Geol’ik proudly strode down the ramp of his shuttle onto the landing bay of the gargantuan Vasnu’k Kra’to Mere’yan. He was accompanied by a mere two bodyguards, instead of the usual six, as well as his quartermaster and Geo’Yvera. The last one was armed to the teeth, which meant he technically had three bodyguards, but no sane Geol’ would deny a Geo’ with that many scars her weapons, especially not since her mane carried the typical braid indicating her as a wife.
His three eyes took in the massive landing bay. Dozens of shuttles were docking, each disgorging groups of prospective buyers. There were many alien races present beside the Geol’. Humans, as ever, were amongst the most numerous, the race having spread at an incredible pace into the galaxy with their ancient terraforming project. He also spotted a surprisingly large amount of Kiri’. The small, four legged beings moved carefully and in large groups to avoid being trampled underfoot by the larger species around. He found them interesting. From what he had heard, they had originally developed as a hive species, only to turn highly individualistic shortly after leaving their home system.
It was somewhat surprising to find them present in such high number, though. The main products going for sale were pulsar batteries taken from the Kiri’kou Empire, a nation that produced highly advanced versions of the weapon. It was a necessary countermeasure, as their astounding breeding rates had affected their style of warfare, and boarders, fighters, bombers and other assorted attack craft were their preferred tactics. As such their need for better defences against such numerous onslaughts had seen them push their pulsar technology to new levels.
To see them here meant they were either rogue elements trying to get their hands on better weapons, or secret envoys trying to trace back the leak.
Either was of little consequence to him. His desire to see these weapons land in his hands was… Minor. His quartermaster had informed him of the likely final price, and warned him that the acquisition of even a fraction of the shipment would put a significant strain on the clan’s finances. As such he had tempered his hopes, even if he still desired them. A large convoy would soon be passing through the territories assigned to his clan, and the goods they carried would indeed see the Givrain gain much wealth in turn. But he feared reprisal. He had few warships, and the number of his crew was small. A strong reprisal would see them bloodied. Perhaps even broken.
He and his retinue were escorted by a lanky, thin Geol’. The male did not introduce himself, as was the custom for those of low rank amidst the merchant families, but he was unfailingly polite and professional. He heard his old quartermaster shuffle along behind him, age having taken its toll on his body. Even so the young clan leader knew that the venerable Geol’ would let his eyes feast. He did the same.
The Vasnu’k displayed an immense amount of wealth, enough to humble him. Dozens of Geol’ warriors lined the boulevard that ran through the ship from stem to stern, each of them clad in power armour and wielding heavy glaives or other imposing melee weapons. Their rifles were attached to their backs, within easy reach, revealing them to not just be ceremonial guards. Others patrolled the hallways, giving the guests brief, estimating glances, as if they were weighing potential opponents.
The boulevard itself was lined with small shops and stalls. Some sold items of the edible sort, ranging from the questionable to the delightful. Others advertised the sale of weapons, often vying for attention with those who made them. Antiques, furniture, pets, … The Vasnu’k was a massive vessel and its main hall had stores for anything one might come up with. Even so there were two main differences amidst the countless storefronts of this trade vessel that the Lawbreaker noticed.
The first was the complete and total absence of the more illicit forms of goods. The legal status of pharmaceuticals was often dependent on a particular nation’s laws. Even then it often differed between systems, let alone species. As a result most —not all, a subtle but telling difference— vessels were permitted to partake in their trade, provided they kept any cargo that was locally illegal on board.
Drugs were not that common aboard a Vasnu’k, however. The Geol’ did not quite have the ability to manufacture them in sufficient quantities to make it a worthwhile trade. Even those few trade vessels that fully belonged to Lawbreaker cartels did not quite find the sales lucrative enough to warrant the exorbitant production cost. They sometimes served as smugglers for shipments that had been manufactured planet-side, but that would be the extent of it.
No, what was most notably absent was the slave trade. The Geol’, by and large, had little qualm taking slaves and trading them, though the treatment of the caged souls was heavily dependent on the whims of the clan head and the standing of said clan. It was a strange sort of honour to be a war-slave of the mightiest clans, while being brought low by clans so minor they had to resort to being full-time mercenaries, was seen as a grave insult, and a death sentence besides. Other races practised it as well. Some abstained entirely. Some, like the humans, had very conflicting opinions towards it. Officially the smaller aliens condemned it on the whole. Until you scraped off the thin layer of veneer. Some openly practised it, others hid it under the cover of indentured servitude. Others were lashed by financial shackles, never realising they had sold their freedom for basic sustenance.
