The nobility buzzed around Conor and Eivaley like a swarm of ziktilain flies. Just like those little carapaced nuisances, the nobles were ear gratingly loud and were everywhere Conor looked.
The buzzing hornets bombarded Conor and Eivaley with questions and comments, ranging from simple greetings and compliments to deep soul-searching inquiries about whether they would become official Champion and Lady to one another.
Each new inquiry and observation increased, making it impossible for Conor to distinguish them.
For a group of coin-sucking nobles, they could make more of a racket than Conor ever predicted. Even his worst combat events were more tranquil than the annoying buzzing nobles eagerly trying to learn about him and hear about Eivaleys trip to the COS.
At least when Conor was accosted by enemy combatants, he could dust them and move on. This was a whole other scenario; the nobles might be potential threats to Eivaley and him, but they were not attacking; all they were, for the time being, was a nuisance in too many places for him to keep track of them all.
While Conor was bordering on being overwhelmed by the badgering horde, Eivaley was as cold as ice. This was her element, her battlefield, and where she thrived as a trained diplomat. Unlike Conor, whose tools were muscles, lead, and laser fire, Eivaleys were her words, a quick gesture, and a viciously silvered tongue.
As Conor stood off to her side and constantly moved to keep Kurlata away from her back and sides, Eivaley quickly answered questions from the crowd. She spoke in a chipper, welcoming tune that disarmed many of the noble's doubts about Conor.
All that she told them about her trip revolved around Conor, and she was practically glowing. She detailed in lighting-fast speed how he escorted her around the city, introduced her to his friends, and ultimately nearly died for her safety.
Each Lady who was told the saga of her extraction swooned and spoke openly about how they wished their Champion could be as valiant; a comment none of the Champions seemed to enjoy the subtle jab, but most took it in stride, complimenting Conor and referring to his titles as to why he could accomplish so much.
To most, it did not seem out of place, but Eivaley caught onto how the other Champions were using the titles as an excuse for being unable to measure up to her future Champion.
Conor quickly shifted gear to face this unraveling situation, needing to consider the factors of Eivaley's image and the impression he had already set. No longer was he going to isolate Eivaley from the remainder of her sisters and the threat they posed her. Instead, Conor would do precisely what Vuraley had instructed him to do; Conor would be bold, stalwart, and the immovable object his precious ruby needed.
Conor swept his arm wide, causing the nobles to jump back. As soon as the distance was made, he pulled Eivaley into his chest. She ended up with her back to him so that he could see who was around her.
“Alright, enough of this!” Conor bared his teeth, shielding Eivaley with his arm while he knife-handed the crowd with his augmetic.
The swarm of nobles lurched back at his animalistic threat. While physically being Human, Conor acted like a Jurintik, a species that looked and acted like werewolves. As such, most of his ingrained actions were as bestial as any untamed Jurintik from their forest cradle world.
Conor growled and guarded Eivaliy like a prized piece of meat. She was his charge, his Lady; none of them could ever be allowed to pose a threat to her. And with them crowding so much, he could not keep track of them all.
“All of you listen up,” Conor barked, sweeping his hand from one person to another. “Get in a line and wait your turn to speak to Eivaley. If you don’t, I won't let you.”
While Conor did not say the threat of I will shoot you in the face out loud, his hand moving toward the grip of his pistol got the point across.
The air around the crowd fell silent; no one was sure what would happen next. The looks Conor was getting were confusing, to say the least.
The men around the group looked at him in near reverence, but from the women's reaction, they oozed a miasma of jealousy. Many glanced at their Champion and pouted, silently demanding they oppose the assigned fifth Champion.
Most of the Kurlata female's tails whipped in excitement, and a half even stepped slightly closer—before their Champion wrapped their neck with their tail and tugged them back, gently, reminding them they were already taken.
It did not take long for the other nobles speaking to the other princesses and their champions to notice the pause in action near the fifth princess.
Conor could not see all of Eivaley's family from where he was, but they all oversaw these actions with a keen eye. Each was locked on to him for their own reason: Jealousy, desire, hatred, doubtfulness, approval, and, of course, raw curiosity.
