The delegates stared. The guards stared. The servants stared. The merchants. The diplomats. The soldiers. Everyone. The man — the man from the tavern, the man who had propositioned the Empress, the man who had called her "Miss Little Pussy" — was walking before her. Into the banquet hall. As if he owned it.
Three women — delegates from a minor house, seated at the far table — rubbed their thighs together. The motion — subtle, involuntary, the clenching of thighs — was the body’s response. To the mana. To the dragon intimidation. To the aura that radiated from his body. The aura that said ’dragon’. That said ’predator’. That said — ’mate’.
Their pussies — beneath their silk gowns, beneath their cotton undergarments — were wet. The moisture — the arousal, the involuntary, biological arousal — was there. The response of women to a being whose mana said — ’fuck me’. The pheromone. The mana. The — presence.
The Empress noticed.
Her sea-green eyes — scanning the room, the ruler’s habit, the awareness of everything — saw the three women. The thigh-rubbing. The clenching. The flushed faces. The — arousal. The Empress — who knew, who had experienced, who had been broken by the same presence — recognized the signs.
She looked at the Athoria delegation.
Vivian. Ada. Elena. The three women. Their faces — flushed. Their thighs — clenched. Their eyes — on him. On Raven. The same look. The same hunger. The same — need.
The Empress’s own pussy — beneath her elaborate dress, beneath her scaled undergarments — was wet. The moisture — the arousal, the conditioned response, the Pavlovian response of a woman whose body had been trained to associate his presence with pleasure — was there. The wetness. The heat. The — wanting.
She understood.
The human zone was already conquered.
Not by war. Not by politics. Not by — diplomacy. By — cock. By fucking. By claiming. The women — the queens, the fighters, the knights, the ability holders — were his. The kingdoms — through the women — were his. The human zone — through the kingdoms — was his.
The conquest was — already done.
A king stood.
The king of the remaining kingdom. The one that Raven had not — bothered with. Not because it was weak. Because it did not matter. The kingdom of Torwyn. A mountain kingdom. A kingdom of miners and smiths and soldiers. The king — a bulky man, firm, strong, the body of a man who had worked in the mountains — stood.
His chair scraped. His cup tipped. His face — red, the veins in his neck visible, the anger — was there.
"Who is this?" he roared.
His voice — deep, loud, the voice of a man who is not accustomed to being ignored — filled the hall. The delegates turned. The guards tensed. The Empress — who had been about to sit — paused.
"He is my husband," the Empress said.
The words — calm, measured, the voice of a ruler who is lying — were spoken without hesitation. The lie — the political lie, the diplomatic lie, the lie that explained his presence, his precedence, his authority — was delivered. Smoothly. Believably.
The king’s mouth twitched.
"How can you just marry anyone?" he said. His voice was incredulous. The voice of a man who cannot believe what he is hearing. "And even if married — why is he at the head seat?"
The head seat.
Raven sat.
On the head seat. The seat of honor. The seat of the host. The seat that — by tradition, by protocol, by every rule of diplomacy — belonged to the Empress. The Empress who was — standing. While her "husband" sat.
The delegates stared. The guards stared. The king stared.
"Why not?" Raven said.
His voice was conversational. The voice of a man who has been asked a question and who is answering. The two words — the challenge, the dismissal, the — ’why not’ — were the words of a man who does not recognize the rules. Who does not — care.
The king’s mouth twitched.
He was from the race of the Unicorn. The horned race. The mountain people. The beings whose bloodline traced to the unicorns of the ancient forests. The beings whose mana was pure. Whose strength was — considerable. The king — level 148 — was one of the strongest beings in the human zone.
"How dare you?" he said.
The words. The challenge. The — declaration. The king of Torwyn — the bulky, strong, mountain king — challenged the man who sat on the head seat. The man who had walked before the Empress. The man who was — not a king. Not a delegate. Not — anything.
"Attack," the king said.
Not to Raven. To the Empress. The challenge. The — ’attack me’. The king who was — angry. Who was — insulted. Who was — going to fight.
The Empress moved.
Her body — the massive, scaled body — shifted. The dress — the elaborate, ceremonial dress — shimmered. The mana — the sea dragon mana, the storm-calling mana — gathered. The air in the hall changed. The temperature dropped. The moisture condensed. The water — from the air, from the breath, from the wine — moved.
The king moved.
His body — the bulky, mountain body — blurred. The speed — the speed of a level 148 being, the speed that exceeded human perception — was there. His fist — the large, calloused fist — came. Forward. Toward the Empress. The punch — the mana-charged, horn-enhanced punch — was aimed at her face.
The Empress blocked.
Her arm — the scaled arm — came up. The fist met the scale. The impact — CRACK— was loud. The shockwave — the mana shockwave, the force of two beings above level 140 colliding — expanded. The tables rattled. The cups spilled. The delegates stumbled. The windows — the stained glass — cracked.
They fought.
The Empress — the sea dragon, the storm caller, the being who had ruled for a hundred years — and the king — the unicorn, the mountain lord, the being whose strength was legendary. Their bodies — massive, powerful — clashed. The fists. The blocks. The kicks. The mana. The water. The earth. The storm and the mountain.
The roof opened.
Not physically. The mana — the combined mana, the force of two beings above level 140 — blew the roof. The tiles flew. The beams cracked. The sky — the night sky, the stars, the moon — was visible. The fight — the clash, the battle, the war — went upward. Into the sky. Over the ocean. The two beings — the dragon and the unicorn — flew. Their bodies — the scaled and the horned — moved. Through the air. Over the water. The shockwaves — the impact of each blow — threw the ocean. The waves rose. The water parted. The air boomed.
Raven watched.
From the head seat. His violet eyes — calm, amused, the eyes of a man who is watching a fight and who is evaluating — tracked the battle. The power levels. 148. 150. The levels — the combat levels, the mana levels — were high. Higher than any human. Higher than most demons. The levels of — heroes. The levels of the beings that his past life had — fought. Had killed. Had been.
He smirked.
The smirk of a man who is — interested. Not threatened. Not concerned. Interested. The way a lion is interested in two deer fighting. The way a wolf is interested in two rabbits wrestling. The — entertainment. The — evaluation.
’Level 148. Level 150. Strong. For humans. For this floor. Not for me. But — useful. The king. He would be worth — keeping. Under my ranks. Not killed. Recruited.’