Dagna stood beside a newly erected row of barrels near the grand beer hall's makeshift bar, her feet tapping an impatient rhythm on the polished marble floor. She'd been waiting for John to teleport back for what felt like half an hour, even though he'd promised he'd be "just a few minutes" applying his makeup. As the seconds stretched into minutes—and the minutes into nearly an hour—her eyes drifted toward the ornate clock on the far wall. The dwarven woman couldn't help rolling her eyes.
When the flash of teleportation finally lit the space, John emerged with the faint shimmer of displaced mana still clinging to him. He looked…impressively done up, the subtle men's cosmetics accentuating his face more than she expected. But Dagna was not about to show her surprise.
"Well, you sure took your sweet time," she drawled, arms folded and one eyebrow arched. "Some men swear they can do makeup in five minutes, yet somehow I'm here, nearly eighty minutes later. Care to explain yourself?"
John shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I was busy making out with the princess," he joked, trying to feign a casual tone.
Dagna let out a short bark of laughter. "Right," she said with mock seriousness. "And while you were conquering the Chosen, I was entertaining all the princes of the Holds." She shook her head, the braids in her amber-colored hair swaying. "Give me a break, John. I've known you for years—if you actually kissed anyone, let alone a princess, you'd be in a completely different mood. More starry-eyed dread, less exasperated."
John snorted in mild amusement, running a quick hand through his newly styled hair. The mirror-sheen vest and ostentatious belt buckle he wore glinted in the beer hall's ambient light, making him stand out against the wood and brass backdrop. "Well, I can't help it if you refuse to believe my gallant escapades," he bantered playing the part of the dandy he was dressed as. "Your loss."
Dagna tapped her foot again and gave him an assessing once-over. She'd worked alongside John for years and knew he was far from the clueless hunk most mistake him for. Sure, he had the broad shoulders, the trim waist, the arms that could hoist a barrel with minimal fuss, an ass to die for. She even glimpsed his cock, and that trunk would put any female mind aflutter. Yet for all that, John displayed more prudence and wit than the typical "himbo" stereotype would allow. He hadn't even acknowledged most of the flirtations thrown his way.
She cracked a wry grin. He's no fool—he just doesn't jump into the arms of any pretty face. And that was exactly why she found him so intriguing. If she hadn't known him so well, she might have assumed he was uninterested in romance altogether.
"Believe me," she said, letting her gaze flick to his carefully applied eyeliner, "if you'd actually made out with a princess, your posture would be a little…different."
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Guess I'll have to up my game next time, so you believe me."
Dagna offered a light chuckle, casually checking the contents of the nearest barrel. In truth, she had her own designs where John was concerned. Her mother once told her that seduction wasn't a fleeting battle but a prolonged siege—you didn't just charge in, you took it slowly, whittling away the target's defenses until he willingly opened the gates.
John's walls, she thought with an inward smile, are already well on their way to crumbling. She wasn't about to blurt that out loud, though.
Outwardly, she made a show of peering into a list of inventory notes on her handheld Link, keeping her tone casual. "Men like you," she said offhandedly, "the ones who actually have brains behind those muscles—let's just say you're in high demand. I can't imagine you don't know that."
John turned away to inspect the row of tankards neatly arranged along a shelf. "I don't think about it all that much, to be honest," he confessed, selecting one and testing its heft. "Most of the time, I'm just trying to keep my head down and do my job."
Dagna smirked. "And how's that working out for you? Lots of admirers these days?"
John shivered. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said, though his expression betrayed a flicker of dread.
The dwarf woman set down her Link and leaned her hip against a tall keg, crossing her arms. "You see," she began in a thoughtful tone, "too many girls think they can just throw themselves at a man, show off a bit of cleavage, and the man will be ready to Rut as the goblins do. But you, John…" She trailed off, letting her gaze rake over him, admiring his lean build and the quiet confidence behind his eyes.
"…you're not the type to be swayed by a random flash of skin," she concluded. "Takes more than that to breach your ramparts."
John cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm not sure if I should feel flattered or like a castle under siege."
She snorted. "A little bit of both, maybe." Then, with a wry grin, she added in a low, conspiratorial tone,
He matched her gaze, a mixture of wariness and curiosity flickering there. "You say these things, Dagna, but do you actually mean them?"
She gave him a slow smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased, turning back to the inventory notes with a shrug that shook her braids.
For a moment, the two of them fell into a companionable silence, the distant hum of revelers filtering in from the adjacent hall. Then a flicker of mischief reentered Dagna's eyes. "By the way," she said, cocking her head, "did you really need all eighty minutes? Or was that last swenty spent fixing your hair?"