After nearly half a minute of dead silence, an older of the male nobles, uncaring of the threats, stepped forward with his Lady beside him.
“Come on, Izaya, I’m certain the Lord of War here would be more than happy to answer your question,” the man smiled, gesturing at Conor before looking back at the rest of the nobles. “It looks like none of the others want to speak anymore.”
“I think you are correct, Beiyli,” the Izaya smiled.
That subtle jab at the other nobles had them all spring into action; a line was quickly formed, trailing throughout the hall. The nobles lined up in even pairs. Save for a few notable pairs, the males were about as tall as Conor, while the women were a bit more varied but were all shorter than the man escorting them.
They were both dressed in bright blues and bronze wrappings that complimented their dull green scales. They bowed deeply, little bells attached to their bangles and clothes chiming. “Thank you for seeing us,” they said in unison.
“It is wonderful to have you here, Beiyli, Guardian of the Ferth Woods, and Izaya, Tender of the Great Garden,” Eivaley replied, nodding to acknowledge the pair.
These two were a pair Conor had noted during his research about who would be in attendance; Conor knew almost everything about them. He was well acquainted with their lives, families, and, of course, what they did to receive those titles.
Beiyli, Guardian of The Ferth Woods. It was a title the older Kurlatra male had received in one of the uprisings that occurred every few decades around the planet. Specifically, this one was in a region of dense woodlands and rolling mountains far east of here, Delinalya.
The battle of the Ferth Woods was considered an outright loss for the royal army; the rebels had managed to kill their commander, well over five regiments of troopers, and captured all who remained—or so they thought.
Beiyli, having been blown up by a grenade and tossed into a thicket covering a stream, awoke two days after the battle was considered lost. Once he had, the man survived on foraged and stolen food, all while conducting a one-man guerilla war multiple kilometers behind enemy lines.
Over the next several months, he slaughtered hundreds of rebels, using whatever he could wield: traps, guns, grenades, knives, his claws, and, of course, his adept ability at camouflage.
By the time the royal army had managed to return to the Ferth woods, they found all of his handiwork spread across dozens of kilometers.
His tale was solidified in piles of rotting corpses, mines, active traps, and those unfortunate enough to fall into the punji stake pits he had filled with viscera.
The story of his survival was such an extraordinary event that he was granted a minor nobility, land, and, of course, the title he now proudly carried. That battle also explained his slight limp, scars across all his exposed scales, and the knife on his belt handmade from the bone of a fallen insurgent.
Then there was the opposite of the war-torn warrior, his Lady, Izaya. She was the Tender of the Great Garden. However, referring to the Velityan forest as a garden was short-sighted.
The jungle split this continent in half, covering ten percent of its surface. It posed a nearly impenetrable barrier for armies and acted as a bread basket through the fruit and game within its verdant bows.
Izaya ruled over the jungle and all the people within it. Unlike Beiyli, she was noble by birth, with her mother passing her title of Tender of the Great Garden to her daughter.
From what Conor had read about Izaya and her lineage, they had managed to restore the forests to their glory from a thousand years ago through conservation, replanting, and even species re-introduction.
Izaya specifically had managed a feat of herculean logistics. Through her connections in the GU and with the constant work of geneticists, they brought several species back from extinction and ensured they thrived.
Having been lost in thought about the history of the two in front of them, Conor had forgotten to greet them, something Eivaley subtly reminded him of. She nudged him with her elbow and coughed.
“Oh, uh, right.” Conor awkwardly said before nodding and welcoming the pair. “We are glad you two made the long journey here.”
“It had been such a long time since either of us had been here,” Izaya replied.
“And we would never miss Eivaley returning,” Beiyli smiled, looking down at Eivaley with a warm smile.
“It is lovely to see you again; a man of your ability has much life left to live,” Eivaley replied.
“I would not bet on that one little princess; I have lived three of your lifetimes and am nowhere near as quick as I was in my youth,” Beiyli chuckled.
“Dear, you are just as strong as you were forty years ago,” Izaya teased, patting her husband's shoulder.
The pair quickly began complimenting and trailing off, telling little stories about one another to Conor and Eivaley.
Eivaley’s heart warmed seeing the caring gesture. She could not help but imagine what Conor and she would be like when they were older, still assured that he would stay with her no matter what.
