Conor took a moment to tuck in the gilded sash around his waist. Vuraley had given him the sash and some robes for the gala tonight. Both the First Champion and Eivaley did their best to convince him to dress like the other champions and nobles would be tonight, but Conor would sooner suck start a shotgun than wear one of those skirts.
So instead of wearing those toga-like garments, Conor wore his black combat pants, tank top, and battle belt with Brakuls' hand cannon holstered. It was all black, save for the pistol. He had even attached his nano flex armor to his wrist just in case he had to stop a blade or bullet.
Looking at himself in the mirror, Conor chuckled. The golden sash, tactical attire, and metal arm made him look ridiculous. He looked like some fool peacocking as a warrior ready to lead a group of soldiers to their untimely deaths.
Conor had seen the type enough times over the years. Usually, they were rich kids, and Daddy Corpo helped fulfill their misguided dreams of being a Billy Badass. They typically ended up bleeding out in a gutter, choking on their own blood within a few hours.
Such is life when you want to play with guns and pretend you are something you are not.
Conor pulled out Brakuls' pistol and racked the slide to check for ammo. He was greeted by a glistening brass cartridge peeking out of the chamber. Once he released the slide, Conor paused and stared at the old pistol.
The Tenyalin-made 12.7mm pistol glistened in the bright light of the room Vuraley had given it to him. The gun was far older than Conor, and the patina and dents in the slide and grip evidenced that.
But a lot like Conor and Brakul, despite having been dragged through gutters, buried in bodies, and having killed uncountable sentients, the handgun just kept on trucking. It went bang every time Brakul pulled the trigger; now it did the same for Conor since he swapped his JKL for it.
Any remnants of his friend's blood were cleaned off the pristine steel. Conor had a ritualistic cleaning of the pistol for hours each night, never feeling as if it was free of his failure. He could still see and feel Brakuls blood warm and dripping off it, no matter how many wipes and oils he attacked the grime with.
In addition, the weapon weighed more than it should. Conor had handled the weapon hundreds of times when Brakul was still alive, but now it seemed to weigh more than an antimaterial rifle.
The Human shoved the pistol back into his holster and sighed, still not used to not having his dear friend around. Conor was glad that Eivaley had gone through the effort of getting him ammunition for the rare weapon before the gala; without it, he was black on ammo, save for what he had left for the JKL.
The fifth princess had gone through the efforts of requesting the munitions for her potential Champion because it was customary for all Champions to be armed with a weapon of their preference while escorting a lady.
According to Vuraley, Conor would be the only Champion there wielding any form of a slug thrower, or long-range weapon for that matter.
The Kurlatra Champions prided themselves on hand-to-hand and bladed weapons, so Conor should expect most males to be armed with swords or the occasional knife. At least he had the advantage of stand-off distance if anyone decided to get froggy.
Over the last three weeks, Eivaley had been hounding him about the pistol and his aloof attitude. Conor did his best to hide his feelings about Brakul's death from her. But that lasted only a few minutes. She asked direct, pertinent questions that smashed his defenses like a tank.
She had been insistent Conor could tell her anything, and she would listen, promising to aid him in coping. But he shut that down, not ready to open that can of worms.
He would have shoved them through the wall if anyone else had asked them of him.
But Conor did not want to harm a scale on her. Whether it was that Eivaley could read him like a book, that her eyes seemed to pierce his soul, or that her father arranged to pay him more than he could ever spend for her safety and to act as her Champion, he had not decided yet—but that was a bridge he could burn later.
Once she figured out Conor was upset because of Brakul's passing, Eivaley clung to him more than she had already been. She was waiting for him outside of the showers, sneaking into his bed, trying to help him clean guns, struggling to keep up with morning runs and exercise; Conor even caught her listening in to his meetings with the doctor to discuss his medical cocktails they royal doctor had cooked up. At least she was willing to shove off once the doctor found out that she was around the corner.
After shutting off the light and double-checking that every entrance to his bedroom was locked, Conor knew he was ready for the inevitable shit show this gala was going to be. At least he was as prepared as possible.
This gala would undoubtedly be the most out of place Conor had ever been in his life. He was going to be the only Human, the only one carrying strange weapons, and he would wear clothes that did not fit in with the high nobles of the Kurlatra.
That was all before you stacked up the factors that Eivaley would be prancing around and showing Conor off to every noble from across the planet.
