Chapter 4- Bow to your High Lady

MAERWYNN POV

Silence crashed into the room like thunder. Even the air seemed to retreat, as if afraid to breathe too loudly.

“She is to be respected,” Valen said, his voice sharpening like steel drawn across whetstone. “And feared, if need be, just as you have always feared me. Speak ill of her, and you speak ill of me. Harm her, and you will learn what it means to be hunted by a High Lord.”

A few of the courtiers shifted uncomfortably.

Others bowed their heads again, slower this time.

I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I sat straight, eyes forward, hands resting calmly on the armrests like they’d always belonged there. Inside, my thoughts were spinning—but outside, I was still. Collected. Regal.

Let them look, I thought. Let them whisper.

Because I’d walked through blood and bone to sit here.

It wasn’t a coincidence. And it damn sure wasn’t a favor.

I’d almost died to be here.

I hadn’t bled and burned and clawed my way through war just to be handed a throne like a pretty trinket. This seat was earned. And if they wanted to question it, I would let them—but I wouldn't be the one to flinch.

“That is preposterous!” a man’s voice rang out from the crowd.

He stepped forward from the semicircle of courtiers, and I recognized him instantly. He’d been at Valen’s estate once—part of a group that had discussed my “usefulness” like I was a strategy, not a person. His name floated to the surface of my memory like something foul.

Malchor.

He moved to the center of the chamber, straight-backed, self-important, dressed in blood-red robes that shimmered with enchantments. His presence reeked of entitlement.

“She is a woman,” he began, his voice cutting through the room. “We are not ruled by women, nor do we fear them. Bonded with the Aether or not, her sitting on that throne is blasphemy!”

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the hall. Not everyone, but enough to feel it.

“We have no High Lady,” Malchor continued, spitting the title like it tasted wrong. “There has never been one. A High Lord’s mate is not a ruler. She is decoration, at best. Or distraction.” He sneered. “A whore in fine cloth. Which is she?”

Valen moved.

He didn’t rush or storm. He stepped down from the dais with deadly calm, his fists clenched at his sides. His jaw was tight. Too tight.

“Which do you think, Malchor?” he asked, voice dangerously low.

He stopped just a few paces in front of the man, clasping his hands behind his back. It made him look almost relaxed—but I knew better. That wasn’t control. That was fury on a leash.

“Tell me,” he said again, quieter. “Tell me what you think… brother.”

Brother?

Was that just a formal court term? Or something deeper?

Malchor hesitated. The room waited, breath held. He seemed to weigh his options like a man guessing the depth of a frozen lake before stepping out onto it.

Valen didn’t move. He didn’t blink. And that stillness was more terrifying than rage.

Malchor lifted his chin slowly. “All I know,” he said, “is that we have no High Lady.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Valen’s expression didn’t change. “Then say what she is.”

The demand was sharp now, each syllable biting.

Silence. And then:

“Your mate. Your whore. The one you bed—it’s all the same,” Malchor said with a shrug, like that was the end of it.

A quiet settled in the room. Not the stunned kind. The violent kind. The waiting-for-someone-to-die kind.

Valen smiled.

But it wasn’t the smile he gave me when I was wrapped in his arms, naked under the sheets. It wasn’t fond or amused or soft. It was a predator’s smile. The kind that promised pain before it delivered it.

He didn’t raise his voice.

“Then let’s make it clear,” he said, stepping closer until he and Malchor were nearly chest to chest. “This woman—this human you sneer at—has walked through death. Has bled for Lyria. Has faced beasts you hide behind your walls to avoid. And she still stood beside me.”

Valen leaned in. “She will not be called a whore in my court. Or a breeder”

Malchor opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to spit. I’ll never know. Because Valen moved.

His hand shot out and seized Malchor by the throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing. Gasps echoed around the room. No one stopped him. Dark tendrils cricled the outspoken Courtier.

I didn’t stop him. I wish I could do something to stop Valen but that would undermine his power in front of his Court.

Malchor choked, hands clawing at Valen’s wrist, feet kicking weakly.

“You don’t have to like her,” Valen said, eyes glowing now, as he tilts his head to the side, voice a storm barely restrained. “You don’t have to respect her. But you will fear her. As you fear me.”

Then he threw Malchor.

The man crashed to the floor at the base of the dais. No one moved to help him.

Valen turned to the room again, his voice calm now—but sharp as a blade sliding home.

“There is a High Lady now. And if anyone has a problem with that, I invite you to take it up with me. Or her. Whichever will be more painful.”

He climbed the steps back to me and took his place at my side. His hand brushed mine for a second—barely there. But it was enough.

Enough to remind me that I wasn’t alone.

I looked down at Malchor, groaning on the floor, his pride bruised worse than his body.

" Now bow to your High Lady, honourable and great Malchor of Stonebleed" Valen growls.

And he bowed. Silently this time.