Conor, on the other hand, found the pair to be remarkable. He had no frame of reference to older people interacting like this, so each word was a curious puzzle that demanded he solve it.
Anyone in Heavalun who had lived as long as these two had would be well connected and protected by hundreds if not thousands of gangers or trillions of credits.
These two just seemed---happy. It was as if they did not need a reason to be joyful save for interacting with one another and sharing their love of life with all those nearby.
For all of his experience in life and combat, nothing had ever seemed as confusing nor alien as witnessing a couple with decades under their belt, just reminiscing happily about the good old days to the younger generation.
“Now, what was the question you had?” Eivaley replied, pulling the old couple back to the current conversation and trying to hurry the interaction along.
Eivaley did this not out of rudeness or anything like that, but with the growing line behind the duo, each initial conversation had to be kept prompt. There would be plenty of time for mingling after Eivaley introduced everyone to Conor.
“Sorry about trailing off there,” Izaya replied before looking up at Conor's imposing build. “I was curious about what attracted you to Miss Eivaley. There have been many rumors going around, but I would like to hear the answer from you.”
The simple question was something Conor had not expected at all; it blindsided him like an IED. There likely was not a more complicated question that she could have asked the Human at this point.
Conor had been battling with what Eivaley meant to him for several weeks and still had no solid answer. Now, as if Urla was mocking him, he was on the spot and had to forge an answer on the spot.
Conor looked down at Eivaley, who looked up at him, waiting for the answer as eagerly as the pair of Kurlatra and the others listening—including Mulaney and Burlai. The pair were standing nearby, sipping at some wine or at least pretending to.
Mulaney and Burlai had noticed Conor glancing in their direction and were aware he saw them. They did not care if the Human spotted them; it was not like them standing nearby was any affront to him.
From the distance of several meters, they posed no direct threat he could not address with a quick draw and the light kilogram trigger pull of the Brakuls Hand cannon. Both parties were aware of that fact.
Conor's mind raced, thinking about all of his experiences with Eivaley. He tried to grasp something he could tell them, a tread of reality that he could release while balancing the delicate tightrope of nobel politics.
He knew saying her father is paying me to stay would not suffice. That would make him look like an ass in front of everyone. He had to make this sound believable and something that would reflect her in a good light.
It took him a moment, but he knew precisely what he would declare to the group.
“Her selflessness. It was something we could not afford in Heavalun,” Conor replied, rubbing Eivaley's shoulder, her shuddering to his softer touch. “There was a moment when we were below Heavalun where she aided a pair of scavs. Eivaley gave them money and assured them we would not harm them.”
Conor then paused and looked down at Eivaley again, seeing her bright eyes staring back in adoration at his praise. Each word he said was the chime of heaven in her ears.
Conor could be telling them anything, but instead, he chose the trait she was most famous for among her sisters. Eivaley did not know if he intentionally said this, but she still appreciated it.
“I was just going to dust them, but she convinced me otherwise,” Conor admitted, being able to look back on the event and seeing how he had not even considered nonviolence to solve the issue.
While Conor used that as his reason, he genuinely thought it was one of her best traits. That she was so willing to risk herself to give someone the benefit of the doubt was a trait few on Heavalun had. You could not afford it there, but she could and wielded it like a weapon.
The pair had spoken about it before. At the time, Conor was initially curious about why she had decided to drag him along to her home and not just let him die.
Eivaley initially stated that she had already chosen Conor as her Champion and would not change her mind. But when Conor argued that was a nonanswer, she admitted the reality of it to him.
“When you left the room in the Clinic—” She paused and sighed. “I saw something different in you. You looked sad to be dealing with me. It was like you were afraid. I–” Eivaley stopped again and looked off into the gardens from her window.
That forlorn look in her eye showed the tax her society and being prim and proper had cost her.
Every day, Eivaley had to dance around a minefield that could affect her entire planet. But Conor was not that; he was straight up with her and did not sugarcoat anything, hoping to please her. In a way, she wanted all of life to be that way.
It's too bad Eivaley was the fifth princess and could not just cast it all away. She would be hunted and killed by her sisters. Her mere existence threatened the lineage, and they would not allow her to do that.