They were aware of his existence. Plenty of the royals had seen him on his morning runs with Eivaley and his two guards in tow. But for some reason, Conor had to be formally introduced before they would speak to him.
If Conor's rolling emotions about the event could be summarized in one word, it would simply be perturbed.
The royals had been ignoring him and watching him curiously like some fetish for weeks. Now that he and Eivaley would be formally announced as Assigned Champion and Lady, was he worth their time?
What kind of two-faced, no-good, stuck of fucks were these people? Do they not realize that with Conor's enhanced senses, he could hear them whispering from a hundred meters away?
They had spoken about him being a freak, not belonging, and why he should have never tried to reach out from the gutter he came from. Conor could tolerate all of that. But Conor was ready to go right to their hiding spots and rip their tongues out when they started Insulting Eivaley, calling her childish, misguided, and a failure of a potential empress. The only reason he could not was that he had more zeroes than he thought possible in a bank account Vuraley had made for his use.
So long as this gig ended cordially, Conor would be set for life. He could take a vacation anywhere in the universe. By Urla, with that much money, Conor could become a warlord on some backwater world with little effort.
“Conor!” Eivaley beamed once Conor had shut the door to his room and turned around.
Like every other morning, she jumped at him, wrapped her tail around his waist, and nuzzled into his chest. She did not hide that she was smelling him and enjoyed every whiff as she did.
Conor supported her, having given up on arguing that he does not like being touched by people. Eivaley was too stubborn to hear him out, and when he pressed the issue, the little gremlin saucily challenged him to spank her if he did not like it.
Conor enjoyed the snark but could not yet cross that boundary with her. He still had too much to think about to even consider the attractive little female advances.
“Nice to see you too,” Conor said, setting her down.
Eivaley stepped back and looked Conor up and down. Initially, she seemed somewhat disappointed at him, and the slight pout on her lips was easy to see. She likely was upset that he had not buckled and wore the entire toga-style garment her species does.
But that look faded quickly once she peaked behind him and saw that he was not carrying specific tools. She forbade him from bringing them despite him arguing they would aid him in keeping her safe.
“Thank you for not bringing the grenades, or the flashbangs, or the rifle, and of course the repulsion cannon,” Eivaley chirped, stepping back to Conor's front.
“Well, I did hack one of the mech suits in the royal armory to deploy to me if I need them,” Conor joked.
Apparently, Eivaley did not take that as a joke in any way, knowing Conor could do that with his augmetics.
“You did not!” She stamped her foot and tapped a long claw on the rug.
“Relax, little ruby. I did not do that,” Conor sneered.
Eivaley pouted for a moment, letting Conor appreciate the dress she wore. It was still gold and toga-like, similar to what she usually wore, but unlike usual, she was decked out to the nines.
The fabric danced along her heavenly curves, barely covering her breasts as they split in a v-shape down her front, leaving her abs in the open air. The sides were split deeply and were attached at her hip by a small leather belt, letting her thighs and waist be seen, along with the string of the black thong she wore the first time Conor, and she was close to intimate.
She was, as usual, a mouthwatering sight. If Vuraley would not kill him for it, Conor would have stripped her down and taken her in the hallway, uncaring who saw or heard them; however, with the warning and understanding that if he crossed that line, Conor would be staying here hanging over them like the sword of Damocles, Conor could only window shop.
As cute as his little ruby was when she pouted and he wished to bask in her figure longer, they would be late if they did not hurry along. As such, Conor reminded her that they had to go to the gala. Once he had lost all semblance of her annoyance with his attempt at morose humor, she quickly stepped to Conor's side and grabbed his arm.
For his part, Conor held her close and escorted Evaley down the hallway, with her on his left, so he could draw his weapon. It was a prim and proper procedure Vuraley had ensured Conor understood for the gala.
Vuraley has been an asset to Conor in the last few weeks. The high Champion ensured Conor understood the rules of behavior and memorized the names, faces, and roles of each guest in attendance.
The Human could not have cared less when Vuraley began to school Conor on them. However, once he tricked Conor into learning them by describing them all as threats and potential people he would have to dust, Conor retains the information as if it were gospel.
Through all the resources Vuraley had allowed Conor access, he had learned their names, faces, histories, fighting styles, and accomplishments. There would likely not be a soul amidst the function he could not isolate and kill based on this intel.
