The night had been going so well for Conor. He and Eivaley had a wonderful dance under the moonlight, and he had gotten off the hook for ditching the party early.
Getting away from that shithole was something he was thrilled to have done because even here, through nearly half a kilometer of halls and rooms, the sounds of drunken revelry were still plain as day.
Before arriving here, Conor would have never assumed royalty could party hard. But with how much booze they were drinking and how many of them there were, that party would get out of hand soon.
Conor would not be surprised if several members of the nobility were sprawled out in the hall or the central garden in the morning. He could picture it now. They would be splayed out, a bottle of hooch in one hand and the ass of whoever they ended up trying to take back to their room in the other.
Without a doubt, that would be a comedic thing for Conor to see and would make his week; it would also pose the most sublime opportunity for him to take a few pictures to keep in his back pocket. You never know when you will need some blackmail—that statement goes at least twice as far regarding aggravating nobility.
The Human hoped the rowdy nobility would not wake Eivaley or disturb her sleep, as his room was only a few dozen meters from here. She was incredibly clingy whenever she was tired; something about him being warm and comforting.
Until tonight, Conor did not yearn for the contact, but with tonight's small development in their relationship, Conor did not mind the idea of snuggling up with her.
On the other hand, her father merely tolerated it—a notably thin tolerance, especially when she crawled onto his lap while Vuraley was feeding Conor intelligence about the other nobles. The older warriors' glare subsided once the fifth princess quickly fell asleep, and the lesson could continue without her color commentary.
Once the old softy saw his daughter happy, he held his tongue. Vuraley was just that kind of guy; he put his wife and daughters' happiness over his feelings ten out of ten times.
Considering how the Kurlatra culture had cut down swaths of his daughters, the old man's tolerance and care for the few remaining daughters he had was to be expected.
The night could not have gone better. Other than finally ditching the last weights of his former life on Heavalun, the day was perfect for Conor. He got to humiliate a noble, hold someone closer and more intimately than he knew possible, and admitted to himself that being with Eivaley was more than just a job. Then Conor reached for the doorknob to his room.
It was not that the door was unlocked or anything cliche like that; the door was still locked; what skeeved him out was the item on the floor.
A small piece of reflective paper was barely visible from under the door. The small piece of litter meant nothing to almost anyone who saw it; it was just innocuous garbage to them. But to Conor, it was an alarm louder than an air raid siren.
In his paranoid yet constant vigilant meticulousness, the Human had placed the piece of paper in a spot on the door where it would not fall unless the door was breached. That the paper had fallen was a problem for Conor because all the maids and other servants had been clearly instructed not to enter his room without him present.
Eivaley and Vurlaey believed Conor's request was being overly wary of the staff. They called him skeptical and borderline insane about his need for personal security, but he wore them down. Now, it was well known to all staff that his door should never be touched without his express supervision.
Not even Eivaley would touch the door without his permission, not because she was afraid of him but because she understood his needs and would do everything possible to make him feel secure.
Conor unlocked the door and clasped the handle, his heart steady and calm. The Human had faced thousands of enemies and thrice as many breaches. He knew what to do when entering the unknown—this was just another day at the office.
When the door parted, a familiar scent rolled across Conor's nose. It pushed deep into his mind, body, and soul, causing his hair to stand on end in waves. Under almost any other circumstance, Conor would enjoy the smell of Neriumbay; its warmth and pleasant aroma reminded him of a spring day while operating amidst blooming flower fields.
Conor last experienced a spring day filled with Neriumbay’s delectable scent on a reconnaissance operation for the Skorkow organization almost ten years ago.
He and Brakul were on Gunaria Five to destroy a drug lab at Voodals request. The location they were lazing for a nuclear payload was centered in a bustling and growing city; its name was lost to time and Conor's memory.
The only spot they could get a clear line of sight while at a safe distance was covered in pink bell-like flowers. Neriumbay flowers flowed gently around them in the spring breeze, keeping time with their heartbeats.
Calling in that bomb was the most surreal experience Conor had ever had. Trillions of sapients would give their left nut to sit high in the mountains on a warm spring day, which Conor was well aware of. However, he was out there for work and snuffed out millions of sentients in an instant, the only remnants of their and the city's existence going up in a flash brighter than sunlight.