“I liked that you were not flat and that I could read you entirely,” Eivaley admitted after a moment. “It was as if there was more to you under the brooding facade. I could not help myself but want you. That and how I can speak with you however I please is comforting. I feel that no matter what, you will hear me out. ”
That was an answer that Conor was unsure of then and is still now. Eivaley essentially called him a puzzle to solve and, at the same time, defined him as a rock to be leaned on.
“But, I knew I saw kindness in you. You want to care, but your life has prevented it. So you just use money as an excuse—like you do for staying here.” Eivaley breathed, leaning back in her bed and looking at Conor on the chair nearby, still cleaning Brakul's pistol as he had every night for hours.
He paused the weapon maintenance and looked back at her, knowing she had hit the nail on the head.
Once again, she read his soul, word for word. He and Vuraley had agreed never to inform her of their arrangement, so she had to have plucked that information from their conversations and the rest of their time together.
The overall effects of her preternatural ability to understand him had yet to be seen in its entirety, but if it was shaping as it was. Conor would have to toss away the lie it was just for money.
But that was then, and this was now. Both would speak more about the comments later in the night.
“That is the same thing I fancied in Izaya when I first met her. Just you wait, young man; soon enough, she will have her teeth in you,” Beiyli laughed, patting Conor's metallic arm. “Even with this thing.”
“If only you knew,” Conor chuckled back, having not even thought of speaking what was meant to be internal dialog.
He felt Eivaleys tail clench around his waist as he pulled her in. He said it, intentional or not, and would admit, at least in private, that the little brat was growing on him.
“Aww, you two are just precious,” Izaya praised.
Her jubilation was joined by the other women who had overheard their answer; all seemed approving. “I hope we will get an invitation whenever you two hold a feast for your coupling.”
“Oh, I assure you we will,” Eivaley replied. “We would want you all there.”
Eivaley had not informed Conor of what would happen when she finally broke down his barriers and allowed her in. But one thing after them finally having sex, would be a feast, along with them both getting thier life coils from the clergy.
“That is wondrous. And Conor, please do call if you ever need anything. Advice, aid, or anything my old mind can’t think of,” Beiyli added. “But we cannot keep you two from your people. Please come find us later; I would love to talk with you about your battles.”
“We will,” Eivaley replied, while Conor nodded and took the note Beiyli handed him.
The note was Beiyli's contact information. Conor already had it, having dug it up through Vuraleys channels, but with Beiyli giving it to him, Conor could now use it without seeming like he overstepped a line.
Following that conversation, Beiyli and Izaya departed. They faded into the crowd to speak to other nobles and royal family members. The millisecond after the pair had left, another couple stepped forward to talk to Conor and Eivaley.
That was the start of the most exhausting experience Conor had ever had. Unlike the first pair, a kind, caring older couple who wanted to connect with the next generation, the rest were a mixed bag of enjoyable and infuriating.
Those who were enjoyable were similar to the first group, they had a few questions, exchanged pleasantries, and then were off. Interacting with those people changed Conor's impressions of royalty and high society.
He was honestly reconsidering his thoughts about how pompous and up their own ass royals were. With his interactions with Vuraley and Eivaley, the shape of what he believed the average noble was changing rapidly.
From his new perspective, he could understand that nobles were just people. They had their own hopes and dreams, strife and terrors. Like everyone he knew back on Heavalun, they keep them to themselves unless telling will benefit them somehow.
It was too bad that any of the goodwill he was developing was crushed when the picture-perfect caricatures of nobility began to drunkenly come forward.
They reeked of cheap booze and were absolute messes. Each was not just stuck up; they genuinely believed they were above all sentients.
The drunkards, both male and female, would take several minutes regaling anyone who would listen to them with their accomplishments and every title that came from them.
There were lords and ladies of thousands of houses, raised by twice as many fathers and mothers, and of course, each name to include their parents and kids had to be explained in painstaking detail.
For the sake of Eivaleys image, Conor did his best to not throttle the asshats. He had managed to not snap at any of them for nearly two hours; he had almost fallen asleep several times, but Eivaley bumped him to keep her Human on task. So his responses were becoming short, impatient, and crass, whereas the last one, he was downright rude, having ignored ninety percent of the hot air this blowhard was spewing.
