Auctioned by the Gods: Rebirth of the Harem Emperor

Miraye's invitation arrived before dawn on the second day.A demon courier — more shadow than flesh, eyes glowing like dying coals — appeared outside their chambers, bowing low enough its horns scraped the marble.

"Her Majesty bids you join her banquet hall at the Hour of Emberfall. She has prepared... amusements. For your pleasure."

Lyra stepped forward before Ren could answer. Her hand flared with pale fire, forcing the demon back several steps. "Tell your queen we will attend. But we are not here to dance at her feet."

The creature only grinned, thin lips peeling back to reveal teeth like cracked glass. "We shall see, little goddess." Then it vanished, dissolving into dark motes that scattered across the floor.

Ren let out a low whistle. "Your temper's getting sharper."

"She means to break you by drawing out every jealous spark inside me," Lyra spat. "It's the oldest demon trick. Make me fear losing you, watch me claw myself apart."

He stepped close, tilting her chin up until her furious eyes met his. "Then don't claw. Cling."

Her breath stuttered. Then she surged up to kiss him, hands tangling in his hair. It wasn't sweet — it was fierce, almost punishing. When they broke apart, she was breathing hard, cheeks flushed.

"Cling, then," she growled. "But I swear to all gods, if she tries to put her hands on you, I will tear this palace down."

They arrived at the grand banquet just past the Hour of Emberfall.It was a vast, vaulted hall carved into the heart of a hollow mountain, molten rivers flowing in veined patterns through the floor. Demons lounged on sprawling cushions, draped over each other in obscene displays, trays of dripping fruits and bleeding meats circulating on the backs of silent, collared servants.

Miraye sat at the head of a long onyx table. She wore a gown of red so dark it was almost black, clinging to her curves like a lover's grasp. Tiny chains looped across her hips and collarbone, drawing the eye to every soft, inviting swell of flesh.

When Ren and Lyra entered, her smile bloomed slow and wide. "Ah. My beautiful complications. Come — sit by me."

Lyra bristled immediately. "We'll sit where we please."

Miraye only laughed. "As you wish. The seats nearest are still quite… accommodating."

A pair of high-backed chairs stood to her right, padded in dark velvet, subtle runes glowing along the arms. Ren guided Lyra toward them, feeling the faint throb of old magic pulse through the wood as he sat.

Food arrived in endless waves — platters of iridescent berries that burst on the tongue like sugared wine, tiny pastries that oozed molten nectar, cuts of roasted beasts Ren couldn't begin to name. When Lyra reached for a simple fruit, a servant offered it on a blade-thin dagger, its point hovering at her lips.

She paused. Then slowly — defiantly — took the fruit straight from the dagger's edge, lips brushing metal. Her eyes never left Miraye's. Juice ran down her chin, bright as blood.

Ren reached over, thumb sweeping the line of it away before bringing it to his own mouth. The dark delight that flashed across Miraye's face was unmistakable.

Music began — slow, throbbing, threaded with odd minor chords that made Ren's heart feel like it stumbled in his chest. Dancers emerged from the shadows: long-limbed, eyes blindfolded with silken bands, bodies moving in sinuous rolls that bordered on indecent. They twined around each other, hands caressing, mouths brushing throats and collarbones.

Lyra stiffened beside him, hand curling into his thigh. "This is obscene."

"It's bait," Ren muttered. But his own body betrayed him, heat stirring low at the way the dancers touched — the slick slide of skin on skin, the soft sighs that drifted through the hall.

Miraye's voice purred across the table. "Is it wrong to celebrate desire? Even gods are born of coupling, are they not?"

One of the dancers broke away, slinking across the floor toward them. A lithe demoness, skin glistening with faint scales, long curling horns decked in silver. She sank to her knees at Ren's feet, hands sliding up his calves.

Lyra's power flared so bright the table rattled. "Don't you dare."

The demoness paused, eyes wide — then looked to Miraye. The queen merely inclined her head. Obedient, the dancer withdrew, bowing until her forehead brushed the floor before slinking back to the performance.

Miraye laughed softly. "You see? Even my pleasures bow to you. Perhaps you are worth more than rumor suggested."

"Or perhaps your little theater is less tempting than you hoped," Ren shot back.

Her eyes glittered, hungry. "We shall see."

As the feast wore on, Miraye shifted tactics. She spoke of politics, of realms beyond mortal stars. Of underworld markets where entire cities were gambled away on a single breath. Her voice was a spell — warm, wrapping, thick with promise.

"You could have all of it, Ren Zian. Power beyond any throne the gods ever offered. A court of your own, ruled side by side with me. No more threats. No more fear that someone will tear your goddess from your arms. Because here, I am fear."

Ren let the silence stretch. Then he leaned back, one arm draping over Lyra's shoulders, fingers sliding into her hair. He tugged lightly, just enough to tilt her head so he could press a slow, claiming kiss to her mouth. When he pulled away, his thumb swept her bottom lip.

"I already rule beside a goddess. And her court is wherever we stand together."

The hall fell quiet. Even the dancers paused, breaths hitching. Miraye's nails bit into her goblet so hard cracks formed along its rim.

"You risk much with your insolence," she said softly. Too softly.

Ren only smiled, dark and easy. "So do you, every time you think to test us."

The music resumed, harsher now, almost violent. Servants brought out new decanters of wine that smoked faintly at the lip. Miraye didn't touch hers, only watched with eyes that burned hotter than any torch.

Lyra leaned in, voice a shaken whisper. "She's losing her composure. You're under her skin."

Ren's grin was sharp. "Then tomorrow, we push harder."

When at last they left the banquet, the halls seemed to close in around them — shadows following like curious hounds. Lyra didn't speak until they were behind their chamber doors. Then she pushed him back against them, hands sliding under his tunic, her mouth hot and urgent against his.

"You let them all see how I claim you," she breathed. Her teeth grazed his jaw, sharp enough to sting. "Now let them hear."

Ren's chuckle was dark. He spun her, pressing her back to the door, lifting her easily until her legs wrapped around his waist. "As my lady commands."

Their coupling was not gentle. It was a clash of need sharpened by jealousy and triumph — her moans ringing off the walls, nails raking his back. Each time he drove into her, it felt like a vow being carved into both their skins: no demon, no court, no queen would ever come between this.

Outside, in her private sanctum, Miraye paced. Her goblet lay shattered at her feet, dark liquid soaking into the ancient stone.She pressed her palm to her own stomach, feeling something low and restless twist there — a raw hunger that was nothing like her usual, languid amusements.

"This mortal will break or burn," she whispered. "And either way… he will be magnificent to watch."