Given how much intelligence he has on them, they could become Conor's playthings in seconds. They were open books to him, while they still only know him as the savage Human, the gutter dweller reaching above his station.
As a man millennia ago said, if you know your enemy, you need not fear a hundred battles. Conor could assuredly protect Eivaley.
Neither Conor nor Eivaley said much during their walk through the palace halls; neither had much to say. At this point, they spent most of their days together, save for sleeping hours or when Vitul and Cur'sh were trying to get Conor to go with them to drink in the barracks.
He had been drinking with them a few times since arriving. Conor needed the friends, and they could at least occupy his mind with tales from their time in the war. They were happy to see what the wired Champion could do, namely how many shots he could take and still walk.
Neither of his guards would be in attendance today. They were off with their own ladies and families, so they had the day off.
After a quick jaunt through the nearly dead-silent palace, Conor and Eivaley arrived at the top of the preamble stairs to the grand hall.
As they descended the marble stairs into the grand hall, the eyes of the statues of all the previous empresses stared down at them; their cold diamond eyes judged the pairs' every action just as the crowd of Eivaleys waiting sisters and their champions in front of the massive doors to the hall did.
The entrance to the hall featured a pair of doors that were tens of meters high and made of intricately carved wood. They depicted every god of the Kurlatra reaching down and pulling the first empress up while her Champion pushed her toward divinity.
The other statutes grew from the stone walls and looked down on all the waiting royals with a judgment only one's ancestors could. Their immaculate and godlike presence loomed; their histories judged yours in contempt, challenging each Kurlatra's worth as a royal.
Conor glared at the waiting crowd of Eivlay's relatives while they descended into the pack, readying himself to tear them apart.
From his research, the only three he genuinely worried about were Sheruai, Juklet, and Burlai, the seventh, third, and first Champions.
Each was a man Conor was keyed in on and spotted quickly, needing to know where such potentially dangerous men were.
Sheruai, the god of close combat. He was the closest to Conor in upbringing out of all the other champions and assigned champions. The bruiser, who stood a head taller than Conor, grew up as a slave within the badlands.
There, Sheruai fought in the gladiatorial pits for royal entertainment. There, he killed an uncountable number of Kurlatra slave warriors, beasts, and captured aliens. He is, at this point, undefeated for a decade.
His lade, Kurelay, had moved to Levalit, the capital of the badlands, so he could continue his reign of the fighting pits. The man was a beast, his muscled grey scales pressed tightly to his simple steel armor, threatening to break it like cotton.
But Conor planned on killing him in a simple manner; shooting him in the head or poisoning his food would do. The man would assuredly try to fight in close combat. Conor believed he could win if it came down to a brawl. A man like that would be pompous and assured someone comparatively small like Conor could never win against them.
Juklet was a man Conor was cautious of because he was influential. The man was in charge of thousands of Kurlatra army troops and had held positions in the GU army. All those factors meant he likely knew how to fight at range and counter Conor but also assured he could call on allies, which the Human had not accounted for.
You had to be cautious about anyone with that much influence when fighting. They could call on masses of support and likely held an intense cult of personality.
Burlai was a whole other animal. The green-scaled Kurlatra was not imposing in his build and was a ghost in life. No matter what resources Vuraley offered Conor, the man was an unknown.
Burlai had no record of birth, military service, criminal record, or even a fucking parking ticket. He was so pristine it was all too good to be true.
Conor had been around the block enough times to understand that a man with no history, life, or existence was not ordinary. Many people of high influence deliberately erased the lore of a man they wanted to keep on hand by denying him a past; you could not arrest a spook who had never done anything.
An unknown was far more dangerous than anything else. That Burlai watched Conor intently was evidence of the threat he posed.
It was odd. Eivaley waved and greeted everyone, ignorant of the tension between the men. Conor and the other champions silently threatened one another with glares and hands-on weapons. Although Conor only focused on those three, all others looked away and submitted to Conor's presence while the duo descended the stairs.
Once they reached the waiting area with the others, Vuraley smiled, “Good to see you two.”
“Daddy!” Eivaley yelled and rushed out of Conor's arms, hugging her father near the bottom of the steps.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Vuraley hugged her back and ensured she was physically content before glancing at Conor, who had half drawn the hand cannon. He nodded, approving of the defensive action, but at the same time, slowly waved a hand, assuring it was safe.
Conor stowed his weapon, and Vuraley tended to his daughter momentarily, caring for her desire to inform him of what she and Conor had been doing—despite him knowing what they had been up to for weeks.