All the man had done for the last twenty minutes was break down his titles and everything related to him. The man had not even started explaining his title of Slayer of the Guralian Drake. Ecallar was still detailing his father's life and why that seemed to matter.
“Can you shut up?” Conor growled at Ecallar Herela, son of Kiyulin Herela, father of Hextron Herela the last daughter of House Herela, Champion of Fyelu, wilder of the Blade of Purtral, Bester of the Pirates of the Nether Rift, Paladin of the Order of the First Empress, Slayer of the Guralian Drake, and the Master of the lost art of Vuruntali.
Ecallar stopped drunkenly explaining how his father had hunted the mother of the Guralian drake he had slayed and looked at Conor while clutching nonexistent pearls.
Eivaley snorted, hearing Conor's brash interruption of the saga of house Herela. She had heard the song and dance of both Ecallar and Kiyulin before he passed to the Emerald Oasis to join his ancestors in bliss. At this point, she could say the entire story without any notes.
“How dare you—” Ecallar started before Conor cut him off.
“You what? Low born, scum, merc, trash. By Urla, you can just call me asshole for all I care,” Conor sneered.
“Yes, lowborn. Have you not learned from Princess Eiveley to act correctly in front of your betters? I am Ecallar Herela, son of Kiyu—” Ecallar said, gesturing at Eivaley before Conor slapped the man's claws away with a heavy hit.
“Oh, she has taught me how to act. But for you, Ecallar Herela consort of drakes or whatever the fuck it was, I don't care.” Conor snapped.
Conor held his tongue to insult Ecallars lineage further by saying he was glad that his daughter, Hextron, was the last of their lineage, meaning they would die off.
Instead, the Human just watched as the man babbled for a moment and then fumed at the insult to his honor.
“You filthy scum-sucking—” Ecallar began but bit his tongue and went pale in the face when an angelic voice stopped him.
“Oh, so my daughter chose to interact with a scum-sucking what—Ecii.” Eivalys mother taunted as she and Vuraley approached the group.
The world fell nearly silent as the Empress approached; her angelic presence pushed all tension of violence away. She was a musical note that felled all the conversations like a scythe cutting grass.
All eyes who had been watching the events unfold fell onto Eyurali.
Eyurali flowed closer to the pair of detesting nobles. Though Conor did not consider himself noble in any regard, she understood what he was.
Even as an assigned champion, Conor held status higher than most present, save for other champions and their ladies in the running to be Empress.
Eyurali noted that the Human had attempted to be diplomatic for the last few hours. She had watched him keenly, with Vuraley insisting he would be a right and proper Champion for her fifth daughter.
She had initially been hesitant about involving other species in their politics. But Conor, so far, had laid most of those issues to rest.
Go figure, the empress' Champion lived up to his expected role. Vuraley was her guiding beacon in the storms of life; He was the voice of reason and the hand that sighted those who would threaten her life or the lives of their daughters.
“Oh, I–I meant,” Ecallar started but was shut down again by Eyurali.
“Ecii, please just stop. Your house has been in decline for decades. You would not want it to be further pushed into strife by your actions,” She stated, assuredly stepping in front of Conor and Eivaley.
Despite the words being delivered with the gentle grace of a mother swaddling a crying babe, they stabbed Ecallar like a rusty pipe.
“Leave while you are behind. The assigned fifth Champion certainly can see through your showboating. Or are you too drunk to see something in front of your face?" the Empress challenged, gesturing back at Conor.
“But—” Ecallar started but was silenced with words that were near violence from Vuraley.
“But, nothing!” Vuraley snapped, his tail whipping as loud as a gunshot.
Vuraley marched forward and pressed his sharp claw up into Ecallar’s throat. He paused for a moment, letting the other noble get a good grip of the High Champion's fangs. Thick, brackish venom dripped from the needle points as Vuraley flicked his tongue like a snake, tasting the fear rolling off the other noble.
