Auctioned by the Gods: Rebirth of the Harem Emperor

Miraye's promise — three days of hospitality — sounded almost benign when spoken from her smiling mouth. But once Ren and Lyra began to explore the palace, the shape of that "hospitality" revealed itself in small, unsettling cruelties.

Demon courtiers roamed the endless obsidian halls, draped in fabrics that moved like living shadows. Some carried delicate cages of faintly glowing things that sobbed in voices almost human. Others reclined on piles of furs while silver-blooded servants knelt at their feet, hands trembling.

Everywhere they went, whispers followed. Some bold enough to drift close, eyes glinting with hunger or malice. More than once, Lyra's hand flared with soft lunar light, sending lesser demons skittering back into alcoves.

By the second hour, Lyra's patience wore thin. She halted in a grand corridor lined with windows of smoked glass. Her expression was stormy, the faint halo of her power crackling around her shoulders.

"They're playing games. Watching how we react. How far they can push before we snap."

Ren's mouth curved into a dark smile. "Good. Let them test. The more they see we can't be baited by little horrors, the more unsettled they'll grow. And unsettled courtiers whisper."

Lyra's lips pursed. She didn't argue, but she looped her arm through his more tightly, her thumb rubbing small, nervous circles against the inside of his wrist.

They walked on. A grand set of doors soon loomed ahead — twisted iron sculpted to resemble writhing bodies, their faces frozen in ecstasy or agony. Two massive demon guards flanked the entrance, spears of black crystal crossed.

Without a word, they stepped aside. The doors swung open on a slow, aching groan.

Inside was a ballroom — if it could be called that.Long tables overflowed with strange delicacies: fruits that bled when bitten, cuts of meat that twitched faintly as if dreaming, goblets of dark liquid that smoked in the air. At the center, a sunken floor held a pool of molten glass, courtiers lounging at its edge as if it were mere water.

Miraye reclined on a raised chaise draped in red silks. Her posture was languid, but her eyes snapped open the instant Ren and Lyra crossed the threshold. Her slow smile was like a dagger sliding between ribs.

"Ah, my honored guests. Come — eat. Drink. Or simply let us look upon you. Your story has become the most delectable feast of all."

Lyra stiffened, but Ren only led her forward, head held high. They did not bow. Did not hesitate. Instead they seated themselves at the nearest table, ignoring the faint hisses of scandal from surrounding demons.

Servants appeared immediately — thin, pale things with delicate collars, pouring glistening liquids into crystal cups. One tried to place a bowl of heart-shaped fruits before Ren. Lyra's hand shot out, catching the servant's wrist. Her voice was low, lethal.

"He does not eat your mistress's temptations."

The servant flinched back. Eyes wide, she nearly dropped the bowl in her haste to retreat.

Miraye laughed. The sound was warm, delighted. "You guard him well, little bloom. How many nights have you spent by his side, whispering vows? Enough to believe mortal love will save him from me?"

Lyra didn't answer. Instead she shifted closer to Ren, pressing her thigh against his under the table. Her fingers found his, gripping tightly.

Ren smirked. "Seems you're the only one hoping it won't."

For a heartbeat, Miraye's gaze sharpened. Something ancient and unsettling swam behind her pupils — a flicker of darker hunger than any sultry smile could hide. Then she rose, gliding down from her chaise.

The crowd parted. Even the more monstrous courtiers drew back as she passed, bowing low.

She circled the table slowly, each step deliberate. Her silks barely whispered over the marble, yet the tension coiled tighter with every inch she closed.

"You stand so sure, Ren Zian," she murmured, trailing a claw lightly over the back of his chair. "So certain your love anchors you. But love can be fragile. It bruises easily. And jealousy…" Her eyes flicked to Lyra, lips curling. "… jealousy is such a delightful poison."

Then she was gone, slipping deeper into the crowd. Conversations resumed in nervous trickles. Music — haunting strains played on long-necked instruments — rose again.

Lyra exhaled shakily. Her hand trembled in his. "She's trying to unravel us."

"She'll fail," Ren said. But he slid his hand up to cup her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You hear me? She'll fail. Because you and I are stronger than a thousand whispers."

Lyra closed her eyes. When they opened again, they were wet but blazing. She leaned in, kissing him fiercely, uncaring who watched.

It was only after she pulled back, cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen, that Ren noticed half the hall had fallen silent. Dozens of demon eyes watched them with hungry curiosity — as if seeing something far more exotic than any delicacy on the tables.

Miraye watched too, from across the room. Her head tilted, fingers tapping her lips. Not angry. Intrigued. Almost… pleased.

Hours passed in that strange court. Servants brought more trays they didn't touch. Courtiers drifted close, only to recoil from Lyra's simmering aura or Ren's cold stare. A game began — some demons daring to inch as close as possible, only to flinch back when Ren growled low in his chest or Lyra's light flared.

Miraye did not intervene. She only watched, like a spider admiring prey caught in her web — testing if it would still struggle or simply accept its fate.

At last, as if bored, she rose again. Her voice drifted across the hall, sultry and casual. "Perhaps tomorrow we'll hold contests. A display of might and charm. See how your mortal stands against temptations my court can conjure."

Lyra tensed so hard her fingers dug into Ren's leg. But he didn't flinch. He only smiled — slow, dark, dangerous.

"Hold all the contests you want, Miraye," he called back. "I've already won the only prize in this hall that matters."

The chamber rippled with soft gasps. Even Miraye stilled, eyes narrowing, a faint line appearing between her brows.

Lyra let out a tiny sound that was half laugh, half sob. Then she kissed him again — slow, lush, full of heat that made more than one nearby demon avert their eyes.

When they were finally shown to their private rooms — still decadent, still crawling with subtle magics — Lyra didn't speak. She simply pushed him back onto the massive bed, crawling into his lap with a look that was all wild, possessive goddess.

"Mine," she whispered against his throat, each word punctuated by a sharp nip of her teeth.

"Always."

They didn't bother being quiet. Let Miraye's spies listen. Let the entire palace hear the soft cries Lyra made when Ren's hands gripped her hips, when his mouth found all the tender places that made her writhe.

Later, breathless, she lay tangled over him, cheek against his shoulder. Her voice was small. "She's going to try harder tomorrow. Twist her games until she finds a crack."

"Then we'll show her we don't break." His fingers traced idle patterns over her back. "If anything, every threat just makes us hold tighter."

Outside, the underworld city pulsed with distant flames and laughter that sounded far too sharp. But inside that bed, for a few stolen hours, there was only the soft tangle of their limbs, the fading echoes of Lyra's moans, and Ren's silent vow that no demon queen — no matter how ancient or cunning — would ever carve him away from what he loved most.