Once Vuraley had let her go, in a near-practiced motion, Eivaley returned to Conor, which warmed his soul. Even though he was unlearned in the Kurlatra ways and did not entirely comprehend their customs, having his ruby next to him was beautiful.
“Alright all. It is time,” Vurlaye announced, all muttering, dying as the show started.
The man's instruction led all the daughters and their champions to line up in birth order, save for Conor and Eivaley taking up the rear.
Both knew their austere position was due to Eivaley's changes in reality. They held the grand last entrance; once all the others had arrived, they would be announced and allotted entry.
The pairs lined up in front of the closed doors. Each pair waited as the doors were opened, and a man on the other side announced the man and woman in reverence before sealing the doors again.
Even though the doors were sealed, the sounds of cheers and support for each lady were audible. The attendees loved each lady for what they offered the Kurlatra empire and all the potential she had as a future leader of their entire species.
The nobles also gawked and jeered for each Champion. They adored their histories and what each had done to have been deemed notable enough to stand by their potential next empress.
Eivialy squeezed Conor's waist and hand, hearing her sister's achievements and abilities. She judged herself compared to them, finding herself lacking.
In Eivaleys mind, they were the better sisters. They accomplished more than she had ever been able to. Her sisters had collectively revived crops, won wars, stopped uprisings, and increased the influence of the Kurlatra empire across the galaxy.
In comparison, Eivaley's achievements and regular work were drops of water in the vast ocean of her family's accomplishments. Sure, Eivaley overhauled the veterans' programs and made homeless aid and welfare available. Still, all her family, save for her father and mother, saw them as wastes of time and resources.
As far as Eivaley saw it, she was the least influential sister. Conor picked up on Eivelay, nearly brooding, knowing how she felt after their long talks. The comparison was coming, so he took steps to support her by being the man she had expected him to be: bold, forward of the fight, and willing to stand between her and danger.
It was good that Vuraley had devised a plan for Conor to execute when it was their turn to enter. It was undoubtedly something no one inside would see coming, and Eivaley would likely be just as surprised. The stand-out introduction to what a Human could be would surely raise her spirits and shine a spotlight on her.
“Are you ready,” Vuraley signaled to Conor.
Conor nodded, knowing what he was supposed to do. Instead of waiting for his cue, he stepped forward, planted his feet like tree roots, and pushed with all his might. He was not silent by any stretch of the imagination. Conor screamed, making the massive doors open. Every servo and muscle he could muster roared to force the weight away.
Vuraley had Conor attempt to push open the doors several times over the last week, assuring him it was possible. Doing so made his eyeballs feel like they would explode from pressure and caused overload warnings to flash violently in his HUD. If these massive frames weighed a few more tons, Conor would have blown a gasket just trying.
Their entrance was beyond all those in attendance had seen. The doors groaned, accompanied by Conor yelling as he strained to move mass he was not designed to; the announcer declared who they were, his voice barely audible over Conor's struggles.
“Presenting the Fifth Princess and her assigned Champion Conor.” They began but went slack-jawed when Conor gained enough momentum to shove the doors fully open.
The massive wooden planks acted like gongs as they slammed into the marble railing. The thunderous boom drew the attention of every member of the gigantic hall, ripping them away from their own little conversations.
All eyes fell on Conor, who stood up straight and gazed over the crowd, judging them from the high ground like a commander ready to address his troops.
If this was some B-rate hollow flick, this was the part where a bright backlight would give Conor a radiant halo, and birds would fly past him to emphasize his presence. Too bad this was reality, so all that stood at the top of the stairs was a man clad in the colors of death.
The doorman snapped to attention, returning to a distant habit from his time in the Kurlatra army. He was stunned and stiff until Vuraley coughed into his hand to signal that he would continue as ordered.
Before the High Champion had reminded the man of his duties, Conor turned away from the crowd and offered Eivaley a hand, an action Vuraley had assured Conor understood was a sign of a man's willingness to aid his lady in her desires.
Eivaley certainly enjoyed Conor's presentation. He was showing the crowd precisely the man she knew he was. Her tail wagged happily, and she eagerly grabbed his hand, returning her half of the pageantry.
“Eivaley, fifth daughter of the empress; Angel of Veterans, Lordess of The People, The Lady of The Untamed, and the Warmth of the Steel Heart,” The announcer resumed as Conor pulled her through the doors and stood to her side so the world could see her brilliance.
