NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

The morning sun cast its golden fingers through the high windows of the council chamber, but the warmth it promised never reached the people gathered inside. The air was cold with tension, thick with whispers, heavy with eyes that dared not look too long at the man seated on the throne at the end of the hall.

Allen sat like he'd always belonged there—spine straight, legs spread comfortably, arms draped over the rests. He didn't wear armor, didn't need a crown. His presence was armor. His name, now muttered in half-fear and half-awe, had become its own sort of coronation.

Fina stood beside him on the left, Rinni to the right. Both dressed in regal simplicity—flowing fabric in midnight blue and ivory, subtle gold glints at their waists. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

And in the space between them all, the spectacle began.

The council elders had returned, as ordered. Jass, Doel, Fenlo, Lira, and Yoru—cloaked in self-importance and shame. The stain of their indulgence during the previous ordeal still clung to them, whether in the tremble of Lira's fingers or the way Fenlo couldn't quite meet Allen's eyes. They stood along the raised dais like ghosts, faces hollow, expressions trapped between resentment and resignation.

But it wasn't them the gathered nobility was staring at.

It was the women.

Calla, Mira, Niva, Tessa, and Brin stepped forward in red silk robes, just as Allen had instructed. The fabric shimmered like blood in sunlight, clinging softly to freshly washed skin, cut just low enough to show the ink each one bore across her chest, collarbone, or stomach. Permanent declarations. Permanent belonging.

They didn't walk with shame. They didn't crawl.

They stood—shoulders back, eyes ahead, each footstep a declaration louder than any accusation. These weren't broken maids. These were Allen's. And the crowd knew it.

A hush fell over the room as Soreya was led in last.

She was not in red.

She wore the same soiled tunic she'd been left in the night before. Her silver-blonde hair hung limp and unbrushed, her feet bare. A collar of simple iron hugged her throat. There was no ceremony. No grandeur.

She walked with eyes downcast, her once-arrogant posture now wilted, but not entirely shattered. She wasn't dragged. She walked of her own will.

Allen's voice broke the silence. "Soreya Rhelgar."

She dropped to her knees the moment he said her name.

The entire hall gasped—not in horror, but confusion. The matriarch of one of the empire's most powerful noble families, groveling like a stray before a throne.

Allen didn't rise. He didn't need to.

"Do you have something to say?" he asked.

Soreya nodded slowly. "Yes… my Lord." Her voice cracked over the title, but it was there. Genuine. "I… submit myself fully. I have committed crimes of pride. Cruelty. Deception. I enabled the abuse of my house's servants. I ignored the pain I caused. I stood by as my family treated living souls like livestock. I…"

She hesitated.

Allen waited.

"I enjoyed the power it gave me," she whispered, voice trembling. "I basked in it. Even when I knew it was wrong."

The nobles murmured. The Rhelgar attendants shifted uncomfortably. One of the younger sons looked like he might vomit.

"And now?" Allen asked.

"I wish to atone. Fully. Openly. I wish to be unmade—and rebuilt only by your will."

Gasps turned to shocked silence.

Allen stood, finally.

He stepped down from the dais, boots echoing like war drums. He walked to Soreya and circled her once—slowly, letting everyone see her kneeling beneath him, head bowed, body trembling.

Then he raised his voice—not to her, but to the entire room.

"You called them servants. But they were never that. They were slaves. Broken, used, and discarded for your amusement. You bred them like animals. Starved them of pleasure. Trained them to be thankful for punishment."

He gestured to the five robed women, who stood in a line now behind him.

"They have been remade. They have found sanctuary not in your silence, but in the truth. They bear my mark not as shame—but as liberation."

He turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep the crowd.

"Some of you think I've overstepped. That I've humiliated your class, sullied your traditions. But what I've done is expose you. There is rot beneath your silks. And I will not allow it to spread."

He looked back to Soreya.

"You are the symbol. You are the confession. And you will live as proof that your house now answers to something greater than itself."

Soreya raised her head.

"I accept."

Allen stepped closer—and unclasped the collar around her throat. It fell to the floor with a soft clang.

Then he reached for a thin red ribbon, tied it loosely around her neck, and stepped back.

"You are no longer Rhelgar," he said. "You are mine."

She bowed her head again, lips trembling. "Yes, my Lord."

Fina stepped forward then, a scroll in her hands. She unrolled it with grace and began to read: an official renouncement. Soreya relinquishing all title, land, and holdings not just to the empire—but directly to Allen. As overseer. As arbiter.

As master.

Allen turned back to the crowd one final time.

"Let this day mark a new order. One not defined by titles, but by truth. If you stand with me, you will be protected. Elevated. Purified."

He let the silence hang.

"And if you stand against me… I'll do worse than strip your name."

He didn't need to say what "worse" meant.

They'd all seen what he'd done to Soreya.

The nobles, one by one, bowed their heads.

Not to the council.

Not to the throne.

But to him.

And behind him, the five red-robed women smiled for the first time in years.

They had no chains now.

Only names that finally meant something.

