Dragon King's Harem Chapter 463. Not a Cheer
Dragon King's Harem Chapter 463. Not a Cheer The walk back to the hall wasn’t long. But it felt long. The fires were dying down behind me, l
Dragon King's Harem Chapter 463. Not a Cheer
The walk back to the hall wasn’t long. But it felt long.
The fires were dying down behind me, leaving nothing but steam and footprints etched into the frozen earth. Every step forward scraped something deeper than just ice off my shoulders—grief, fatigue, heat that wasn’t fire.
My legs moved on instinct, muscle memory dragging me toward the throne hall, past ruined banners, splintered archways, and lingering blood trails that no one had cleaned up yet.
Victory never looked neat. Never felt light.
I pushed the heavy doors open, and the cold changed. It shifted from battlefield frost to the chill of marble and formality. The altar stood ahead, still decorated in ceremonial white and glimmering ice crystals that had lost their meaning. The place where a wedding was supposed to happen.
Now it just looked like the aftermath of a broken promise.
I didn’t say much when I stepped in—just enough. Voice rough but strong.
“The Duke is dead,” I said. “We’ve won.”
The words carried through the hall like it didn’t know where to land.
Not a cheer. Not even a breath of relief.
Just that silence again. The kind that wraps around my ribs and squeezes until I forget how to breathe.
But they needed to hear it.
Sela… my soldiers… they’d understand. They had heard my roar. If they hadn’t run into trouble with any remaining loyalists, they’d be on their way back already. Escorting Kaelen. Protecting the prince.
If something had happened, I trusted they’d send a message.
Still. A part of me twisted. Call it instinct. Or paranoia.
I’d spilled too much blood today to start assuming the rest would be easy.
I kept walking, my boots clicking over the polished floor to my previous seat—familiar in shape, but the weight…
It was heavier now.
I felt it deep in my spine—this strange tension that whispered I didn’t belong here anymore.
Not after everything I’d done.
Like the stone itself was asking, ‘Are you sure you should be standing here?’
Some of the foreign delegates had vanished.
I could guess why.
Maybe they were afraid. Maybe they didn’t want to get involved. Or maybe they didn’t want to witness what would happen next.
But one hadn’t moved at all.
Callum.
Still lounging in his chair like it was his private box seat in a coliseum. A goblet of crimson wine rested in his pale hand, untouched but catching the light like liquid rubies. His assistants stood just behind him, still. Eyes unreadable. Faces carved from calm.
And Al?
Al was still in his witch form.
Tall. Gaunt. Cloaked in a dark mist that curled around his limbs like a breathing shadow. His claws twitched just slightly at his sides. Not out of lack of control—but barely restrained instinct.
His eyes were locked on Callum.
Unblinking. Glowing softly in that witchlight hue.
Jyne spotted me first. She stood near our assigned seats and smiled with a breath of warmth I hadn’t realized I needed.
“Your Majesty,” she said like she was proud.
I gave a small nod, didn’t break stride.
But I did stop.
Right next to them.
Callum didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to. The man had nerves made of some otherworldly alloy, like even death couldn't convince him to blink first.
I turned my head slightly and glanced toward Al.
He still hadn’t moved.
“Al,” I said, voice level. “You can relax now.”
No answer.
His claws curled just a little tighter.
I narrowed my eyes. “Al.”
Still nothing.
Then—Tsk!
A soft sound of frustration. Not magic. Not a threat.
Just Al’s tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he exhaled sharply through his teeth. A second later, the shadows peeled away from him like dark cloth slipping off a mannequin.
He shifted back to his humanoid form.
Still cold. But smaller. Quieter. Cloaked. And yet…
His eyes never left Callum.
Not even for a second.
Callum tilted his head and smiled, faint but smooth. His voice came casual, polished. “Your assistant surely has a grudge on me.”
I didn’t smile. “He just did it due to security.”
“Ah,” Callum said, raising his wine slightly. “Then allow me to assure you—had I intended to interfere, you’d know by now.”
That made Al’s jaw tighten.
I stepped forward once more and put myself subtly between the two.
“That’s comforting,” I said flatly.
“Isn’t it?” Callum sipped. Finally. “A shame, though. That duke had spirit. And a tragic end… ah, but perhaps fitting. Don’t you think?”
I didn’t rise to the bait.
I knew better.
This wasn’t someone who needed to be drawn into conflict. Not here. Not yet.
This was a man who’d survived too many wars and made it look easy. A man who knew how to smile through tension, drink through betrayal, and twist a room just by sitting in it.
But Al?
Al was different.
He didn’t just see a rival. He saw a ghost.
Callum wasn’t just the Witch King—he was part of the same bloodline. The same tribe. The same twisted legacy. And Al…
Al still carried the scars of it.
Al didn’t say a word.
That was a grudge.
And maybe… a little fear.
Because if the witch tribe’s bloodlines truly ran parallel—if Callum wasn’t the only one in that cursed royal branch—then Al had potential. Maybe even equal power.
He leaned closer to me now, quiet, cold.
“Let me kill him,” he murmured near my shoulder, low enough that no one else could hear.
I kept my voice neutral. “No.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“I know.”
Al stepped back, not satisfied, but obedient—for now.
Callum smirked, like he knew exactly what was said.
He leaned back into his seat with a sigh of amusement. “The politics of loyalty and silence… truly the best kind of drama.”
I turned away from him, finally, and looked toward Jyne.
Her eyes met mine like she’d been holding her breath since I walked in.
“Did the message go through?” I asked quietly.
She nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. I sent the signal. Sela should be returning with Kaelen soon.”
“Any reports of resistance?”
“Not yet. But… she said if anything feels wrong, she’ll send the messenger.”