"He is... handsome," a woman said. She was a diplomat. From the Free Cities. Her voice was low. The voice of a woman who is trying not to be heard. "Look at his face. His jaw. His eyes. The violet. I have never seen..."
"Stop," her companion hissed. "He is— look at the empress. She is facing him. She is— she is accusing him."
The Empress waited.
Her sea-green eyes on his violet ones. Her body — hovering, suspended, the mana radiating — was still. The dress — silk, steel, scales — was still. Her hair — silver-blue, flowing — was still. She was waiting for an answer.
Raven looked at her.
His violet eyes held hers. His smirk did not fade. His feet stayed on the table. His hands stayed in his pockets. His posture did not change.
"I just wanted to fertilize your egg," he said.
His voice was conversational. Loud enough for the room to hear. The words — the blunt, crude, unfiltered words — echoed.
The room gasped.
The delegates. The servants. The guards. The diplomats. Every person in the tavern — except Raven and the Empress — gasped. The sound was collective. The sharp intake of breath. The horror. The shock. The disbelief.
’Fertilize. Her. Egg.’
The Empress of Valdoria. The woman whose lineage was sea dragon. The woman whose egg — the egg of a sea dragon, the egg of a royal bloodline, the egg that was the most precious object in the empire — had been stolen. And this man — this man with the violet eyes — was saying that he stole it to ’fertilize’ it.
"If I cannot do it in your womb," Raven continued. His voice was the same. Conversational. Casual. The voice of a man who is explaining his reasoning. "Then why not just do it outside?"
The room exploded.
"PREPOSTEROUS—!"
"HOW DARE YOU—!"
"GUARDS—! SEIZE HIM—!"
"EXECUTE HIM—! EXECUTE HIM BEFORE HE—!"
The shouts came from every direction. From the delegates. From the soldiers. From the diplomats. The voices — angry, shocked, horrified — overlapped. The words blended. The sound was a wall of outrage.
A king — a minor king, from the Eastern Federation, a muscular man with a thick beard and a heavier sword — drew his weapon. The steel rang. The blade pointed at Raven.
"State your identity!" the king roared. His face was red. The veins in his neck bulged. "How dare you say something like that to Her Majesty! You will be executed! GUARDS—!"
The guards moved.
The tavern guards. The city guards. The soldiers. They drew. They advanced. The sound of steel — the ring of blades, the creak of armor, the thud of boots — filled the room.
A portal opened.
Not from the door. Not from the window. From the air. Behind Raven. The space tore. The rift — blue-purple, the edges shimmering, the energy leaking — opened. The mana that leaked was visible. A haze. A distortion. The air itself bent.
The room stopped.
The guards stopped. The king stopped. The delegates stopped. The Empress stopped.
The woman exited.
Through the portal. Her body was muscular. Her hair was silver. Her face was old. Lined. The face of a woman who had lived seventy years. But her body — her body was not old. It was dense. Hard. The muscles visible beneath the skin. Her body was covered in scales. Dragon scales. Obsidian black. The same scales that covered the sea dragon knights’ armor. But these were not armor. These were skin.
Ada.
She exited. Her yellow eyes — slitted, dragon — scanned the room. Her presence — the aura, the mana, the dragon heart that beat in her chest — expanded. The room felt it. Every person. The pressure. The weight. The sensation of standing before something that was not human.
Behind her — more women.
A dozen. They exited the portal. One after another. Their bodies — different. Their faces — different. Their weapons — different. But their eyes — their eyes were the same. The same focus. The same readiness. The same loyalty.
Revaone. The first queen. Her thick body. Her dark blue gown. Her dark brown eyes. She stepped through. Her face was calm. Composed. The face of a woman who had been fucked on a throne and who had been claimed and who was now standing beside her king.
Vivian. The present queen. Her emerald hair. Her green eyes. Her white gown. She stepped through. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wet. But her chin was up. The chin of a queen. A queen who served.
Selia. Nara. Fatima. Gia. Marla. The fighters. The assassins. The warriors. Their bodies — lean, tall, thick, petite, slim — were in maid dresses. Black and white. The crisp, formal attire of household servants. But their eyes — the eyes of killers — betrayed them.
They lined up.
Behind Raven. On either side. Ada at the front. Revaone and Vivian behind her. The fighters — the maids — flanking.
The Empress’s sea-green eyes narrowed.
She could feel them. The mana. The power. Each woman radiated. Not all equally — some were stronger, some were weaker. But the ones at the front — the dragon-scaled woman — was strong. Very strong. The resonance — the sea dragon’s ability to sense the blood of dragons — detected the dragon heart. The organ that beat in Ada’s chest. The heart that was not human.
The Empress could sense Ada’s strength.
But she could not sense Raven’s.
She tried. Her mana reached. Her sea dragon senses extended. She probed. She searched. She looked for the power, the mana, the energy of the man seated before her.