Compared to her sisters, Eivaley was dressed in a more alluring garment. Her decadent silver robes flowed gracefully around her curves. Her sisters wore far more garish attire, decked out in gems, bangles, and thousands of meters of filling designs.
“And her assigned Champion, Conor the Human. The Wolf of Heavalun. The Warrior of the Steel Heart, Lord of War, is above reproach in his ability to fight and win. Conor, the savior of the fifth princess, has nearly given himself to save her and her alone. A warrior all Kurlatra should aspire to be.”
Conor glanced at Vuraley, who smirked, likely having been the man to decide what titles he should have been given. Conor could not fight the names publicly; doing so would harm Eivaley's reputation. He was attached to her. If he must be those names, so be it.
Conor does not think of himself as one of those things, save for the Wolf of Heavalun. He was known in the underground as the dog of Heavalun, so adjustment was close enough.
Conor did have to wonder what the other Champions and the general nobles would think about him being declared the Lord of War. He had never technically been to war; Heavalun was an ongoing warzone to the average COS and GU citizen, but to him, it was home, nothing more, nothing less.
The crowd's reception was something Conor had not expected. They were not silent, but they were not in revelry either. Through subtle calls of support and near-whispered words of caution, their uncertainty was palpable. Conor had taken all preconceived notions of what he was and smashed them with a hammer in one action.
Similar to how Conor was about them, they did not know how to categorize him, his relationship with Eivaley, or what impact his involvement in their geopolitics would pose.
Conor was the odd man out; the rabbit in the mine, the fish on a hike, the outsider. How he acted today would cement an impression of him and Eivaley for years, and everyone understood that. Even Conor—at least after Vuraley had emphasized how much of an effect he can have on people, even as an assigned champion.
“You did not have to do that,” Eivaley insisted once they started down the stairs, not looking at Conor but waving to the crowd of onlookers.
“Hey, you and your dad said I need to be bold,” Conor smirked, scanning the crowd and spotting the other Champions and a few soldiers on the edges, armed and ready to defend the nobles.
Conor was not surprised they were there. If he was given a job to dust the nobles of the Kurlatra, a gala like this would be perfect. All it would take would be a few drones, bombs, and a semi-clear line of sight.
After he located the target, the bombs would detonate right on them and take anyone nearby with them. It would be a ripe chance to get some extra brownie points by killing other nobles so he could strong-arm his client into a juicy bonus for some additional work.
The hall was just as decadent as the rest of the palace. Columns of stone held the impossibly high ceiling and frescoes up. Along the right were doors where red-clad servants lingered, carrying trays of horderves and drinks. They balanced their charges carefully in one hand while waiting to resume serving their betters.
On the left was an expansive series of glass doors leading to a balcony overlooking the gardens and the glittering city below. Once Conor spotted it, he knew where he would try to get Eivaley as quickly as possible.
Sure, the balcony would open them up to sniper fire, but so long as he positioned Eivaley close to his front and turned his back to the kilometers of well-tended foliage, he could see any threats coming and offer his armor on him as her shield.
“So—lord of war?” Conor teased, gently pushing his body into Eivaley.
“Oh, shut up and smile,” Eivaley replied, tapping her claw on his waist. “You needed titles that fit who you are.”
“I’m above reproach?” Conor raised a brow.
“I thought you were, so Daddy and I decided it was fitting,” Eivaley assured.
Eivaley was well aware of how many ‘war heroes’ were in attendance. She and Daddy selected the title just to spite them. Her father and Conor were commoners by birth, and out of all the men here, they were the only two who genuinely fought—well, save for a few outliers.
“What about the steel heart thing? My heart is nanotubes, not steel.” Conor commented.
“It’s poetic,” Eivaley replied flatly. “Now get ready. We must enter our spot before Daddy announces the mother's arrival.”
Conor left it at that because they were several steps from the parting crowd. They would be able to hear their little conversations, and Conor would rather keep them in the dark about him as much as possible.
The pair drifted through the passage of Kurlatra, all eyes on them as they assumed their positions near the throne placed upon a dais at the far end of the room. In line with them were the remaining champions and ladies in attendance today.
Only one or two were not there because they were currently embroiled in politics in another part of the universe, doing their best to carve out their own names and titles.