On the Kra’to Mer’yan, a vessel that plied the spacelanes of the frontiers —and those beyond it— with the occasional diversion more corewards, it was strictly forbidden. The vessel operated too openly for its Matriarch to risk running into disagreement with authorities over something with such a low profit margin.
The other major difference was the presence of money-exchangers. This was not the simple, straightforward banking system that virtually any nation possessed. One did not go there merely to trade one currency for another. No, what was exchanged there were goods, currencies, weapons, ships and anything imaginable against credit. Matriarch Geo’Seryan had long ago grown tired of the issue that some of her customers could not pay up the debts they owed her. While this simply meant that the items sold to them would be returned to her vessel’s holds, it damaged her reputation. No auctioneer liked to offer the same item twice, after having a client default on their payments.
As such, she had created the credit system. While the simpler items still were sold according to the old ways, the truly expensive items could only be bought with credit. Patriarchs, cartel leaders, gang bosses, officers, nobles and aristocrats alike went to these stores to exchange their possessions for credit. Geol’Seryan’s merchant lords would value whichever was presented to them, offer a price for it, and then the goods or a document representing them would be exchanged for a letter of credit. With that an upper limit of what they could spend in the auction was set. Afterwards either the letters were returned, or the goods remained in their custody, with the deficit paid out in cash, in a currency of the buyer’s preference.
It was a simple system, but not one he was here to use. His quartermaster had already made the necessary arrangements beforehand, and their transaction had been completed digitally.
Instead, he contented himself with walking down the pathway, daringly sampling some of the more alien delights and treating Geo’Yvera to a new set of vambraces. It earned him a feminine smile, a rarity coming from her.
And all the while his quartermaster shuffled along, grunting complaints about the heightened costs of everything he encountered.
As Geol’ik and his retinue made their slow way over to the auction hall, Matriarch Geo’Seryan was already present and overseeing the place. The gargantuan theatre had a massive central floor, offering thousands of seats for a curious audience and those with meagre means. The slightly askew walls were dotted with private boxes, each offering seclusion and seating to the more esteemed and wealthy customers, increasing in size, prestige and amenities offered as the altitude increased. And there was not a part of it that was not covered in tapestries, drapes, paintings, antiques or other, overt signs of her wealth. She was one of the wealthiest Geo’ around, and she would be remiss to not flaunt it, even when today’s sale would not come close to breaking any records.
Behind her a few of her attendants were regarding her with wringed hands, ready to react on the most minor of her wishes with extreme alacrity. They were nervous, as they should. Their Matriarch was present. Though their nervousness was likely caused as much by the small army of bodyguards that surrounded her and the very scrutinising looks they were throwing at them.
She ignored them both. Instead, her three eyes carefully tracked the incoming visitors for a specific person. It did not take her long to find him. She had her people watching him ever since he had put foot on her vessel. Geol’ik stood tall and proud, one of his wives close behind him. Seryan noticed how the female moved with a warrior’s grace and filed it away in one of the corners of her mind. She also saw how the elderly Geol’ grumbled every step of the way, and how Geol’ik ignored it.
He is not a bad looking male, she admitted to herself. Not that it was a factor she gave much weight to. Ability trounced all. Yet she found herself intrigued by him. The male himself behaved with a calm, collected behaviour. It was a sort of serene, humble confidence. Not the usual arrogant swagger with which far too many males of her kind moved.
Still, she saw no evidence of what the Witch Lord thought hidden with him. So far he seemed like the average male, if more controlled and peaceful than most. Then again, she chuckled, rumours had it he had seven wives. That’ll douse the fire of any red-blooded male.
Soon enough he was gone from her sight and she turned around, disappearing into the bowels of the superstructure. She knew he had no real credit, so he would be able to buy but little. No doubt something that would vex the Witch Lord to no end, as he had specifically intended for the young Patriarch to acquire a sizeable shipment of the new armaments. She briefly toyed with the idea of leaving it be. It would be entertaining to see Mi’Sivi stew for a change.
She shook her head, the braid in her large mane narrowly keeping itself contained. No, as amusing as the thought was, the Witch Lord counted on her to see it happen. She’d have to go and have a chat with her reluctant customer, and make him part with his wallet, so to speak.
