My Taboo Harem!

Below the Heavenchild estate in Hell’s Paradise, far beneath the polite floors and beautiful lies of its upper halls, there existed a chamber: It was colossal and ancient in its proportions like a hidden underworld of black stone and celestial craft vast enough to make the human body feel like an administrative error.

The ceiling arched so high above that the shadows gathered beneath it resembled a false night sky, layered with dim constellations of suspended runes, revolving seals and watchful sigils.

Some drifted slowly through the darkness like distant stars, while others remained perfectly still, their cold light following every movement below with the uncomfortable patience of open eyes.

The walls had been carved from a dark mineral that drank sound and returned only a hushed echo, as though the chamber itself understood the sacred value of conspiracy.

Ancient reliefs covered portions of the stone, half-hidden beneath darkness: angels descending through burning skies, elven kings kneeling beneath immense trees, chained races dragged through open gates and faceless beings standing between worlds that no longer existed.

At the chamber’s center stood a huge circular altar, raised from the floor like a mountain of worked stone and engraved law. It climbed in layered rings, each level cut with symbols older than kingdoms and brighter than ordinary enchantment, so tightly interwoven that the entire structure looked less like a platform and more like a captured spell given architecture.

Enormous magic circles lay spread across it in perfect geometry and on them runes burned within the stone in gold, silver, pale blue and a colder white that resembled the last light on snow.

Vast spirals of divine script coiled outward from the altar’s heart like frozen galaxies, meeting jagged arrays of summoning marks, bloodline seals, containment laws and old elven characters so pure and elegant they made human glyph-work look like mud scratching.

Eight empty points surrounded the central ring. They resembled thrones without seats, hollow spaces marked by black stars and bordered in silver runes. Nothing stood within them, yet the stone around each point bent subtly inward, as though those places were already occupied by something reality had not yet been informed about.

Around the altar, the two families had gathered:

The Heavenchilds occupied one arc of the circular chamber, while the Maxtons stood across from them on the other.

Between both families, bound at the center of the raised altar like offerings awaiting an intelligent god with very poor morals, stood the five Chained.

They had been arranged in a huddled ring, each one heavily shackled, their thin shoulders drawn tight and their heads bowed beneath dark hoods. Their wrists were dragged behind them by lengths of rune-bound chain glowing faintly with suppressive force, while additional restraints locked their ankles and circled their throats.

Those chains connected them to five iron-black pillars sunk into the altar itself, but the pillars were not merely anchors. They were the visible foundations of the Eternal Prison Gates.

Each one had been carved with layers of imprisoning law, ancient elven script, divine commands and symbols belonging to races long erased from Earth’s memory.

Every link trembled occasionally with a malicious pulse, reminding the prisoners that their power, pride and even the right to refuse now belonged to someone else.

They looked hellish even before their faces were revealed, starved almost to elegance, too thin in all the wrong places yet still carrying the stretched, dangerous shapes of beings who had once been graceful.

Their frames were composed of sharp shoulders, long necks, narrow waists and delicate joints made ugly by captivity.

They did not sway like ordinary prisoners:

Instead, they shivered in minute, involuntary ways, as though the chains were constantly drinking from them. One twitched at the shoulder. Another’s fingers curled before slowly loosening again. A third breathed in shallow, measured pulls, each breath appearing to scrape something raw inside his chest.

It gave them the appearance of beings already half-buried in some living purgatory, creatures not yet dead but no longer permitted the dignity of wholeness.

Watching from the Heavenchild side stood Elliot Heavenchild.

The patriarch wore white and gold as though Heaven itself had mistaken him for a favourite son. His robes were immaculate, layered and austere, carrying threads of sacred embroidery that shifted like captive dawnlight whenever he moved.

His face, handsome in the severe manner powerful men often were, remained unreadable. He did not appear calm or warm. He merely appeared under control, and that sort of face had ruined a great many lives while still being invited to charity banquets.

At Elliot’s side stood the Hollow Woman.

She deserved the title.

Her face was beautiful in the way abandoned temples were beautiful, once sacred and now emptied. Her skin was too pale and too still, stretched over fine bones with the fragile perfection of porcelain left too long in winter.

But it was her eyes that made the title true.

They were not merely lifeless; they looked carved out from within, as though something had eaten depth itself and left behind two smooth hollows where a soul should have lived. There was no shine in them, no true focus and no faint trembling of thought behind the pupils.

There was only vacancy, two collapsed wells staring from a woman’s face while the rest of her remained standing through habit alone.

Even the divine radiance filling the chamber failed to live inside those eyes.

Light entered them and seemed to disappear without reflection, swallowed by some private emptiness deeper than grief.

She gazed at the altar the hollowly, without protest, without hope and with all warmth long evacuated.

Beside them stood Marcus Heavenchild, handsome and irritated, his expression already carrying the faint exhaustion of a man bracing for a performance he had not chosen but would pretend to tolerate.

His eyes moved over the altar, the Chained and the gathered Maxtons before drifting upward, almost reflexively, toward the being behind them.

Behind Elliot, Marcus and the Hollow Woman hovered the massive avatar of the Lord.

He was not physically present and the true being remained elsewhere, but his projection alone was enough to dominate the chamber.

He towered in the air like a god remembered too vividly; his body was formed from blazing gold and white radiance, a monumental masculine figure wrapped in divine brilliance, every line of him terrible in its perfection.

Six vast seraphic wings unfurled behind him, layered with holy fire and feathered light. Each slow movement sent molten halos rippling through the air, great rings of sacred power that crossed the chamber and made the suspended runes bow from their paths.

His face could not be looked at directly for long. It was too bright, too sovereign and too close to the old lie that divinity and goodness were twins.

The aura rolling from him was not soft holiness. It was authority, judgment and Heaven in full armour.

The world had heard of the Lord. They had heard his commands, felt the reach of his designs and watched others tremble beneath the shadow of his name. But this was the first time his presence had truly entered the stage, and even as an avatar, he made everyone else appear temporarily borrowed.

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