“Your house is dying, and you aren't helping the image of the once great Herela. If you wish to return to glory, start by being as solid of a champion as Conor has been,” Vuraley hissed, stepping next to Conor and patting his shoulder. “This, mear Human has done more in a few weeks than your entire house has in years. Yet you dare to call him, what was it again? Remind me what you have the gall to refer to your better as”
Ecallar sputtered as the eyes of the entire room fell onto the drama unfolding. He frantically scanned the eyes of the others, seeing if anyone might come to his aid, but no one dared to step in for him; even the Lady he was escorting had stepped away, leaving him utterly alone.
With no options and his back to the proverbial wall, Ecallar made his house's first good choice in nearly fifty years. He swallowed his pride and retreated while he still had some semblance of nobility remaining.
“I—spoke out of turn to the assigned fifth, High Champion,” Ecallar replied, hanging his head low, and glancing down at the armor his father had bequeathed him to hunt the Guralian Drake; its dull steel surface as patinated as his house's reputation.
“The fifth what?” Eivaley added, reminding the other noble of the status Conor held.
“The assigned Fifth Champion,” Ecallar choked out.
Like many of the other nobles, he was unsure of Conor, and due to that, he forgot his place in the hierarchy, assuming it would not matter if he insulted someone who was an outsider.
“You will do your best to remember that, Ecallar,” Eyurali said calmly. “Now, with this sudden outburst, kindly leave this event. You will be hearing from me soon.”
With his tail tucked, Ecallar exited the room as quickly as his feet could allow. The others watched as he and the Lady he was escorting slinked out of the room like a pair of wounded animals, likely having smelled the blood in the water and sizing up if they could abuse the folly of the man soon.
“Alright, everyone, the show is over,” Vuraley announced. “Kindly return to whatever you were doing.”
At the command of Vuraley, the rest of the nobles returned to the evening's events, namely drinking and mingling.
It was as if a light switch had activated them all. Within a split second, they turned away and resumed their conversations as if there was no interruption.
A few moved to the center of the room and began to slowly dance with one another to the gentle music that flowed through speakers around the room.
It was not uncommon for Kurlatra to discuss important upcoming events or share secrets with one another while dancing.
“Thank you, Conor, I cannot stand him,” Eivaley muttered as Vuraley stepped over to his wife, who was simply scanning the crowd, assuring she had interacted with everyone she needed to. “Maybe we can use a bit more tact next time?”
“Why, he is not worth the effort,” Conor shrugged.
“I don’t want people to hate you,” Eivaley gestured at everyone.
She was initially worried about Conor not doing well in the gala. But he had surprised her in every way possible. Conor had not hit anyone or threatened to murder someone for looking at her wrong, both things he stated would likely happen.
While Eivaley could recover from any damages to her reputation, Conor was starting at square one. That he was the assigned Fifth Champion meant next to nothing in practicality.
Sure, the title protected him from people treating him like absolute dirt and offered him other benefits around the palace, but he still had to make a name that would live up to that title.
So far, he had undoubtedly done just that.
Conor was already being spoken of by the other nobles as someone confident, assured of himself, and now someone who will not take any bullshit or guff from lessers.
That combination of beliefs would set him up for them to approach him with caution in the future, lest they receive his and, by extension, Eivaley's ire.
Eivaley would praise his ability to adapt to the situation in front of him later, but for now, Eyurali had completed her scan of the crowd and turned about.
“Now that the fun is over, how are you faring this evening?” Eyurali smiled as she approached the pair, her elegance radiating off her like a burning fire.
Conor stood there, nearly dumbfounded. He was well aware from her entrance that Eyurali was beyond all others in how she looked and carried herself.
She was elegant and decisive action incarnate, but seeing the genuine article only a short distance away was beyond what he thought possible.
Each light bouncing off her shimmering dress and womanly frame was nearly blinding. It was as if Conor was looking into an exploding quasar. Thank Urla that Eivaley was there with him to pick his jaw off the floor; without her, he would have likely just been a slack-jawed idiot.
“Mom,” Eivaley smiled, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around her mother.
The calm and human action, in a way, dragged Eyurali down from divinity and placed her firmly in a category that Conor could interact with without issues.
“Oh, dear, I missed you more than you could ever know,” Eyurali purred, pulling Eivaley into a deep hug.