While they waited for the heavy morning fog around the city to clear enough to allow them to designate the target, Brakul had decided to lecture Conor on something yet again.
At the time, the Human did not care that Neriumbay was a beautiful poison. He did not care if it was used galaxy-wide as an assassination tool or if it smelled so fresh that it almost drew sentients into its dangerous pollen.
No, at the time, all Conor cared about was the measly payment from Voodal and that his and Brakuls filtration systems kept them safe from the deadly flowers.
In retrospect, Conor wishes he had paid more attention at those times. If he had, maybe he could have remembered more about Brakul, his teachings, laughter, and stupid puns. But that was in the past now. All that mattered now was learning why he smelled that poisonous flower in his room.
Conor sniffed deeply, analyzing the aroma. It was the same, save for a revolting detail. Along with the floral aroma were the faint hints of long-since dried blood—the same scent that followed anyone with hundreds of bodies under their belt, not unlike him, Brakul, Vuraley, and many other warriors around the palace.
Drawing Brakuls hand canon, Conor stepped forward into the room, boldly moving in to face the threat as he had done for years.
Conor switched over to his thermal vision and passed the light switch by, not wanting to alert whoever was in the room of his presence. At least he did not want to give more of a warning than opening the door and his ghostly silent footsteps.
Dull blues and purples filled his vision, outlining the short L-shaped room. Conor instantly knew there were no threats ahead of him toward the blind corner where his bed and dresser lay before the window.
When Conor first had thermals installed in his eyes, he was skeptical about their usefulness. But now, he cannot imagine his life without them.
The tactical edge they offered him was invaluable. Conor did not need white light during CQB, was immune to the concealing effects of smoke, and could track people like no other. Brakul's nose still beat him out, but the Jurintik's sense of smell was just cheating.
Without thinking, Conor twisted and aimed his pistol over the portal he had just passed, ensuring no one or thing was clinging to the wall, ready to ambush him. There was nothing.
Typically, most soldiers did not clear above them in a flat room, at least to this degree, but Conor had been ambushed from there before, so he and Brakul had worked it into their room-clearing procedures. The last thing you wanted was a viscous Richula jumping down or someone with augments shooting you.
“Clear,” Conor subvocally whispered to the nonexistent Brakul.
It was only once he spoke that he realized his error and that he had just made a deadly mistake, not because he had spoken; no subvocal communication was essentially silent. Out of sheer habit, Conor had given his back to the area of the room he had not cleared yet.
Typically, Brakul would have covered the corner to make sure an opportunistic squirter did not pop out and vape him, but Conor was alone now—and always would be.
The Human made a mental note to readjust his room-clearing habits and returned to the task at hand; without an adjustment, that habit would get him killed. Sure, nothing happened this time, but that was just because he was lucky. Whoever was in his room must have been an amateur who could not exploit everything going on in a battle.
Slowly, Conor pied the corner toward his bed, leading with his weapon to the front. He meticulously checked from floor to ceiling and then back down before taking another half step and repeating the process.
No one was visible until Conor began to see the bed. With each step, a feminine figure slowly came into view. She clearly could not see him in the darkness as she seemed to lay there eagerly waiting for him.
Conor holstered the pistol and sighed. The person in his room was not an assassin or anyone out to directly harm him. Conor was unsure whether to thank Urla for that or damn the God for what he saw.
Turning around and stepping toward the light, Conor flicked it on and switched over to normal-colored vision. The moment the room was lit, the eager Kurlatra woman started her show.
Therulay, Eivaleys youngest sister, was lying on his bed, her pink scales complimented by the tight, lacey lingerie she wore. The silk draped along her lissom curves; one of her hands playfully pulled at her coverings, giving Conor a clear view of her womanhood. A diamond-encrusted jewel dangled from a piercing in her clit, eagerness dripping off the iridescent surface.
At the same time, she slowly licked at the tip of her tail, moaning slightly. To have given the youngest princess the credit she was due, Conor had to admit he did not know a tongue could writhe around like that; it looked like she was tying knots in her tail.