The red ribbon around Soreya's neck fluttered as she stood. No longer trembling. No longer trying to retain scraps of dignity. Her back straightened, but not in defiance—this was the posture of a woman finally stripped of everything false. A figure emptied and waiting to be filled with a new purpose.

Allen extended a hand. She took it, softly, eyes never leaving his. The moment their fingers touched, the mood in the chamber shifted again—curiosity teetering into something else. A reluctant awe. Not a soul present could deny the symbolism of what they were witnessing.

The once-proud Lady Rhelgar stepped up beside Allen and stood quietly, obediently, a new accessory to his command. A conquered thing, yes—but more than that. A believer.

Behind them, Fina handed the renunciation scroll to one of the scribes, who bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the marble floor. The sound of the seal being stamped echoed sharp and final.

Allen turned to the council elders. "The tribunal has witnessed. The nobles have acknowledged. There's no more debate. No more committees. From this day forward, I speak as sovereign over the Rhelgar holdings—and protector of those they oppressed."

Yoru's old eyes flickered. Lira looked down, cheeks mottled red with something she couldn't name. Jass tried to speak, lips parted with a half-formed protest, but it died in his throat. No one stepped forward. No one dared.

Allen didn't smirk. He didn't gloat. He simply walked back to the throne and sat down again. The council chamber felt smaller now, suffocated by the weight of shifting power. He raised two fingers.

Fina responded first. She turned toward the red-robed women and beckoned Calla forward.

Calla moved with soft steps, the silk of her robe whispering around her knees. She knelt before Allen without hesitation, resting her hands on her thighs, face tilted up toward him.

Allen's fingers grazed the phrase inked across her collarbone: "I bloom in his shadow."

He didn't need to speak. The command was silent.

Calla untied her robe and let it fall open, revealing bare skin beneath. Not in shame—but ceremony. The hall watched, captivated, as Allen reached down and brushed a knuckle down her cheek. She leaned into it with a soft breath.

"You were the first," he said quietly. "You suffered the most."

Calla nodded. "And now I live again."

Allen rose from the throne, letting his fingers trail down her chest, slow and deliberate. Then he turned toward the council. "You ignored her. All of them. Left them to rot in that mansion. Now look at them—standing taller than you ever did."

He snapped his fingers.

Mira stepped forward next, her dark hair swaying, eyes focused. Then Brin. Then Niva. Then Tessa. All of them now standing before Allen, robes loosened but not discarded. This wasn't humiliation anymore.

This was reclamation.

Allen walked slowly down the line, touching each woman gently—shoulder, cheek, chest. Each spot he touched seemed to glow with silent reverence. "You belong to me," he murmured, each time. "And in that, you are free."

The watching nobles were silent, many wide-eyed. Some flushed, some horrified, some aroused in ways they didn't understand.

And Soreya? She watched, unmoving, lips parted. When Allen looked at her again, she didn't wait for instruction. She dropped to her knees beside Calla and let her robe fall from her shoulders.

No ink marked her skin—yet. But she would earn it.

Allen smiled softly. Not victorious. Not cruel.

But as someone watching his creation begin to take shape.

He nodded to Fina. "Bring the ink."

Fina moved like a priestess now, carrying the pot of dark, permanent dye in one hand, and the delicate brush in the other. She knelt beside Soreya and dipped the tip, holding it over her skin. Soreya's breathing quickened.

"What do you want it to say?" Fina asked gently.

Soreya hesitated. Her voice was barely a whisper. "That I am his."

Allen stepped forward and took the brush from Fina.

He crouched before Soreya, placing a hand on her thigh. The intimacy was electric, but quiet. Sacred. Then, with careful strokes, he painted the words just beneath her left breast.

"Property of Allen."

The ink glistened on her pale skin.

Soreya didn't cry. She smiled.

Behind them, the nobles remained stunned. One by one, the realization crept in—this wasn't a phase. This wasn't scandal.

This was a new system.

A new hierarchy.

And Allen wasn't just at the top. He was the system.

When he stood again, the sound of movement swept the hall. Nobles rising to kneel. Attendants bowing so low their backs cracked. Even some guards lowered their spears in acknowledgment.

Allen didn't acknowledge them. His attention was still on the women before him.

"Fina," he said, voice soft now, "bring them back to the quarters. Bathe them again. Feed them well. Make sure Soreya receives her own chamber. She's earned it."

Fina smiled and nodded. She extended a hand to Calla, who stood first, wrapping her robe back around her shoulders. The others followed in line, each woman reclaiming her body, her skin, her walk.

Soreya was the last to rise. She didn't reach for her robe. She walked beside Fina bare, the ink still wet on her skin, her silver-blonde hair catching the light like a banner.

Allen watched them go in silence.

When the chamber doors closed behind them, he finally turned back to the nobles.

"There will be another tribunal tomorrow," he said. "This time, for the sons of Rhelgar."

Several gasps.

"I expect full cooperation. No lies. No defense of the indefensible."

He sat again.

"Or I will strip your line from history."

And this time, no one dared to question him.