John chuckled, patting his meticulously styled locks. "I plead the Justice's Mercy," he joked, though his grin gave him away.
Dagna's laugh echoed warmly, merging with the distant clamor of the beer hall setup. She never tired of their banter—how it danced just on the edge of flirting, comfortably honest yet peppered with enough tension to keep things interesting.
As they stood there, barrels lined up around them like silent guardians, she could sense the swirling undercurrent of the upcoming gala—each table, each keg, and each note on her Link an integral piece of a grander puzzle. Soon, guests would arrive in waves, thirsting for ale and entertainment. And if Dagna had anything to do with it, John would be front and center, attracting eyes and tipping scales.
But for now, they had a moment of calm—one in which Dagna could relish the knowledge that she'd already begun her "siege" on John's formidable walls. And if he ended up proving her wrong? Well, in her eyes, that was a risk worth taking. After all, at the very least, she'd have gained a friend along the way.
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Nanlan sauntered through the palace gate at last, a full ten minutes later than he'd hoped, thoroughly put out that the men's security checkpoint had taken forever. What was the point of a separate men's section if they were still going to drag their feet? "They knew this place would be packed tonight," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes at the throngs of people trying to enter. After all, everyone was here,it was the biggest social event of the year, and New Londium was quickly becoming the unofficial world capital, even if some old-timers across the sea clung to stuffy Londium back in Albion as the Federation's true seat of power.
He gave a lofty sniff as he smoothed down his stylish silk vest. At least I finally made it, he told himself, staring up at the palace's bizarre mishmash of architectural styles. An eyesore, sure, but who cared about that when this was where the wealthiest, the noblest, and the most famous were all gathered? And now, he counted himself among them—dazzling lights, fancy clothes, and an aura of importance that made him feel like he'd truly arrived in life.
Nanlan reflected on how much better his life was here compared to the dull old All-Clan compound back in the Plains Republic. He practically beamed whenever he recalled how he'd joined the Catkin. Back home, he'd been nobody, just another displaced beastkin banding together to keep their Kindred alive. But among the Catkin, he was somebody—a precious boy to help rebuild their numbers after the genocides of Vanguardists had driven them from the Zodiac Empire. Sure, it meant he had to "service" at least one girl a day, but he liked that arrangement just fine. He was Catkin. We like licking and being licked, right? It didn't bother him much, though sometimes it turned into an hour of listening to some girl gripe about her personal drama. They never really wanted his advice; they just wanted to vent. It was so irritating, hearing them go on and on, then ignore every suggestion he offered.
Still, the perks more than made up for it. He got his own room for the very first time—imagine that! Privacy. Plus, he received a nice stipend, which he happily spent on stylish clothes, nights out with the othe guys, and the occasional treat for himself. Coming to New Londium had been the best decision of his life. The city practically sparkled with opportunity: famous people roamed the streets, dueling circles provided constant entertainment, and he'd somehow ended up picked as one of the Clan Champion's "kept man." Though he barely ever saw Asah, she was always busy with one thing or another. His star was on the rise, no doubt about it.
Nanlan glanced down at his reflection in a polished stone column, giving a self-approving wink. Lookin' good, he thought, admiring his perfectly coiffed hair and the way his outfit showed off just enough of his toned arms and tight ass. If it weren't for the crowds pressing in behind him, he might have paused to admire himself a bit longer. Another wave of newcomers surged into the foyer, nudging him forward into the main gallery.
No matter, he reassured himself, stepping into the grand hall. High above, mana lamps glowed in multi-colored swirls against the mismatched pillars and arches, casting prismatic patterns across the marble floors. The palace itself might be a clash of architectural tastes, but at least the people were refined and so well-dressed. That was the real draw, anyway: being seen among the upper crust, the glitterati of New Londium.
He took a moment to draw in a breath, chest puffing proudly, before striding deeper into the throng. Yes, he decided, this is exactly where I'm meant to be. Sure, the building looked hodgepodge, and the men's entrance had been a slog, but none of that mattered now. He was finally inside, about to rub elbows with nobility, top-tier champions, and maybe even a few foreign dignitaries. Let them see him in all his Catkin finery—tail swishing, ears perked, a lazy grin plastered across his face. Sure, he may be technically breaking the rules, going out alone without Asah's permission, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
As he maneuvered through the crush of bodies, he allowed himself a moment's smugness, recalling how far he'd come. He had a bright future, a place in the Clan Champion's pride. That's the beauty of New Londium, he mused, sliding past a pair of giggling noblewomen. No matter how humble your beginnings, you can strut around like the star you know you are.