Before Conor had time to ask if she was in the wrong room, she played her first card of the awkward and equally annoying conversation they were about to have. Therulay moved, propping up her leg, and let out a long throaty moan, one that would not sound out of place on a cheap c rate holo-porno.
Whatever she was doing was in no way seduction in Conor's mind. Go figure, a man raised by a predatory species like the Jurintik did not enjoy easy women. The hunt, fight, and desire to have what you cannot have are what drew him in.
Hell, Fae and Eivaley were prime examples of that. Fae for her bulk, strength, and, of course, gravitic personality. Eivaley because she was, in a way, a forbidden fruit. He had to give up something to get at her.
When it came to the fifth princess, it was like Conor was a fox in a trap, with a little rabbit taunting him. All he had to do to get that rabbit was gnaw off his foot.
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“So, Mr. Warrior, do you like what you see?” Therulay purred, sounding like she was performing for a camera that did not exist.
“Not really,” Conor replied with complete uninterest. “Why the fuck are you in my room?”
Conor did not need to ask that question; he knew why. Thuraley's attempt to seduce him was evident. He just wanted to mess with her royal sensibilities and see how the princess would squirm when denied.
Conor especially wished to see this sister's reaction because Therulay, Last Daughter, the Saintess of Relamora, Guiding Light to the Jerulate Clan, and Healer of the Nuerala Plague, was a fucking brat; Enough so that Eivaley looked like an angel in comparison.
From what Conor could dig up on Thuraley, she always got what she wanted—and knew it. For Urla’s sake, even Vuraley, as solid of a man as he is, admitted that other than Eivaley, he babied Therulay the most.
The High Champion was attentive to her, bought everything she wanted, and was the first man she went to, other than her current assigned Champion.
Why, in all of Urla’s grace, did Vuraley have to cave to this little pink bitch? All that man had done was enable Therulay to genuinely believe that she was above reproach.
Therulay visibly scowled at Conors's rebuffing. Her glare was so intense it could cut through diamonds or even a plasmic shield unit if its intention was a weapon. Thankfully, it was not, so it just made her look constipated.
That look only lasted for a second because Therulay had decided to step up her game. Just showing herself to Conor with an offer was clearly not enrapturing the Human as she expected it to.
Therulay had envisioned Conor drooling over her for a moment before jumping in the bed and defiling her. He should have complimented her lovely pink scales, her figure that was far more full than Eivlays', and especially her bold approach. All men enjoyed a forward woman, after all.
In her twisted mind, Eivaley must have never tried to bed Conor; if she had, the Human weapon would not be an assigned Champion; no, he would be Eivaley's Champion entirely. That the Human was not introduced as a full Champion was an invitation for her to steal him away.
Thuraley had ditched Bakalura, her current Assighened Champion when Conor forced the nobles to line up at the gala. She immediately rushed off to get into lingerie, threatened a maid to open his door, and lay in wait for the Human.
While Conor was not her type in any way, she could see how the Human could be useful. He was strong and capable and could kill the rest of her sisters without a second thought. His past and what she knew of it confirmed that Conor was a living weapon, ready for her to wield.
Therulay flowed off the bed with definitive confidence and radiance and drifted toward Conor. The jewelry on her horns shimmered in the light, showing her definitive worth to the lesser male before her.
Thuraley tried to press her body against Conor, but he held his artificial arm out and stopped her motions. “What do you want?”
“I want you,” Thuraley licked her lips, eyeing Conor like a prize. “I want you to be mine until the stars die.”
Her look was predatory, devilish, and controlling. How she looked at Conor held no warmth, genuine emotion, or understanding. Conor was all too familiar with that look.
Each time Conor had met with Voodal, that croaker had looked at him with the same dull, lifeless, and careless eyes. In an instant, Conor unraveled all she thought of him. Conor was a tool, a weapon, an arm of violence with no purpose.
Through Therulay's thorny mentality, she wished to use him unrestrictedly, wield him—then, like Voodal, once Conor had too many independent thoughts, she would toss him away, just like Voodal did to Conor and Brakul.
“I get that, bitch,” Conor growled, twisting around with Thuraley in his grip, pushing her toward the door. “but that does not answer my question of what you want.”
