Chapter 50: Chapter-50

Raphael squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the inevitable. Muscles tense, breath held, he waited for the Empress to finally lay her hands on him.

Nothing happened.

When he dared to crack his eyes open, Heena was simply staring at him—then she suddenly burst into laughter. She leaned in, patted his cheek almost affectionately, and drawled, “Come on, sweetie, do you really think I’d dirty my hands on a beggar like you when I have so many servants to do it for me?”

His face went bloodless. “Y-you cannot do this,” Raphael choked, tugging uselessly at the cuffs.

Heena only smiled wider.

She slid off the bed with unhurried grace, bare feet whispering against the floor, and clapped her hands once.

The door opened almost immediately.

Five, six “servants” filed in—heads bowed, movements perfectly measured. To Raphael, they looked like ordinary attendants in plain livery. What he didn’t know was that every single one of them was a shadow guard in disguise. Heena wasn’t foolish enough to bring real servants in here; this “holy bastard” was far too dangerous. With normal staff, there’d be at least one soft-hearted idiot eager to betray her, protect the poor High Priest, blah, blah, blah. She wasn’t interested in testing that theory.

Shadow guards, though? Their loyalty was absurd. Sometimes Heena honestly wondered if there was anything between their ears besides devotion to her. They didn’t even ’see’ Raphael as a man, let alone as an important one. For them, the center of the universe began and ended with their Empress. If she told one of them to jump out a window right now, the idiot wouldn’t hesitate for even a second.

The “servants” lined up and bowed. Heena didn’t spare Raphael another glance.

“Clean up the room,” she ordered lazily, flicking a strand of hair over her shoulder. “And help me change.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they answered in unison.

Raphael stared, horror creeping up his spine as they moved—picking up scattered clothes, righting furniture, crossing the room toward the bed where he lay naked and bound. His gaze snapped back to Heena, who stood there with the calm of a woman asking for tea instead of orchestrating his complete humiliation.

“T-this… Your Majesty, this is inappropriate,” he managed, voice cracking.

Heena looked over at him, eyes amused, lips curling into a slow, wicked smile. “Come on, sweetie. Do you really think I ’care’ about that?” She spread her arms slightly, inviting him to take in the scene. “I am the Empress. Who’s going to complain about how many men walk through my private domain?” [1]

He could only stare at her, stunned to silence.

What she didn’t bother saying out loud was the truth: these men weren’t men to her. They were weapons. Tools. Beautifully trained, mind-wiped blades that only turned in the direction she pointed. They didn’t judge. They didn’t think. They just ’obeyed’.

As two of them stepped closer to Heena to undo her robe and bring fresh garments, Raphael’s shame burned so hot it felt like it might consume him. Tied naked to her bed, forced to watch strange men calmly attend to their Empress while she acted as if his presence meant nothing at all—

The shadow guards moved like machines.

They didn’t flinch at Raphael’s nudity, didn’t avert their eyes, didn’t even ’pause’. Two began stripping and shaking out the sheets around his bound body, while another pair stepped up to the bed with bowls of warm water and neatly folded cloths. Their movements were synchronized, practiced, as though they’d performed this exact routine a thousand times before on a thousand different subjects.

A cool, damp cloth touched his shoulder.

Raphael jerked. “D‑don’t—!”

They ignored him completely. One guard braced his arm with an iron grip, the other methodically wiped down his chest, neck, arms—utterly professional, utterly indifferent. To them, he was just another surface that needed to be cleaned. Another task on an endless list of palace duties. The cloth moved in efficient strokes, neither gentle nor rough, simply thorough.

Color rushed to Raphael’s face, outrage and humiliation warring in his chest. His bound wrists strained uselessly against the restraints. “Your Majesty! This is—stop this at once! Your Majesty!” He called for her twice, voice cracking on the second attempt, desperation bleeding through the commanding tone he was trying to maintain.

Heena, now dressed again in fresh robes of deep crimson silk that whispered with each movement, only glanced over once. Her expression was serene, almost bored, as if she were observing someone dust a particularly uninteresting piece of furniture. “I’m going out. Clean the room in twenty minutes. I’ll be back.” She gathered her stack of documents with deliberate care, squaring the edges with a small tap against her palm, then turned her back on him and walked to the door without a single backward look.

The guards bowed as she left, their synchronized movement creating a ripple effect across the room.

The moment the door clicked shut, they became, if anything, ’more’ diligent.

Hands moved with ruthless efficiency. They wiped away every trace of sweat and grime, fingers digging into the knots in his hair with systematic precision, working from his chest to his sides, over his ribs, down his arms. Another pair went to work lower, matter-of-factly checking every inch of skin as if he were a statue that needed polishing before being put on display. When wax strips appeared—smooth, professional strips already cut to perfect sizes—Raphael’s eyes went wide with dawning horror.

“You—wait—don’t you ’dare’—”

The first strip ripped free with a sound like tearing fabric.

He screamed.

The sound was raw, primal, utterly undignified. It tore from his throat before he could stop it, before pride could silence it. One of the guards paused just long enough to examine the strip, checking that it had done its job properly, before moving to the next area with the same mechanical efficiency.

“Stop! ’Stop!’ I am a prince of—’AHHH!’”

Another strip. Another scream.

They worked in pairs, one holding the skin taut, the other applying and ripping in smooth, practiced motions. They’d clearly done this before—many times. The palace grooming standards were exacting, and the shadow guards were nothing if not thorough.

Outside, down a quiet corridor lined with ancient tapestries depicting glorious battles and peaceful garden scenes, Heena strolled with a stack of files in hand and a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. Palace servants she passed bowed deeply, their heads lowered until she was well past, then immediately rising to trade quick, surprised looks with one another.

“Her Majesty seems… in a good mood today,” one whispered after she’d gone by, voice hushed with wonder. It was rare to see the Empress smile—rarer still to see her looking this pleased with herself.

The other shook his head, utterly baffled. “I have no idea why.” He glanced back down the corridor she’d come from, as if the answer might be written on the walls. “Did something good happen at the morning council? A treaty signed? A problem solved?”

“Maybe she finally got rid of that migraine she’s had all week?”

They continued speculating in low voices as they went about their duties, none of them guessing the truth.

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