And with that, Nanlan let out a contented sigh, fluffing his tail and grinning at a nearby reflection of himself in a tall mirror. My life is on the rise, all right, he told his reflection confidently. The biggest social event of the year, the city at my feet, the future wide open—who wouldn't envy me now? He cast one last, self-assured glance at his attire and strode onward, determined to soak up every second of the grand gala's spotlight.
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Nanlan had spent hours wandering the bustling corridors of the gala, letting every gaudy sight and smell wash over him. This wasn't just a fancy dance. No, this event was more like a world's fair, featuring a hundred or more extravagant displays, booths, and stands hawking the finest food and drink from every corner of Edra. The official dancing wouldn't begin until after the "Hours of Wonders," when the spirit world's closest approach would light up the sky. Nanlan planned to avoid that whole spectacle anyway—too many crowds, and besides, he was more interested in scoping out the interesting men and women who'd gathered here.
Truth be told, part of him was relieved he'd found an excuse to duck out of the Catkin celebration tonight. Sure, he liked a good party as much as the next person, but the full moon and Yuletide combined meant the boundary between the spirit world and the physical plane was practically nonexistent. Beastkin, including Catkin, grew…intense at times like these. Most of the girls back at the clan lodge were in a near heat, and he'd spent the better part of the day "servicing" them twenty times—twenty!—before managing to slip away.
He gave a self-satisfied shrug at the memory, dragging his gaze from a passing server who carried a tray of candied fruit skewers. Speaking of which, he thought, I've got a meeting soon. A friend from home—a Dogkin, ironically—had come all the way to New Londium just to catch up with him, though he had no idea how she'd scored an invitation to this gala. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. It would be nice to reminisce with someone who got him—someone who hadn't grown up bound by the old Zodiac rules of tradition.
The Clan Elders of the Zodiac Clans never did appreciate how much simpler life could be when you weren't bogged down by so-called "honor" and ancient customs. It was no wonder the upstart All Clans was making strides year after year—those old Elders stuck to their outdated ways like barnacles, while younger folks like him enjoyed the modern freedoms of city life.
With a content little purr, Nanlan strolled into one of the many beer halls dotting the palace wings. He'd expected every beverage station to be a grand palace-sponsored affair, yet this one seemed run by a smaller private outfit. Oddly enough, only a few official staff members buzzed about—the real work seemed to be handled by those eerie wooden golems that belonged to the palace. The place was absolutely packed, though, which made no sense until…
Oh. Nanlan's gaze snagged on one of the servers—a man wearing a ludicrous "tavern dandy" costume. A total himbo, Nanlan scoffed mentally, even as his eyes were drawn to the server's strong arms and that eye-catching crotch. Suddenly, it all made sense. No wonder every woman (and more than a few men) in this room had crowded in—this server was a living, breathing magnet, a strutting poster boy for the old-fashioned, ultra-manly "born the old way" type.
Nanlan rolled his eyes, though a hint of jealousy flickered beneath his shallow bravado. Some people have all the luck, he thought, watching the man exchange a few jokes with patrons. Probably from an old, well-to-do family who ensured he was carried to term the 'traditional way.'
That method, Nanlan knew, led to men with naturally larger builds, stronger vitality and magical talent, and elevated status. Meanwhile, the majority of men nowadays—like Nanlan himself—owed their survival to mana supplements in the womb, which often meant smaller stature and a weaker constitution. People tended not to mind, since "more men was better than no men," but it still rankled that these "old-way" births got so much admiration.
Look at him, Nanlan fumed internally, crossing his arms. All he has to do is stand around in that slutty outfit and—bam!—he's got a whole crowd of admirers falling over themselves. Nanlan remembered how hard he'd worked back in the clan to maintain his looks, to catch the attention of girls. Sure, he had enough charm to fill a bucket, but it still required effort. Meanwhile, this random guy barely had to lift a finger.
With a dismissive sniff, Nanlan stepped aside to avoid a trio of giggling women who jostled him on their way to the dandy. They were already whispering excitedly, eyes fixed on the server's broad shoulders. Himbos, he thought sourly. Their entire existence is an unfair advantage.
Still, the country boy in him—shallow though he might be—couldn't resist sneaking one last glance at the himbo's well-defined silhouette. Freakin' nobles, Nanlan grumbled inwardly.
And yet, for all his scorn, there was a stab of envy in Nanlan's chest. If he'd had that old-fashioned luck, maybe he'd have half the beer hall ogling him. Maybe he'd be the center of attention instead of scrounging up affections from whichever clan girl needed a "daily service."
With a forced shrug, Nanlan tried to shake off his annoyance. I've got a friend to meet, he reminded himself. She's gotta be around here somewhere. If this hall was any indication, the entire palace would soon be brimming with crowds drawn by the flamboyant or the powerful. Rather than stew in jealousy, Nanlan decided, he might as well join the throng. After all, he told himself, I'm no slouch, either.