Therulaey sputtered and spat, unable to understand what was happening. She was unsure of what Conor was doing. She struggled to claw into the ground and not move, but Conor could move her as if she meant nothing to him.
He was a male. Conor should have been drooling over her and willing to do whatever she wished. All others had done that throughout her life; why was he not doing so?
Conor should be standing before his bed, his cock hard and begging to be her Champion. There were hundreds of men dreaming of being that for her. Why was Conor not groveling at her feet?
The reason was simple, but someone so up their own ass like her could never comprehend the feeling. Conor had finally started to act for himself. After years of only acting for cash and survival, he had an option. Eivaley, Vurlaye, his guards, and even the empress had guided him to that reality.
Conor was not shackled to his wallet and could make decisions based on emotion, not pure brutalist necessity.
While his Lady, Vuralay, and Conor's guards had done most of the heavy lifting, always mentioning that Conor should do what he wanted, the empress and her cunning presence had sparked the idea that Conor was a man, not a tool.
While Conor still struggled with the idea that crit was all that mattered, he had glimpsed the light—and liked what he saw.
Beyond the money was a feeling—one of warmth, care, and comfort. Holding Eivaley during their dance emphasized that. He wanted more of that addicting drug, and as he saw it, being around Eivaley was how he would understand this blissful warmth.
The last few times Conor looked at Eivaley, he felt it; it was like a small sun had ignited in his chest each time she smiled or wagged her tail.
It was a queer feeling. Acceptance? No, that was not right. She would accept him even without his abilities. It was understanding. That little ruby just knew Conor; she knew him far deeper and more tenderly than he had known possible.
Being with Eivaley just felt right. Conor was not quite ready to say he loved Eivaley but was well on the road to that.
Now, acting like the soldier of fortune, he wanted that comfort to never end; it meant more than gold, platinum, or crit. Rejecting Therulay hard was the only way Conor could see him retaining the warmth Eivaley offered him.
“How about you get the fuck out of my room,” Conor growled, pushing the youngest forward, grabbing her arms, and forcing them behind her back.
Thurulay, realizing what Conor was doing, clung to the doorframe with her foot, her claws acting like anchors.
“What are you doing?” Therulay begged. “I am offering myself to you. Are you not ecstatic about it?”
“I'm not,” Conor growled. “I want you gone.”
Conor had dealt with enough whores to understand this was not a strings-free deal; hookers, regardless of status, wanted something in return for their bodies; this bitch was no different.
Even if he did not understand that, Eivalay. His ruby, life, and woman—well, woman to be; she would never want this nor would forgive him if he hate-fucked her sister, even if he could have this pink broad moaning his name through the night.
Her younger sister was in his room, trying to bed him; a few months ago, that would be great; Conor could get his nut off and send the bitch off. Now, though, he wanted Eivaley, not this false desperate bitch.
Conor would rather be celibate for life if it meant Eivaly was nearby.
“Get the fuck out,” Conor demanded, picking Thuraley up by the neck and tossing the last princess into the hall.
Therulay landed on the marble ground with a dull thump, several of her bits of jewelry flying off. Conor's force was nearly enough to kill the woman. He only did not because Eivaley would cry if her youngest sister died; that woman loved all her sisters despite them trying to kill her. If Conor had his way, he would have dusted the bitch then and there just for annoyance alone.
Therulay twisted on the floor, her silken lingerie failing to cover her embarrassment. Blood seeped from one of her horns that snapped on the landing; it was a good reminder to her to not mess with the Human, not that she would take the hint. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you gay or something?”
Conor growled, not because he was gay or anything, but because the youngest lady determined that was why he did not like her.
That this woman could not understand him so fundamentally was infuriating. Eivaley understood him. She knew Conor was a violent and troubled being. Conor was violent beyond measure and could kill anyone. But Eivaleys call calmed the beast inside. She tenderly coaxed his demons out and put each to sleep with seemingly no effort.
It was as if Eivaley was feeding a monster. She would tenderly hold out food and wait for the monsters to come to her. Once they were in reach, she could pet, hold, and assure the monstrosities that all would be okay.
Thuraley, on the other hand, raised millions of red flags. She was a danger, an unknown, a woman who clearly put a lot of effort into this stupid seduction attempt.
