Chapter 415: Girls’ Talk

I’m more or less healed now, and finally in shape to write again. Joy!
Next one: in 36h

*

“You’re really going to change outfits for the fourth time since we got here?”

As a shadow, Jasmine arched a brow. Too bad that black on black, no one could see it.

“As expected of an Empyrean princess,” Esmée replied, peeling off her skirt. Underneath, she wore the kind of granny panties Jasmine wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

I guess sexy lingerie doesn’t exist here. Own goal for the misogynists.

“I would very much like to know what you’re doing here,” said the princess, splashing water on her face.

“The defense quest. I’m interested in the Aelbes’ racial Talent.”

“Oh right, it would synergize nicely with your shadow panther bloodline.”

Jasmine narrowed her eyes. “Some knowledge is dangerous.”

Esmée dabbed her face dry and began applying a faint layer of makeup. “Please. I am your only potential ally within a thousand kilometers.”

“Potential?”

“I need the Aelbes until tonight.”

“I can hold back that long.”

In fact, Priam had made it an order.

“Good. After that, they are yours.”

Jasmine growled, utterly unladylike. “As if I’m not already doing you a favor by cleaning up after you. Speaking of which: how many guards does this palace have?”

The kind of detail one needed before snooping around.

“I cannot disclose such critical information… but the number lies between three thousand two hundred and three thousand two hundred and two.”

After two decades shackled by her geas, Esmée had learned exactly how to skirt its limits.

“That’s a lot. At war with two civilizations and contested borders all around, you’d think they’d be better placed somewhere else—especially since this castle isn’t even that big. Your royal daddy afraid of an assassination attempt or something?”

“Politics before war. To prevent a coup, Father gathered all the nobles here in this new palace. Each is allowed ten personal guards, and the army doubles that number.”

“Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” Jasmine shook her head. “And how many servants to handle this circus?”

“Fifteen thousand seven hundred and eighty.”

“Damn.”

Rich folk loved being pampered. On Arkana, a mere Baron had at least five thousand people in direct service. It sounded insane, but when one owned fifty apartments and as many villas scattered across the world, the tally grew fast.

Maxime Lóthandorim played the game one level higher.

“What does he even do with all those people?”

The princess set down her eyeliner, opened a wardrobe, and began rifling through its collection of dresses.

“Drivers, repairmen, cooks, butlers, gardeners, and the like—the list is endless. Yet when one learns that His Majesty retains three persons solely charged with wiping his posterior after the privy, it starts to make sense.”

“You’re kidding! He can’t do that himself?!”

“He is the king.” Esmée shrugged. “The poor women work in eight-hour shifts.”

“What a shitty job.” The joke was beneath Jasmine, and she switched topics. “Don’t you have maids to help you pick an outfit?”

“To keep attendants would place me upon a pedestal,” the princess replied, still rummaging. “If even the daughter of the king is a slave, then every woman is but a slave.”

“I see.” Beneath the veneer of detachment in her rival’s voice, Jasmine caught the edge of a deep, simmering anger. “The red dress.”

Esmée pulled it free, slipped it on, and turned toward a mirror.

“It shows much cleavage,” she murmured.

“That’s what the males like.”

“Spare me whilst I retch,” Esmée grimaced, stripping again.

“You don’t get it. When they’re staring at our chest, they’re thinking with their dicks, not their brains. Easier to manipulate.”

The princess hesitated, then set the dress aside on the bed. “I shall keep that advice in mind, but my strategy is more to make myself forgotten.”

“Then take the black one. More suitable for a funeral than a wedding, but since you’re planning on burying your fiancé tonight, it works.”

The two young women shared a smile. Neither of them had any love for Rohan.

“Any further questions?” she asked as she tried on the black dress. “I won’t be able to answer during the banquet.”

It had taken the prodigy a quarter hour just to partially debug her chambers. Meanwhile, Jasmine had been shocked by the sheer number of devices spying on the princess. To avoid raising suspicion, Esmée had left the cameras and microphones intact. The two Champions spoke through a mental bridge while the assassin hid within the princess’ shadow—not the real one, but its reflection in the mirror. Jasmine was particularly proud of that trick, made possible by the synergy between [Virtual Image - Epic] and her Concept. The fact that Priam had spent nearly eight hours lecturing her on mirror physics to lower the skill’s Potential cost was just a bonus.

“Any weaknesses in your father’s security?”

The princess stiffened. “Why do you ask?”

Jasmine grimaced. “Relax. I’m not laying a finger on him. Priam was very clear about that, so tell your geas there’s no need to sic you on me.”

