The ministers were quiet.
The room was quiet. The torches guttered. The wind outside howled — the barbarian wind, the cold wind from the northern mountains.
M’baku smiled. The white teeth. The dark skin.
"Years ago," he said. His voice was conversational. Relaxed. "When I was young. The King of Doria — the old king — he brought me and my brother to his palace. He showed us his harem. His favorite. A woman with dark hair and pale skin and the body of a goddess."
His hand went to the woman’s breast again. He pinched the nipple. She gasped.
"I fucked her," he said. "All night. In every hole. She was delicious. The king watched. He stroked himself. He signed a trade agreement while I was inside her."
The ministers were silent. Some of them knew. Some had heard the story. Some had been there.
"Then I killed her," M’baku said. His voice was light. Casual. "Accidentally. Strangled her. The king did not mind. He used it for leverage. Asked for compensation. Got more than he gave."
He thrust up.
PAH—
"AAAAHH—!!"
The woman on his cock screamed. Her body jerked. Her back arched. Her breasts swung.
"Now," M’baku continued. His voice did not change. "That bitch is dead. Her daughter is the queen. The daughter I was promised as a concubine." His smile widened. "Now that I am at my peak, shouldn’t I take her as my queen and finally get complete access to that kingdom?"
The ministers laughed.
The sound was rough. Genuine. The laugh of men who have heard a good joke and who are sharing it.
"Indeed, indeed!" the one-eyed minister said. His voice was amused. "We did hear about it. The old king’s deal. But never thought it was true."
"Every word," M’baku said. "The old king was a coward. He could not satisfy a woman. He could not even keep one alive. I did both."
More laughter.
The one-eyed minister leaned forward. His elbow on his knee. His cup in his hand. His one eye was bright with amusement and curiosity.
"So tell us, Your Majesty," he said. "How was she? The mother. Must have been too delicate."
M’baku looked at the minister. His smile was wide. His teeth were white.
"That bitch just d—"
The spear came from nowhere.
Not from the door. Not from the window. Not from the ceiling. From the air. From the space behind the throne — the space that had been empty a moment before. A rift — a tear in reality, blue-purple, the edges shimmering — opened. The spear came through.
It was long. Seven feet. The shaft was dark — not wood. Not metal. Something else. The material was scaled. Dragon scale. The same obsidian black. The head was a blade — curved, sharp, the edge gleaming in the torchlight. The blade was coated. Not with rust. With something wet. Something dark. Poison.
The spear pierced his chest.
Through the back. Through the chair. Through the ribcage. The blade emerged from his sternum — the point protruding, the steel dark with blood. The ribs cracked. The sternum split. The lungs — punctured. The heart — missed. By an inch.
M’baku’s eyes went wide.
His mouth was open. The sentence — "That bitch just d—" — was still on his lips. The word "died" had not come. Would not come. The air from his lungs — the air that should have formed the word — was escaping. Through the hole in his chest. Through the wound. The blood came with it. Red. Bright. Frothing.
He coughed.
The blood came. From his mouth. Down his chin. Onto his chest. Onto the woman who was still on his cock. She screamed — the blood on her face, on her breasts, the hot, copper-smelling fluid. She scrambled. She fell. Off his lap. Onto the floor. The cock came out — wet, bloody, the seed that had been building now lost.
The elves screamed.
The ministers stood.
"LORD—!"
"YOUR MAJESTY—!"
"GUARDS—!"
The figure manifested.
Out of thin air. Not from the rift — the rift had closed. From the air. From the shadows. From the space beside the throne. The air shimmered — the heat-distortion, the mirage effect of a body that has been invisible and that is becoming visible.
She was there.
Standing beside the throne. Her hand — the hand that had thrown the spear — still extended. Her fingers open. The palm empty.
She was wearing scales.
Dragon scales. Obsidian black. The same scales that Ada wore. The same armor. The scales covered her arms, her shoulders, her chest — not her breasts, which were bare, heavy, the nipples dark, stiff — her stomach, her thighs, her calves. Her face was human. Old. Lined. The face of a woman who had lived seventy years. But the muscles — the muscles beneath the skin, beneath the scales — were not old. They were dense. Hard. The body of a woman who had been rebuilt. Enhanced. Transformed.
Her hair was white. Short. Cropped close to the skull. Practical. The hair of a woman who does not have time for vanity.
Her eyes were yellow. Slitted. The pupils vertical. The eyes of a dragon.
Ada.
The barbarian king’s eyes found her.
He was dying. The spear was through his chest. His lungs were filling. His blood was pouring. But his eyes — the dark, hard eyes of a warrior — found hers.
"You... bitch..." he choked. The blood came with the words. The spray. Red. Frothy.
The ministers charged.
"KILL HER—!"
"YOU BITCH—!"
Ten men. Armed. Swords, axes. The weapons of warriors. They rose from the benches. They drew. They ran. The sound of steel — the ring of blades being drawn, the clatter of armor, the thud of boots on stone.
Ada looked at them.
Her expression did not change. The same calm. The same stillness. The face of a woman who has killed before and who will kill again and who does not find it remarkable.
"The Lord’s order," she said. Her voice was deep. Resonant. The voice of a dragon wearing a human throat. "Is to clear some of the traces."
M’baku’s eyes went wide.
’The Lord.’
Not the queen. Not the princess. Not the Athoria Kingdom. A Lord. Someone above. Someone he did not know. Someone who had sent—
He did not get to finish the thought.
Ada twisted the spear.
Her hand went to the shaft — the scaled shaft that protruded from his back. She gripped. She twisted. The blade inside his chest rotated. The ribs — already cracked — separated. The lungs — already punctured — tore. The blood vessels — already burst — opened wider.
The poison.
On the blade. The dark, wet substance. It entered the wound. Not just the wound — the bloodstream. The veins. The arteries. The mana channels. The poison was not natural. It was alchemical. Designed for one purpose — to destroy mana. To burn through the channels. To sever the connection between the body and the magical energy that sustained it.
His body turned black.
Not all at once. From the wound. Outward. The skin — dark, already brown — darkened further. To black. To charcoal. The flesh — the muscles, the tissue — withered. Shriveled. The veins — visible beneath the skin — turned dark. The mana channels — the invisible pathways that carried magical energy — collapsed. Severed. Burned.
He died.
Instantly. The heart — missed by the spear — was not missed by the poison. The toxin reached the heart. The muscle — the most mana-dependent organ in a warrior’s body — seized. Stopped. The blood stopped. The breath stopped. The brain — starved of oxygen, of blood, of mana — shut down.