The mother and daughter held the embrace for nearly a minute, each nuzzled into one another, taking in the smells, sights, and feel of one another.
The two were an inseparable pair. Both love the other to their wholehearted ability. These months away from one another were arduous for them; neither liked being far from the other for so long, but such is life for nobles.
With their duties and lives, they regrettably often had to be away from one another. If Eyurali had her way, neither her precious daughters nor son would be more than arm's reach from her.
Eyurali understands all too well the effects of Kurlatra society on her daughters. All Kurlatra began life with a roughly ten-to-one female-to-male ratio for their clutch, but through sororicide, the numbers approximately even out.
She, as the current Empress, had slain or watched the death of no less than two hundred of her sisters throughout ten clutches.
All of her sister's laughs, cries, lies, and eventual deaths were embalmed in her soul. They were anchors pulling her to hell; she could never forget them.
Eyurali held Eivaley so tightly because she understood the damning fate that awaited all of her daughters.
They would either fail to rise to the position of Empress and head of their lineage or would be eternally dragged through the endless sands by the burden of their families reaping—just as she was.
If there was something Eyurali could do to prevent Eivaley, her most gentle daughter, from being damned to that existence, she would do it; however, just giving up thousands of years of societal norms to save her children would not work.
When she orchestrated the deaths of her sisters to rise through the rankings, she thought it was the only way to live. Now, having given birth to her own clutches, she honestly could comprehend the weight of watching your children kill one another for status.
With her new perspective on life, she wished none would live through the hell she had. She yearned that none of her children would be stained by the blood of their brethren as she was.
However, casting away the tradition of sororicide overnight would lead to tens, if not hundreds, of years of civil war, unrest, and uncountable deaths.
The current nobility would not take the change well and would assuredly combat the change. Each would raise their own small armies and fight for their own desires. The ensuing war would cause the deaths of millions, if not trillions, of her people.
Eyurali, even with the ever-steady guidance of Vuraley, could not accept that as a possible reality.
Instead of uprooting the entire Kurlatra culture to protect her brood, Eyurali regrettably elected to swallow the pill of the reality she had been born into and propagated—despite that doing so felt like eating molten glass.
Once Eyurali released her daughter, she stepped back. She clearly lingered on Eivaley, as if she was cementing each interaction in her mind like something that could never be recreated.
“Now, Conor,” Eyurali breathed, looking up at her daughter's Human, having buried all of her thoughts outside of being the Empress for the time being. “Would you care to inform me of your story? I have heard so much from Vurii.”
Conor nearly laughed at hearing Vuraley's pet name, but the man did not react to it being said aloud, so he assumed it must not be a secret.
Conor dutifully explained his life in Heavalun, leaving no detail out; in comprehensive detail, Conor spelled out his life to Eyurali, unable to not do so the divine woman.
Something about her just demanded Conor spill his guts. Eivaley was undoubtedly irresistible; her attitude, looks, and, of course, that she saw always around made her impossible to ignore.
But Eyurali was like a drug. Her mear existence was a more potent high than Visage or Rangula could offer—and those made you forget days of your life.
This woman was just someone you always wanted more of.
Conor spent the next twenty minutes explaining his life to Eivaleys mother. He detailed how his parents traveled to Heavalun as some of the first Humans to the COS. He did not skimp on details that they failed to live there and ultimately died, with him being found by Brakul when they were young teens.
It likely was not needed, but Conor explained in ways he had yet to admit to Eivaley how Brakul, though only three years older than he was, acted as his father, brother, and battle buddy.
Conor calmly explained the thousands of shootouts, hostage situations, and contracts the pair had taken on over the years. He also informed her about Stitch and Fae, his constant supporters in the slums.
The last story Conor told Eyurali was about extracting Eivaley and how Brakul and Stitch ultimately died. When he told her about their passing, Eyurali looked at Conor with sympathy, one that only she and others who had seen the death of so many family members could.
Conor saw the flickering light of understanding in the older Kurlatra's eye. She knew the weight he held on his shoulders; no words were needed to express that.
Eivaley, on the other hand, was shocked. She had seen Conor religiously cleaning the pistol that used to be Brakuls daily, but the extent the man meant to her Champion was something she could not have fathomed.