Most stared at Conor and Eivaley, disapproving of their sister choosing a Human as her Champion, and a few commented on him bringing a coward's weapon to a regal affair.
Those Smug bastards could shove it. Conor would bring what he wanted and care for Eivaley as long as Vurlay continued to pay him a small fortune a day. The only reason that would stop would be she wants him gone or he died. Conor was a man of his word and said he would do that in writing almost a month earlier.
The only one who did not comment about Conor was Burlai. The man glanced at Conor, saw he was not drawing his weapon, and returned most of his attention to his lady, Mulaney. He was still vigilant of all threats, but that was all.
Conor could respect a man like that. He was focused and knew what to do. His boundless confidence was as silent as a Zlit-rat yet as potently lethal as a slug thrower. Although Conor does not know much about him, one piece of the puzzle of who this ghost is just falls into place.
The picosecond Conor stood tall next to Eivaley; the announcer's voice boomed, declaring to present the empress and her Champion to the entire hall. All fell silent, including Conor, having never seen the empress in the flesh, nor would any dare to disrupt the introduction of a woman they considered just one rung below sanctity.
“I am honored to introduce the lord and lady of all the Kurlatra. I present proudly to you all Empress Eyurali; Ruler or the badlands, the reach, the desert plains, and all under the Rolo stars.”
Each name dropped initially was a location on the planet save for the Rolo stars, which referred to the twin orange stars of the Kurlatra system. Rolo is the Kurlatra god of the stars. His split personality represents the wan dwarf star and the blazing near supermassive star that loomed in the cosmos.
“Eyurali, empress of all under the stars. Mother of all children, goddess of the bold and daring. She who tamed the Beast of Hyurilla, his might unknown to living men,” the announcer bowed so deeply his snout nearly touched the floor.
The doors unsealed slowly, and a woman with a presence Conor had never seen flowed through the gap like smoke. He could not say where she was in the room before the hall, but he predicted she was staged nearby; such is life when half of your existence is a dog and pony show.
Once Eyurali was in front of the doors, her womanly presence flowed out like a fog. It rolled down the stairs and filled all present with a sense of regality that could never be faked. She was the authentic detail.
Eyurali was a woman unlike any other. She stood as tall as Eivaley and looked so uncannily similar to her daughter that it was frightening. Her blood-red scales were emphasized by the peacock-like regalia that spread out behind her like a halo of gold.
She had a buxom build, tightly wrapped by golden straps and silver robes. Her red scales were the color of well-oxygenated blood, brighter than any ruby could pray to be. Unlike many of the other Kurlatra women, Eyutali had no piercings on her horns; instead, they were polished to a mirror sheen.
Eyurali scanned all the building occupants. A shimmer of recognition for each face twinkled in her otherwise tired eyes. They looked shockingly like the eyes of contract killers Conor had known.
She had the eyes of someone who had paid the ultimate price for power, success, money, and recognition; they held no luster—a gift lost once one turned around and saw the mountain of bodies they had climbed to reach the top.
Since coming here, Conor had seen glimpses of that look in his eyes—likely an aftereffect of having lost Brakul, Fae, Stitch, and the life he knew. But unlike Eyurali, he tried to hide it with machismo. She, however, seemed to wear the cost of her office with pride.
She waved to everyone, stopping he glances for a moment to acknowledge them when they made eye contact. Eivaleys mother, the goddess of the Kurltatra, the woman who held divinity in her claws, oozed confidence and maternal grace.
Conor had never seen a woman quite like her; even standing nearly a hundred meters away felt like a sin. Her radiance burned as hot as a supernova and was twice as bright.
Sure, Conor had known some bombastic women: Fae, the stalwart companion and oh-so-greedy lover. Jurilra, the Jurintik mother in Heavalun, who freely sold her body to support her children, giving up on all her dreams to see the little tikes fed; and Eivaley, a woman who could see through him and all his fronts with no effort. But something about Uyurali was genuinely magnanimous.
The only one of her children she paused for an extended period was Eivaley. Euraley and Eivaley's tails wagged subtly, a detail most would not spot, but with Conor's enhanced vision, the waves rolling across their dresses were as clear as day.
Eyurali slowly scanned Conor, up and down from the distance. She assessed Conor like a mother, determining the value of her daughter's desired man. Whatever she saw in Conor, he was not privy to. She had no reaction if she found anything at all.