She found nothing.
Not nothing as in weak. Nothing as in — void. Empty. A black hole. A place where mana was and was not. A presence that was so vast, so dense, so incomprehensible that her senses could not grasp it. The way a fish cannot grasp the ocean.
’He is not human,’ she thought. ’But he is not something normal either.’
Ada spoke.
"My name is Ada," she said. Her voice was deep. Resonant. The voice of a dragon. "Dragon-scaled. Dragon-hearted. Servant of the Lord."
Revaone spoke.
"My name is Revaone," she said. Her voice was composed. The voice of a queen. "First Queen of Athoria. Servant of the Lord."
Vivian spoke.
"My name is Vivian," she said. Her voice was quiet. The voice of a girl who is trying to be brave. "Present Queen of Athoria. Servant of the Lord."
The maids spoke.
"Selia."
"Nara."
"Gia."
"Fatima."
"Marla."
Each name. One word. No titles. No lineage. No introduction. Just the name. The way a soldier introduces themselves. The way a weapon is named.
The Empress’s eyes went to the maids.
"How dare maids introduce themselves in this—"
"Those are my women."
The voice was Raven’s.
The words cut through the room. Through the silence. Through the tension. The two sentences — four words, five words — were spoken quietly. Conversational. The voice of a man who is stating a fact. Not arguing. Not debating. Not requesting. Stating.
A chill went through the room.
Not the cold of mana. Not the pressure of aura. The chill of — recognition. The chill of — fear. The primal, instinctive, biological fear that every living creature feels when it is in the presence of a predator. When the brain — the ancient, reptilian brain — recognizes that the thing in front of it is dangerous. Is deadly. Is something that can kill.
The delegates felt it. The guards felt it. The king — the minor king with the sword — felt it. His hand — the hand on the sword — trembled. Not from weakness. From the body’s response. The adrenaline. The fight-or-flight. The ancient instinct that said ’run’.
The Empress flinched.
The flinch was small. Barely visible. A fraction of an inch. The backward movement of her hovering body. The sea-green eyes — the eyes that had not flinched in a hundred years — widened. By a millimeter.
’So it was him.’
The thought formed. In her mind. The realization. The memory.
’It was him who entered my cave that night.’
The cave.
Two days ago.
The Empress — the sea dragon — had a cave. Beneath the palace. Beneath the ocean. The cave was her lair. Her sanctuary. The place where she kept her egg. The egg — the sea dragon egg, the egg of her lineage, the egg that contained the next generation of her blood. The egg that she had laid. Alone. Without a mate. The egg that was unfertilized. The egg that needed — a male. A dragon. A being of sufficient power.
The cave had been invaded.
Two days ago. She had been asleep. In her human form. In the cave. The egg — the large, pearlescent, glowing egg — had been on its pedestal. The guards — the sea dragon knights — had been outside. The wards — the magical barriers, the defensive spells — had been active.
None of it had mattered.
She had woken. To a presence. To a mana. To a being that was in the cave. That was standing before the egg. That was touching the egg.
She had seen him.
For a moment. A fraction of a second. The black hair. The violet eyes. The smirk. The hand on the egg. The mana — the vast, incomprehensible, oceanic mana — flowing from his hand into the egg.
She had attacked.
Her sea dragon form. The transformation. The water. The cave had filled. The ocean had rushed in. Her body — the massive, scaled, serpentine body of a sea dragon — had lunged.
He had vanished.
The portal. The rift. The tear in reality. He had stepped through it. And he was gone. The egg remained. The egg — which now glowed differently. Which now pulsed differently. Which now — she could feel — was fertilized.
Her egg. Her unfertilized egg. Had been fertilized. By a man she did not know. By a being she could not identify. By a power she could not match.
She had come to the council. To find him. To find the man who had stolen her egg. Who had fertilized her egg. Who had — without her permission, without her consent, without her knowledge — planted his seed in her legacy.
She had found him.
In a tavern. In a sea city. With his feet on the table and his hands in his pockets and his violet eyes and his smirk.
And his women.
The dragon woman. The queens. The fighters. The maids. The harem. The collection. The harem of a man who had taken a kingdom and killed a king and destroyed a fleet and broken a treaty and fertilized a dragon’s egg.
The Empress looked at him.
Her sea-green eyes — the eyes that had not flinched in a hundred years — held his violet ones.
"So," she said. Her voice was low. Cold. The voice of the ocean depths. "It was you who entered my cave that night."
The room waited.
Raven smiled.
The smile was wide. The smile of a man who has been caught and who does not care. Who has been found and who is not afraid. Who has been confronted and who is entertained.
He leaned forward.
His feet came off the table. His hands came out of his pockets. His body straightened. His violet eyes — bright, glowing, the color of twilight — met her sea-green ones.
"Calling your pussy a cave? that is too wrong miss dragoness..."