But not yet. First, she’d let the auction drag on a little. It would not do for the main actress to take to the stage from the very beginning. She was in no rush. The auction had plenty of appetisers…
Geol’ik leaned closer to the balcony, trying to get a better view. He did not quite need to, as there were screens aplenty that showed a close up of the items sold.
Until now the auction had gone pretty much as he had expected. Weapon shipments of decent make had come and gone, even a handful set of the much-demanded pulsar batteries had gone by. The bidding for those had been amusing to watch. So much tumult, so much aggression. The local enforcers had already put down a few overeager customers after they had gotten out of their seats and into those of another. Even the boxes were not entirely secure of such behaviour, as an earlier message kindly requesting them to remain seated until the end of the event had revealed.
He sighed longingly as another batch of pulsars went under the hammer. It was within his budget, but every time he so much dared to glance at the buy button, his quartermaster had begun to glare holes in his mane.
With each passing shipment his longing grew. Thoughts of the convoy and its juicy cargo lodged themselves ever more firmly in his mind. If only it were not for the potential retribution…
“Would it really be wise to not buy any?” Geo’Yvera whispered. “If we do not, we will lose many to their fighter escort, and attacking would be unwise. If we would be able to outfit even a handful of our vessels with those batteries, we would be able to break them as the cliffs break the tides. Our holds would grow heavy and fat with loot. Our clan would gain much wealth and renown.”
“That is only if the convoy is where our spies promise it will be. Last minute changes could always happen,” the quartermaster cautioned, “and then we will be left with little to our names.”
“I worry not about that,” Geol’ik interjected. “I am more concerned about the lives lost should a reprisal occur.”
“Bah,” Yvera growled. “Our warriors are strong and daring. They would welcome the challenge.”
He vested a disapproving stare on her. “We have scant ships and fewer true warriors. You would spend their lives for wealth?”
She snarled. “I would see them have a chance at glory and mates! How did you earn yours, flame of my heart? By sitting still and being safe?” She ran her fingers across several darkened spots on his upper arm, where molten metal had touched his bare skin. A leftover from a boarding action. “I would not have even considered your offer had your courage not been known, had your mettle never be tested.”
He slammed his left fists down on the table. “Damn you, Yvera, this is not a matter of personal honour. If we assault that convoy, we’ll lose hundreds, maybe thousands. If we are attacked in turn, we will see vessels crippled, perhaps even lost. We’ll lose thousands.” He bared his teeth at her. “I deny none a chance at honour, but there is more at stake here than a singular limb or life. My actions have consequences beyond my own body now.” He looked down on her, his authority and rank worn visibly on his face. “You would do well to remember that. You are mate to a clan Patriarch. You are more than a gladiator now.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
His wife obediently cast down her gaze, chastised, but the rage burned brightly behind her eyes, the public reprimanding having shamed her. And she only knew one response to that. That anger would remain close to her heart, if he could not soothe it. She was too prideful to let such a remark, even if it rang true, go unanswered.
“You had a valid point,” he added. “Our holds would grow fat with plunder should we attack. It is indeed a point worth considering, and one that I have been mulling over ever since we first got word.”
Her eyes shot up again, the anger fading, her mood mollified. “Then why not strike, flame of my heart? If we invest in these batteries, install them in our warships, then we could easily strike true. Should they try to retaliate with a true fleet, we can avoid them, run them ragged.”
He blinked at that, the amount of thought she had given it surprising him. To retreat seemed… unlike her. He had only ever seen her take a step back to dodge a blow, before leaping back into the fray. “I have thought about that, as well,” he finally admitted, earning him a hungry glare. “Yet the issue that remains is that they will hunt us with proper warships. Our vessels are strong and durable, but we do not have the equipment that any real military has. Our main strength lays in our ability to board our foes. I doubt they will grant us such a chance. They will swarm us with fighters and tear us apart.”
“If they find us.”
“When they find us. You know as well as I do that few will hide our location when a task force jumps into the system. We would not be the first with our guard up, only to discover our mane set alight from behind.”
She grit her teeth, visibly unwilling to back down. “Then we must simply buy more guns. Enough that we can outfit as many vessels as we can.”
“Impossible!” the old quartermaster shouted. “We cannot afford it!”