Eyurali looked toward the throne and waved to all her people without any preference; she had mastered all the presence needed of a woman leading billions of people and juggling the favor of thousands of nobles.
She stood proud before all. She was indeed beyond all comments and descriptions Conor had heard. Not even the paintings and statues of her held a candle to the genuine article.
“And presenting, Vuralay, the Lord of Combatives, The high Champion. Vuraley, the man who tamed the long wastes. He was born with an iron soul and has drawn enough blood to stain his scales black.” The presenter finished, stepping off as Vuraley moved beside Eyurali.
Over the weeks, Conor had become used to the sight of the High Champion and genuinely only had good things to say about the man. He stood as tall as Conor and about a head and a half over Eyurali.
Not unlike her, he wore patterns of gold, but for him, it was that regal armor that Conor had seen him wearing the first time the two had met. Attached to his hip was a sword that likely was as long as the man was tall.
Conor had seen Vuraley practice with the weapon against the guards. Despite the length and girth of the weapon, he could wield it with as much dexterity and precision as a short nano-blade.
Despite wielding swords half the length and weight, the guards could not keep up with Vuraley's speed and violence. They made valiant efforts to close the gap and slip into the blender to even out the playing field, but doing that only led to Vuraley whipping the sword around and bludgeoning them with the hilt.
Conor had no doubt that if push came to shove in melee, Vuraley would wipe the floor with him. That would not even be a contest. Conor was a ranged fighter and expert at underhanded tactics. A straight-up head-to-head bladed clash was not his strong suit, and he did not pretend to be.
Learning how to fight from Vuraley would be nice. Hell, Conor's two guards certainly thought it would be a good idea, stating that if he did, Eivaley would like it, and he would have more options if he ran out of ammo. Conor would consider it and ask the man about some lessons later on that could occupy his mind and keep his crawling thoughts away.
Vuraley and Eyurali coiled their tails around one another's necks, the patterns of their scales matching the life coils around the others' necks flawlessly. Once they had all the couples in attendance, they did the same—even Eivaley's tail twitched as if she was going to as well, but she stopped and instead wrapped Conor's waist.
“Good evening to you all.” Eyurali began, extending hers outward to gesture at the entire room.
Her angelic voice pushed out all the noise in the room. Each note of her smooth tones sounded like a chorus of cherubs, assuring everyone that the world loved them and that nothing harmful could befall them while in her presence.
Conor was taken aback by the sound. While Eivaley's voice was smooth and chirped like a little bird, her mother's was languid and warm as a sunrise.
“I wholeheartedly wish to extend my gratitude to you all for attending today,” Eyurali continued, bringing her hands to her side as she and Vuraley stepped forward and began down the stairs.
“Today is a grand event. Several of my daughters have returned from their journeys to the stars, all having accomplished wondrous things they will tell you about soon. It is also to celebrate my Champions return from the COS,” Eyurali said, looking at her husband and gently nuzzling into his cheek for a moment.
Vuraley returned the gesture. The two seemingly had forgotten about the gala for several moments. They were lost in one another for those few blissful seconds.
It was as if they could forget about being empress and first Champion for that short period. The two would be a small house by a lake on the Huretian steps. They would spend their days fishing and tending to a garden just large enough for them.
It was a dream neither could tell anyone, except those close to them who understood why they took an extended vacation each year. That small house was their sanctity and solace. Without its existence, neither could stomach the rest of their lives.
But that moment faded fast, and both understood how much of a pipe dream them running to the steps genuinely was. They bore the weight of the crown and must uphold the office their ancestors secured for them.
“Now, I do not wish to hold all of you up. Please drink, eat, and make merry. Our chefs have prepared more than enough food for you all, and our liquor cabinets are open. I shall be meandering about and meet with you all individually tonight,” Eyurali finished after sighing and slowly separating muzzles with Vuraley, quickly glancing at Conor as she reached the bottom of the steps, joining the crowd.
The servants quickly moved from their hiding holes and began serving food and drinks to the guests. At the same time, the silence evaporated as a heavy fog of raucous discussion filled the air.
Initially, Conor moved toward the doors, but before he took a single step, like a pack of sharks who smelled blood, he and Eivaley were surrounded by hundreds of Kurlatra.
The swarm immediately began to hound him and Eivaley with questions; most of them surrounded Eivaley's trip and Conor's existence. Conor had already expected this night would be long and a royal pain in the ass—now he knew this would be more exhausting than a day-long firefight.