Brakul, as Conor's father figure, should be deified and buried as a hero who is above approach.
How Conor described the man's fate to him was beyond pitiful. Brakul, the man that raised her Champion, left lying in a pile of bodies, was not a fate a sentient of that caliber deserved.
She appreciated that Conor had placed her life over honoring the man, but he should still be remembered as the hero he was.
Brakul, even though Eivaly only knew the shrewd man for a short time, seemed to be worthy of a multitude of titles. He should have his story told through the ages; children should hear his saga and learn what a selfless hero could do, even if he did not reap the rewards of his sacrifice.
Eivaley had already considered making a burial for Brakul and Stitch to allow Conor a place to grieve and place his remembrance; now she would assure they would be sanctified as lionhearts who gave untellable things to the Kurlatra.
Eivaley would soon enough escort Conor to see the graves she would erect, but that would come in time.
“My dear Champion,” Eyurali began. “I am sorry, but I cannot use words to tell you how much I appreciate you saving Eivaley. I can do this.”
Eyurali then swooped in and hugged Conor, knowing fully from Vuraley that he does not deal with touching well.
Conor shot Ramrod straight for a breath before hugging her back. The moment he allowed the blissful warmth of the woman to crawl into his skin and breach his artificial heart's barriers, it was as if a chorus of Urla's guides sang around them.
Someone giving Conor comfort for his loss was what he had been missing. Sure, Eivaley was there for him. But, he had been closed off, guarded, and refused to open up about the sin of failing Brakul.
Eyurali peeled back his shielding like opening a nut. She could not be stopped. By Urla, Conor did not want the warm embrace to end, but it had to.
“You are undoubtedly a man that will protect my daughter.” Eyurali stared up at Conor, releasing the embrace slightly, leaving Conor's soul feeling like he was thrust into a blizzard.
The Empress bathed in the Conor's presence, seeing his tattered soul and the adamantine shielding he had forged around it. But her golden eyes held no condemnation; she did not care about his augmetics and how they were the physical representation of the wounds on his spirit.
She welcomed his metal jaw, artificial eyes, and all of the rest of him despite them being so different from the typical Kurlatra.
“I—I—thank you,” Conor replied, still recovering from a woman beyond all women's touch.
Eivaley sinched her tail around Conor, reminding him he was her Champion and should not be swooning over her mother.
“Deary,” Eyurali smiled at Eivaley while stepping back. “He is not a Kurlatra, but I think he is wonderful.”
Eyurali then outlined Conor's entire life. She missed no detail and even included recommendations to Eivaly to honor Brakul and Stitch, which she had already elected to do.
“Thank you, Mother,” Eivaley said, spitting out the needed word, knowing calling Eyurali's mom earlier was technically wrong. It should always be Mother or Empress when they are in the presence of other nobles. “Conor will be an outstanding Champion. Eivalys replied.
“He will be. I just wonder how well he can dance,” Eyurali pointed out, offering Coner her hand. “I'm certain my Champion would have explained the basics to him.”
Vuraley had shown him the basics, but Conor knew this would be more than just a dance. This would be the chance for him and the Empress to speak alone. They could chat candidly when they danced. With how the Empress had already cracked his shell like an egg, he feared what a dance with her might mean for him.
“I—Uh, can't dance,” Conor replied defensively, not wanting her to know more than she did.
Conor was a warfighter, a killer, or a battle buddy. A dancer was not a thing he would call himself, so he prayed to Urla that the Empress would accept the lie, but he knew that was not likely.
Conor could dance around mines, bullets, or something; dancing with the woman of women was another thing. What was he supposed to do when she crawled under his skin like a disease and truly rooted around in his psyche with her candied words?
Conor could have gotten away with denying her if the others backed him up. But Vuraleyn and Eivaley pressed him on. Although it was subtle, with them moving away and Eivaley releasing Conor from her tail, the meaning was clear: he would dance, like it or not.
“I would be honored to dance with you,” Conor sighed, holding his hand out, remembering the lessons he had been taught.
Eyurali took his hand and stepped close, no further than a millimeter from his lips, and breathed to him so only they could hear the following words fully. “I am glad you are.”