“Then we exchange a portion of the future loot for credit!” Yvera roared, slamming her own fists down. “Damn you, old male, are you so ensorcelled by the accounts that you forget what it is we are? We are Geol’, and Lawbreakers beside. Our Patriarch is one of the Witch Lord’s own lieutenants, and his ancestors have blessed him with venerable relics of the Blighted Wars. This is our chance to show the galaxy our might!”
The old male stood up and slammed his thick hands down on the table in turn.. Rage rippled through his mane. “And if we fail? If the convoy is not there? If we are not given credit? Geol’ian ruined our name and finances. Our clan is a fraction of what it was. Our accounts are in the green and stable, but only narrowly so. We are not wealthy! We cannot afford it!”
“So,” Geol’ik grumbled, the quiet baritone rumbling through the small room, shutting them both up. “if we wish to fight and plunder, we bleed. Either in currency, or in blood and metal.” He raised a single finger. “Unless,” he continued, “we succeed in our goal.” He looked at the two others, and found them both nodding in response. The one eager, the other reluctantly.
“I still implore you to hold off, Patriarch. If you truly must chase after this potential convoy, I urge you to do so with the forces we have now, and not risk bankruptcy. If we find it, news of our victory will surely attract more to our cause, which would more than replace our losses.”
“Unless we bleed so badly when a task force comes gunning for us, there’ll be naught left of us but corpses,” Yvera shot back.
“Enough,” Geoli’k growled softly. His fangs were out and bared and his mane stood straight. Yvera took one glance at it and immediately backed down, knowing better than to push him any further. The quartermaster did the same, but his old eyes needed a moment longer to recognise the threat.
“I will consider it. You have both given me council, but the decision is mine.” And, he thought, though he would not voice it, so is the responsibility of what it will bring.
Geo’Seryan clicked off the coms. Technically the boxes were utterly private, devoid of any and all ways to listen in. It would be horrible for business if people could spy on the conversations held inside the chambers for her valued clientele. Not that it had ever kept her from doing so anyway. The trick to it was quite simple, really. Most of her fellow merchants who did the same, made the mistake of selling that information or using it for their own gains.
She did neither, not in the way they did. She passed her information on to the Witch Lord, who added it to what must be an impossible large database, cross-referencing it with other sources. The enigmatic crime-lord never acted on it directly, but used the data she provided to extrapolate from it and steer certain elements from his loose organisation to corresponding targets. As such, none of her guests had even entertained the possibility that they were being overheard, instead any ill that befell them later was attributed to other sources. Loose lips within their organisation, betrayals or simply bad luck. None would even consider the idea that they might have been overheard.
Even now the act of listening in was in line with her orders. Or so I claim, she mused. Her Mi’Sivi was right when he had accused her of enjoying the tasks he gave her. The thrill excited her. The challenge inspired her. He gave her but little context alongside his commands, just enough to leave her guessing. She would never admit it to him, but she liked being able to prove her ability to him, even if scant few others would ever find out the depths of her talent.
She leaned back in the massive couch. It was an antique, dating to nearly fifteen hundred years ago. Thanks to meticulous maintenance and a great deal of attentive care, it had survived until the present. Its age, predating even the Blighted Wars, made it near priceless.
“Well then,” she wondered aloud, enjoying the solitude. “Let’s see how much that convoy could be worth.”
She sat herself up, opened up a few screens and went to work. Her own network of informants had long since let her known the cargo manifests of the massive convoy, including the unofficial cargo. She had her systems, a surprisingly advanced supporting intelligence —given their distance to any sort of true civilisation at least— crunch the number and estimate taken losses, destroyed goods, how much would be needed for repairs, …
In the end she was left with a large enough number that two of her eyebrows shot up. Definitely worth it. Even accounting for the percentage.
She closed the screens and switched to a new one. More numbers were crunched. Estimates taken. Casualties, attack vectors, ship strength and so many other factors related to warfare in space flashed by, things alien to her. Yet the SI gifted to her by the Witch Lord dutifully slaved away, going as far as to adjust the starting parameters to take differing levels of strategy and alternating numbers of ships armed with pulsars into account.
By the end of it she was shaking her head. Too many variables for her liking. Too few things that could be confirmed. She did not like it.
She returned her attention to the auction and looked over the logbook. Over half of the weapon shipments had been sold, earning her a hefty profit. An argument between two groups of Kiri’ had escalated into a full-on battle. Her guards had been forced to interfere, resulting in a number of casualties. The other items she had put up to spice the show had done fairly well, even with their low prices. An eyebrow shot up when she saw that some of the antiques of Geol’ make had been bought up by the young Patriarch, and that he had made an offer on many more.
