gold, light, spinning.
Then he pulls me back upright, close enough that I feel the vibration of his breath against my ear.
"So how did i do," he whispers.
He turns me again.
My skirt snaps through the air, sending more red droplets outward. A noblewoman flinches as one lands on her sleeve. A lord swallows hard, eyes fixed on us as if watching a myth being born in real time.