Esmée relaxed slightly. “None whatsoever. Father is yet more paranoid than Seth. He is never alone, always accompanied by two physicians, maintains fifteen tasters—”

“Fifteen?!”

“Mhm. All of them children, chosen for their frail constitutions. The merest poison, the slightest corruption of food, kills them in seconds.”

“That’s horrible. But clever. But horrible.”

“All the rest is in the same vein. In the unlikely event I perceive a weakness, I am bound to inform him without delay.”

Translation: Don’t trust me with a secret.

“Mmh. What about sex?”

Jasmine had been trained to exploit that particular weakness. Ancient history perhaps, but intel was intel and few men kept their guard up after orgasm.

“Since his fourteenth concubine tore off his member with her teeth, his partners are sedated before every encounter, and physicians as well as guards remain within the chamber.”

“Damn.” Macabre curiosity pushed Jasmine to ask, “So how does he manage now?”

“As before. The proud mistress had no time to chew before he slew her, and our surgeons are competent.”

“Too bad.”

*

At the end of a grand corridor, double doors awaited the Aelbe delegation. Esméralda, arm in arm with Rohan, followed the crimson carpet until the herald announced them.

“Rohan Aelbe, and the clan Aelbe.”

And me…

The princess refused to grow numb to insults. First, because one should never give ground to foes. Second, because she was proud.

The couple crossed the threshold. Entering the ballroom, the Aelbes were stepping onto the stage of the Empyrean world.

Amid polite applause, Rohan lifted his gaze to the overloaded decorations. If the rest of the palace still retained some austerity—owing to the Empyreans’ recent arrival—the reception hall was drowning in colorful statues, stained-glass windows, magical holograms replaying the glorious deeds of heroes past, and a fantastical river of crystals winding beneath the ceiling. Then his eyes dropped to the floor where a glass pane revealed an aquarium inhabited by a sea titan.

Mouth agape, Rohan gave his best impression of a country bumpkin. 

Esméralda caught the mockery glinting in the nobles’ eyes and for some reason, she thought of Priam. Facing the Juggernaut, she couldn’t imagine any of these pompous males doing anything but lowering their gaze.

Tightening her grip on her fiancé’s arm, Esmée drew his attention back to the ceremony. Straightening, Rohan strode forward again, a pair of Tier 3 hunters at his heels. The rest of their delegation remained in their quarters.

The king had yet to arrive, but the court was already assembled. Along the sides of the hall, a hundred nobles devoured the newcomers with their eyes.

For a single heartbeat, everyone held their place. Then an obese Empyrean stepped forward with his companion. The political waltz had begun.

“Young master Rohan, allow me to welcome you to Proxima.”

“My thanks, Sir…?”

“Duke Magdalan,” the Empyrean replied, smothering a smile behind his pudgy hand. At his side, a young woman—wife or daughter, impossible to say—kept her gaze lowered. “If not in the eyes of the System, then at least in those of the court. To be frank, I intend to see that title become a Titre.”

“A worthy ambition,” Rohan smiled. “Though not an easy one.”

“Oh, it shall not be too difficult,” the fool boasted. “I am already a Baron.”

Rohan’s smile grew brittle, but his lord education carried him through. “Then I have only to congratulate you in advance. Do not hesitate to contact my clan, should you wish to hasten your leveling.”

After a stretch of trivialities, the obese duke turned away. His companion, swept along by his bulk, nearly stumbled and had to quicken her steps to keep her footing. In doing so, she trod upon Esmée’s black gown, leaving a stain.

“Watch yourself, you idiot!” Rohan snapped.

Esmée stiffened. She longed to intervene, but speaking now would only make matters worse. The duke turned, took in the scene with a single glance, and struck the unfortunate woman across the face.

“She will be punished for soiling the dress,” he promised, before waddling off. From beginning to end, the noble had not spared Esmée a single look.

When Rohan moved as though to kneel and wipe the stain himself, the princess caught his arm.

“They’re all watching.” She lowered her head so her lips could not be read. “Tonight, every move you make will be dissected. Give them nothing.”

If Maxime ever learned Rohan was hopelessly smitten with his daughter… Esmée didn’t know what would follow, only that it would be catastrophic. By the same token, the Aelbes must never discover that the love philter had backfired completely.

So, though her stomach churned, Esmée pressed herself against Rohan’s arm as a lover might. I’ll just imagine it’s someone else. Squinting, his white outfit looked almost like mist.

“That duke… I’ve never seen a humanoid so fat,” whispered the Aelbe huntress, licking her lips.