Yet he had made no offer on the weapons.
She let out a theatrical sigh and got up. It seemed a personal touch was going to be needed.
A knock on the door pulled Geol’ik out of his deep thoughts. He still had not come to a conclusion about the weapons, his mind continuously pulling in two directions. He wanted to attack, to risk it. The compulsion for glory, wealth and renown was hard to resist. Yet the knowledge of how much blood would be spilled weighed him down. Do I really have the right to send that many to their deaths? That thought clashed with how the Geol’ lived. How had Geol’ian found it so easy, to send that many to their demise for… nothing? His raids had rarely been worth the cost in lives, yet nobody had questioned it. Would it be the same now? Everyone rushing at their foe to obey his orders, not questioning them, not looking beyond the desire to win, to improve their standing? Or would they regard the young Patriarch with doubt and judgement, weighing his every word and action, seeing If he was worthy or not?
The knock repeated, louder, and he was brought back to the here and now. He motioned to one of his bodyguards and the male went to it. “Who wishes to disturb Geol’ik, Patriarch of clan Givrain?” he demanded.
“Geo’Seryan, Matriarch of the Seryan Family, does,” came an incredibly feminine voice.
The guard jumped back from the door and looked at his clan leader in confusion. Geol’ik’s three eyes blinked rapidly, before he got himself together. He took on a calm, neutral face, motioned for the others to do the same. Once he was confident the others could maintain it, he gestured for the door to be opened.
The female who glided in did so with more grace than he had ever expected any of his kin to have. The Geol’ were strong, physical beings. They were direct up to the punt other races considered it blunt. The way they talked, acted, fought, flirted, did anything, was so tightly intertwined with their impressive musculature, their sharp teeth and their innate aggression and physical strength, it was shocking to see a female walk in who was everything but.
That is not to say she looked weak. Underneath the tantalisingly thin clothes he saw muscles bulge. Even if her skin, and he could see much of it through the cloth, was devoid of scars that would have marked any other. Despite her age —in the upper stages of her prime— she showed no signs of marriage, which shocked him. Yet she was dressed in a way that radiated femininity. Her enormous mane, far larger than what any sane warrior would have let it be, was tied up in a long brain that ran across the entirety of her back. Her face was masterfully decorated, simple yet elegant markings highlighting her status, and every piece she wore was covered in intricate designs.
In short, she was near his polar opposite. He was physically opposing, his chest and limbs covered in sturdy armour, his mane just long enough to hint at his status, his fingers covered with seven rings that indicated marriage. His skin was marked by dozens upon dozens of scars, and the only decoration he wore was the Witch Lord’s insignia.
He saw her eyes dip briefly to it, before settling back onto his face. A broad smile spread on her face, yet her eyes remained a mystery to him. “Patriarch Geol’ik.” She said the words as if tasting them, her eyes sucking him in and laying him bare. He tried to do the same, but found himself outmatched. He knew she was gauging him, same as if he would an adversary. But there was no lust for battle, or any other emotion he recognised. It was disconcerting.
Beside him, he heard Geo’Yvera growl threateningly. The female took a step forward, hands going to the weapons at her side. As a wife she had every right to. Geo’Seryan’s gaze was too intense and lasted too long to be polite.
Then she redirected her eyes from him onto Yvera, and his wife was stopped dead in her tracks. He saw her wilt under a look that was decidedly disapproving. Geo’Seryan actually managed to make Yvera take several steps back, until she was at a position suited for a wife to stand at in the presence of her husband and her betters. Then the Matriarch walked to a nearby seat and took it without asking for permission.
He did not snarl at her, but it was a close thing. Unused to merchants he might be, but he knew well enough that she had enough financial reach to run him and his clan into the ground. “Matriarch,” he growled politely instead. “To what do I owe the visit?”
She vested that unsettling gaze upon him again, as if she was skinning him to get at the flesh underneath. “If anything, Patriarch,” she said after too long a silence, “I feel as if should be the one asking you that.”
He threw a sidelong glance at his quartermaster, who just looked bewildered. “I do not follow your meaning.”
“I would have assumed you came to my auction to buy weapons. Yet you did not even bring out an offer. Are they not to your liking?”
The words were spoken smoothly and sharply, a tongue licking teeth. And that ancestors damned stare. He felt his nails dig into his fingers and forced his hands to relax.
