Mira screamed. The final thrust. The deepest. The head against the cervix. The shaft to the hilt. The cock throbbed. The head swelled.
He came.
The load — thick, hot, white — flooded her. Pulse after pulse. The semen filled the canal. Pressed against the cervix. The excess — the overflow — ran out. Around the shaft. Down her ass. Onto the throne. The gold veins absorbed it.
Mira’s eyes rolled.
"Y-You... m-monster..." she moaned. Her voice was broken. The words of a woman who has been fucked for two hours and who is completely, utterly, thoroughly corrupted. "Y-You... a-are... a m-monster..."
She passed out.
Her body went limp. On the throne. The cock still inside. The seed still flowing. The system — the blue window — displayed the final notification.
[Claim Complete: Mira]
[Status: Corrupted]
Raven pulled out.
The cock emerged. Wet. Bloody. Slick with the juice and the seed. The head dripped. The shaft gleamed.
He stood.
From the throne. Naked. His body — muscled, ridged, the V of the hips — caught the light. His violet eyes looked at Ada.
"When do we leave?" he said.
"Tomorrow," Ada said. Her yellow eyes did not drop to his cock. She was past that. She was a dragon. She served. "The delegates have already begun arriving. The city is full."
He smiled.
The smile was thin. The smile of a man who is about to walk into a room full of the most powerful people in the world and who is looking forward to it.
~ The Sea City — Two Days Later
The city was called Meridia.
It was the greatest city of the greatest human nation — the Valdorian Empire. The empire that spanned an island continent. The empire that controlled the seas. The empire whose fleet had been destroyed by Raven and whose general had been killed and whose treaty crystal had been shattered.
The city was beside the ocean.
The harbor was enormous. Hundreds of ships — merchant vessels, fishing boats, diplomatic galleys — filled the water. The docks were crowded. The streets were packed. The inns were full. The taverns were overflowing.
The delegates were arriving.
From every nation. From the Free Cities — the merchant republics. Their delegates wore silk. Their servants carried chests of gold. From the Eastern Federation — the military alliance. Their delegates wore armor. Their soldiers carried swords. From the Barbarian Tribes — or what was left of them. A single delegate. Cloaked. Armed. From the Athoria Kingdom — the new kingdom, the changed kingdom. Their delegate was— not announced.
The city was filled as if a festival was about to begin.
Banners hung from the buildings. Streamers decorated the streets. Musicians played on corners. Food vendors lined the alleys. The smell — of roasting meat, of spiced wine, of salt air, of fresh bread — filled the streets.
The delegates talked.
In the inns. In the taverns. In the streets. The conversations were low. The voices were careful. The topic was the same.
"The Athoria Kingdom," a delegate from the Free Cities said. He was a merchant. Fat. Bald. His silk was gold. His rings were many. "They are the weakest. A fresh queen. A girl. What can she offer?"
"Nothing," his companion said. Another merchant. Thinner. Taller. "The kingdom was already weak before the coup. Now? They have no military. No navy. No trade. They are nothing."
"The empress called this council," a third voice said. A delegate from the Eastern Federation. Military. Armored. His sword at his hip. "But the Athoria Kingdom should not even be here. There were only four nations that mattered. There was no reason for the fifth."
They laughed.
The sound was genuine. The laughter of men who believe themselves superior. Who believe that the world is ordered. Who believe that the weak are weak and the strong are strong and that this will never change.
"Only four nations," the fat merchant repeated. "The fifth is a joke. A girl queen. A broken kingdom. What could they possibly—"
The room went silent.
Not gradually. Instantly. The conversations stopped. The laughter stopped. The eating stopped. The drinking stopped. Every man in the tavern — the merchants, the soldiers, the diplomats, the servants — went quiet.
Their eyes went to the door.
The door opened.
A woman hovered.
Not walked. Hovered. Her feet were not on the ground. She was three inches above the floor. Her body was suspended. Her dress was elaborate — layers of silk and steel and scales. The colors were deep — blue, green, silver. The dress was formal. Ceremonial. The dress of an empress.
Behind her — two guards. Not human guards. Not soldiers. Something else. Their bodies were scaled. Their eyes were yellow. Their weapons were tridents. Sea dragon knights.
The Empress of Valdoria.
She hovered into the tavern. Her eyes — sea-green, the color of the ocean, the color of her lineage — scanned the room. Her face was beautiful. Ageless. The face of a woman who was older than she appeared. Her hair was silver-blue. Long. Flowing. Moving — not from wind. From mana. The energy that radiated from her body. The energy of a sea dragon.
Everyone knew who she was.
The Empress. The ruler of the greatest human nation. The woman whose lineage traced back to the sea dragons. The woman whose power was rumored to rival that of the demon lords. The woman who had ruled for a hundred years. The woman who never left her palace.
She was here.
The room bowed.
Every man. Every woman. Every delegate. Every servant. They bowed. Their heads went down. Their knees bent. Their bodies curved. The formal, automatic, instinctive gesture of subjects in the presence of their sovereign.
"Your Majesty," they said. The words were unified. A chorus. The sound of a room full of people acknowledging their inferiority.
The Empress did not acknowledge them.
She hovered. Through the room. Past the bowing delegates. Past the servants. Past the guards. She arrived at a table. Near the back. Near the corner.
She looked.
At a man. Seated at the table. His hair was black. His eyes were violet. He was dressed in a dark coat. Open. His hands were in his pockets. His feet were on the table. He was leaning back. His chair was tilted.
He was smirking.
The Empress’s sea-green eyes locked onto his violet ones. The gaze was direct. Unwavering. The gaze of a woman who has ruled for a hundred years and who does not flinch.
"Was it you," she said. Her voice was cold. Clear. The voice of the ocean. The voice of the deep. "Who stole my egg?"
The room was silent.
The delegates — still bowed, still kneeling — heard. The words. ’Stole my egg.’ The words that made no sense. That carried no context. That raised no answers. Only questions.
’Egg?’
’The empress’s egg?’
’What egg?’
The delegates’ eyes lifted. Slowly. Cautiously. The eyes of men who are afraid to look but who cannot help looking.
They saw the man.
The man with the black hair and the violet eyes. The man who was leaning back in his chair. The man whose feet were on the table. The man who was smirking.
A young man — a delegate from a minor house, a man who had seen the man enter the tavern earlier — whispered to his companion:
"Who... who is that?"
"I do not know," his companion whispered back. "He arrived this morning. Alone. No servants. No guards. No banner."