He straightened his vest and ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, flicking his tail in a show of indifference to the dandy's popularity. If there's any justice in this world, I'll find my own spotlight soon enough. And with that thought, he turned on his heel, intent on tracking down his Dogkin friend—preferably before she, too, got lured in by some primped-up himbo who made everything look effortless.
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Medarda inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring as a dizzying tapestry of scents flooded her heightened senses. Even in human form, her draconic heritage granted her a nose far keener than that of any ordinary mortal. Yet amid the kaleidoscope of perfumes, freshly polished armor, exotic spices, and mingled sweat from the thousands of Kindred in attendance, one particular aroma seized her attention with a jolt—the most captivating fragrance she had ever encountered. It was like a beacon calling to her across the ornate palace halls, shimmering above the mundane swirl of Yuletide festivities. For a moment, Medarda simply stood there, eyes closing in rapture, allowing the luscious smell to wrap around her like a silken scarf.
The lavish gala was in full swing, the crowd alive with chatter and laughter, but Medarda heard little of it now. She was on a singular mission—find the source. Never mind that she was expected at a crucial meeting with the Governor-General and the President. Never mind that countless dignitaries and luminaries had traveled leagues hoping for a mere moment of her time. If she, Medarda the Golden—multi-trillionaire, the ever youngest, and last of twelve remaining Dragons of the Draconic Dominions—desired something, no force in creation could dissuade her. The same fierce instincts that once drove her ancestors to sweep entire continents under their claws now pulsed within her veins, awakened by this mesmerizing scent. A dragon's nature was impossible to suppress for long, and tonight, her long-quiescent impulses refused to be denied.
Strolling deeper into the gilded corridors, she swept past crowds of curious onlookers without so much as a nod. Her opulent gown—spun from shimmering gold-thread that matched the hue of her eyes—rustled softly, announcing her presence as she glided through clusters of noblewomen, seasoned Champions, and ambitious nobles. Whispers trailed in her wake, for Medarda was not merely another face at court—she was the wealthiest woman alive, rumored to possess private treasuries large enough to fund entire nations. Some said she could purchase the palace itself if she wished, for she was the sole owner of the world's largest mana purification company. Yet tonight, none of that mattered to her. Only the smell beckoned, warm and inviting, tugging at her like a half-remembered promise.
Her gaze flickered with draconic resolve as she followed the faint trail, weaving between pillars of mismatched marble and around knotworks of palace golems, whose polished wooden frames creaked quietly in the corners. The grand gala itself was a magnificent clash of cultures and flavors, each booth or stand vying for a share of the night's enchantment. But Medarda's attention lay beyond these mortal diversions. She was a dragon, and the call in her blood demanded she claim what was hers. She exhaled, feeling her heartbeat accelerate, a surge of ancient pride rippling through her. No dragon's hoard is complete, her mind echoed, without a true bachelor at its center. She had scoffed at that old saying once, dismissing it as silly tradition. Now, it hummed in her veins like prophecy.
A server collided with her in passing, arms brimming with silver platters. She stammered out a breathless apology, terrified, but Medarda merely waved a dismissive hand, never breaking stride. The aroma was intensifying—close, so close she could practically taste it on her tongue. If her guess was correct, it likely came from a man. Some men, especially those of the old-born lineage, exuded a particular mana-laced musk that could drive even the most restrained beast into a frenzy. Normally, she could ignore such primal calls—she had centuries of discipline behind her, after all. But this was different. This was more—richer, deeper, laced with intangible promise.
She paused beneath a towering arch, closing her eyes to inhale again. There—she could pinpoint the direction now. Turning sharply, her gown flowing about her ankles like liquid gold, she advanced with renewed purpose. Attendants and guests stepped aside instinctively, sensing an aura of power that allowed no interruption. Her meeting would have to wait. Diplomacy, alliances, politics... None of it trumped the electric thrill of discovering who carried that irresistible perfume of life and mana. And as she pressed on, lips curved into a predatory half-smile, she silently congratulated herself for heeding her instincts. Time would tell if this quest ended in disappointment, but in her long experience, a dragon's nose rarely lied.
And so, with the light of the great chandeliers dancing off her golden eyes and ebony skin, Medarda the Golden—richest woman to ever walk these halls—embarked on a private journey of indulgence. Her mind reeled with anticipation at the thought of completing her hoard, of claiming a piece that might finally satisfy the yearning she'd carried for so long. Whatever else transpired tonight, she intended to leave this gala one step closer to fulfilling a dragon's deepest, most ancient desire. If that meant making the most powerful politicians in the Federation wait, so be it. She was, after all, a dragon. And dragons always followed their instincts.