The growl reverberated in his throat as he spoke. “I have nothing to dislike about them. I have seen the footage you have taken of their destructive power, and I see much use for them. Yet my clan is not yet that wealthy that we can easily afford their acquisition.”
“Your clan is so poor you cannot even bring yourself to place a bid?” she immediately riposted. He felt Yvera’s head shoot up, before his wife forced herself to look down again.
He did not begrudge it her. This time he did snarl at the Matriarch. “Be wary, Matriarch, your rank does not entitle you to expect insults to go unanswered.”
“Was it an insult, Patriarch?” she shot back, her eyes boring into his skull. “An insult implies disrespect.” She winked at him, her fangs bared in an amused smirk. “Do you assume my comment as such?”
She was too relaxed, the way she lazily leaned back in the chair, her four arms folded. Her muscles weren’t tensed, her mane did not fight her braid. She was calm, and it was no act.
“It if was not an insult,” he growled, trying to keep the threat out of his voice for the sake of politeness, and failing,” then what was it?”
“Tut, tut, tut, Patriarch. No threatening me on my ship.” The grin she displayed now was far more threatening than his voice had been. Her eyes were cold as ice, a cold, calculated form of murder in them. In an instant he was reminded that, despite her being not a warrior, she held enough power to wreck him as thoroughly as any enemy could. And his clan besides.
Then it was gone, and the normal calm was back. “It was a simple statement.” She shrugged. “If a clan is too poor to bid, then perhaps I am better served with offering their spot to another. Many vie for a chance to be here, after all.” She threw him another smile, this one almost sultry, or perhaps even fully so, going by how he heard Yvera’s mane bristle behind him as it straightened in jealous fury. “I cannot afford mercy when fighting, even if the field I fight on is vastly different to yours.”
He felt his nails pierce skin. They were cleanly cut, not sharp in the slightest, and his skin was thick and tough. Yet the rage boiling within him caused them to draw blood regardless. How had Geol’ian ever dealt with this? he wondered. The male had never shown the wit necessary to deal with this.
“You are correct, of course,” he said, swallowing his pride and anger both. If he earned her displeasure, she would not even have to actively harry them. Just denying him access would be sufficient to bring harm. He heard Yvera hiss at his admission, but he ignored her. Clan above all. He tried to think of a way out, but she spoke before he had a chance to.
“I am not entirely unsympathetic to your plight, however, Patriarch. I heard of the troubles that have befallen Givrain. How the other male—” the lack of use of title and name showing just how hard the Witch Lord had struck down his predecessor— “has betrayed his oaths, and has been punished thus. How many have left the noble banner. And how you are trying to rebuild.”
She stood up and walked towards the glass window. “As such I am willing to grant you a… considerable line of credit. With a five percent interest. Yearly. It would allow you to acquire more goods.”
“That seems… Generous,” he answered, his own eyes narrowing in suspicion.
She let out a delightful laugh that rattled his bones, and when she turned and flashed him a coquettish laugh. Her eyes took in his distrust, and liked it, causing a shiver to run through his mane.
“That is because it is generous, Patriarch. It is an investment of my side. For a multitude of reasons.” She glanced over her shoulder, towards the spot where the remnants of the disagreement between the Kiri’ still remained. “For one, I prefer dealing with my own species,” she stated, shrugging. “For another,” she said, her smile downright devious now and more befitting a young, overeager female than the powerful Matriarch she was. She stopped in front of him and laid a hand on his arm, causing Yvera to bristle and step forward, only for one of his bodyguards to pull her back, before she committed an unforgiveable offence.
“For another, I find it unbefitting of a Patriarch to not be as daring as his rank demands him to be. Power demands confidence to the point of arrogance.” She leaned in closer, and her teasing demeanour changed into a deadly serious one, the full might of her own status enshrouding her. “It does not do for any of our status to hold back. We advance boldly, but not blindly. And remember that investments require initial sacrifice, in order to return a greater result.”
His mane trembled, the words, and the authority they were spoken in, ramming home hard and igniting his pride and other primal emotions. He could only nod mutely, barely hearing her passing words “You would look so much more attractive with a more abrasive temper, wouldn’t you agree, Geo’Yvera?” before she went out the door.
It wasn’t until much, much later, when a very satisfied Yvera was deeply asleep, that he realised he had been played like a damned fool.
And that every word she had said, had been the naked truth.