The demons in Conor's soul witnessed her attempt, ripped her plans apart, and now were teething to rend her to nothingness piece by piece and scale.
“Wait, Conor. I can offer you riches. All the Kurltatra have.” Therulay begged, crawling to him as he grabbed the door, ready to shut it. “All the wealth and power you could ever want are yours. Just be mine and do what I want.”
Conor paused before slamming the door in her face. Yeah, his deal with Vuraley gave him a few thousand crit a day to protect Eivaley; if what Therulay just said was true, she was offering trillions of crit in an instant. It was an offer he could not ignore, even if it was frivolous.
“How much am I worth to you?” Conor asked, curious about the deal.
“Anything,” Thuraley replied, standing and fixing her lingerie. She now knew the sexual display meant nothing to the Human, but switching gears and appealing to the money-hungry animal was bearing some fruit.
“Anything at all?” he reiterated.
“Yes, anything you want,” Therulay nodded.
“What if I wanted you to leave Eivaley alone?” Conor asked. “do not touch her.”
While he was not thrilled about the idea of dusting all of Eivaley's family, Conor saw that offering to slay them could assure his little ruby's safety.
They could move somewhere quiet, far from the palace, politics, and danger. Conor could keep Eivaley safe. He would guard her like a dragon defending its hoard, so long as Thuraley understood what Conor meant by do not touch Eivaley. That potential path on the river delta of life was clear to him, but her reaction cemented his choice to deny her.
Thuraley paused and scowled; she looked to genuinely be thinking over the idea of not killing her older sister, but the troubled curl in her lips told Conor all he needed to know.
This woman before him did not care about Eivaley. If Thuraley had it her way, all of her sisters would die a slow and painful death. She likely was just pondering how to dust Eivaley after Conor cleared the path for her to be empress.
Sure, Conor would willingly slaughter pretty much anyone in the universe for some cold, hard crit, but Eivaley and her family felt different. The family, because they had been kind to him, would rather not, but for Eivaley's safety, he would stomach it.
However, the mere thought of hurting Eivaley caused a visceral reaction in Conor’s chest. The idea alone made the Human feel like he was betraying her, harming her.
As if Urla was punishing the wayward man, images of Eivlay looking up at him as she slowly bled out on the end of his knife flashed in his mind. Her warm blood soaked his hands, crawling into his fake arm like coiling worms.
The betrayal in her eyes was as apparent. How Eivaley looked at Conor contained flecks of understanding and acceptance of her lover's choice. Her eyes screamed louder than anything in the universe, declaring her understanding, acceptance, and sorrow all at once.
She understood Conor completely and could pull anything from him; Eivaley knew how much credit meant to him throughout his life and the horrible things he had done in their name. Why he was killing her was not a question; it was a reality waiting to happen. Conor might as well be a ticking timebomb unless Eivaley could convince Conor that her love and care were worth more than any amount of money.
“I've seen enough,” Conor growled, looking down at the regal beggar.
Nothing about Therulay was regal, royal, or worth Conor's breath. She was a wolf in sheep's clothing and the perfect person to survive the trials to become empress. This pink bitch would kill anyone who got in her way, including him.
Thuraley sputtered and tried to get Conor to see why she would be the next empress with his help, but Conor was done. He slammed the door shut and quickly locked it. Granted, this bitch had gotten into his room once and likely had a key.
Conor stepped his game up for his alarm to prevent her from entering, with him not knowing. Instead of placing a piece of paper in the slit between the door and the frame, Conor went and retrieved a flashbang and wire from his closet turned into an armory.
It did not take him long, but after a few minutes, the Human had rigged a tripwire to drop the non-lethal explosive on anyone who opened his door. The entire time, the rejected noble was screaming at Conor from the other side of the door.
Now, he would have to ensure Eivaley knew how to disarm the grenade before she sprung the trap herself. Thankfully, Eivaley never did set off the trap, mainly because she and Conor did not sleep separately for long after that day. But she also followed his instructions the next morning like they were gospel.
As Conor drifted to sleep that night, he could not help but smile. Kicking a princess out of his bed was something he had never done before. But if Thuraley looked at him with that same shock and disgust again, he knew he’d enjoy rejecting her just as much next time.