“Likely an imbalance in his physical attributes,” Rohan answered smoothly. “Right, dear?”

Suppressing a shiver, Esmée replied:

“Even before the System, our magic could erase obesity with ease. If many nobles remain overweight, it is because girth is seen as wealth, even beauty, in our culture. At least, among men. Women only eat their fill when they are with child.”

Another noble approached, and Esméralda fell silent.

The interlude dragged until dusk. When the last rays of sunlight brushed the newborn capital, the herald’s voice rang out:

“King Lóthandorim!”

At the hall’s center, runes blazed to life. A pillar of violet light surged upward, and from it stepped an Empyrean.

His golden raiment was splendid, but it was the crushing weight of his Aura, the iron press of his Tier 1 soul weight, that proclaimed his station. Above his head glowed a halo—not the mark of Mind Ennoblement, but the visible lattice of a runic construct of staggering complexity, warding him at all times.

The Empyrean’s solar eyes swept the assembly until they found Rohan and the two Tier 3s at his back.

“Rohan Aelbe…”

The words hung suspended, his high charisma bending the crowd to his voice, each listener clinging to his lips.

With a gesture, the king summoned down the crystal river. It descended from the ceiling, unraveling into tables, chairs, and chandeliers. A hundred servants filed in, bearing dishes and silver.

“Come. Sit beside me. I would know the man who is to be my son.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Esmée saw her brother clench his fist so tightly that his glass shattered. Aydan was on the verge of mental ruin.

*

Esmée had never dined so near her father. In truth, she had never sat at his table at all. This alone proved the alliance with the Aelbes mattered to him. It was good news… yet the proximity made her skin crawl. The brush of his Domain prickled her flesh. The sound of his voice knotted her stomach. His gaze pinned her as it had when she was a little girl. She felt he knew all—that her struggle and her hopes were in vain, her defiance futile, that nothing would change tonight.

That she would wed that dolt Rohan and bear him children. Never!

“—impressed that you can sustain such a populace. A city of nearly a million souls must be a logistical nightmare.”

Esmée’s ears pricked. For the first time all evening, Rohan had said something of substance.

“It was no small task, but Duke Abidgail rose to the challenge.” The king gestured, and a noble dabbed his lips before explaining.

“To cultivate vast lands beyond our walls seemed perilous in the event of a sudden strike. A handful of spies sparking a magical blaze, a swarm of locusts, a hailstorm—any calamity could have ruined our harvests too easily. And without grain, no war.”

“Or worse, a civil war,” murmured Rohan’s huntress.

The intrusion of a female voice froze the table. Then the king smiled.

“I see I was not misled about the sharp wits of Aelbe.”

The tension broke in an instant, the table bursting into laughter—save Esmée. That bastard. System, what a bastard!

Cursing was not her habit, but she was shaken. All her life she had been told women were lesser. And now, to smooth the path with his new allies, the first of the Empyreans implied the rule applied only to his race.

“Listening to your father speak, I can see where your intelligence comes from.”

Esmée turned at Rohan’s whisper and forced a smile. The idiot hadn’t even realized she had been insulted. When Jasmine drives her dagger through your heart, I won’t shed a tear.

“To shield our crops, we looked to our spacefaring colonies,” continued the duke of agriculture. “Up there, rotating cylinders simulated gravity, with soil along the inner face. A lattice of runes governed temperature, light, humidity, rainfall, fertilizer, pest and blight eradication, and more. Here, we have done much the same.” He pointed toward a towering structure visible through a vast window. Its lights winked in the dark. “Beneath that reservoir lie tier upon tier of subterranean chambers housing fields. Each level is devoted to a different grain, with appropriate runic formations. Fifteen such complexes exist within the capital alone.”

“You farm underground?” Rohan asked.

“Indeed. They are veritable bunkers, which reassures our people.”

“And the meat?”

“Pastures will come, but they are not yet a priority. For now, we hunt. Tonight’s feast is alquya. I trust its flesh pleases you.”

Rohan laughed uproariously before sinking his teeth into a steak. Before him lay a platter once piled high with raw cuts; now it was nearly bare. To Esmée, his gluttony was matched only by the stench of his breath.

“Would you like some?” the young lord asked with a greasy smile.

Esmée forced her lips into a curve, inhaled through her nose, and answered in one quick breath. “No, thank you. I prefer my meat cooked,” she said, indicating the marinated poultry thigh she had barely touched.

“Mmh. You’ve eaten nothing. Your father neither, come to that.”

“For different reasons…”

She from the churn of stress; he from fear of poison.

“You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, don’t you? I’m here for you.”

Esméralda lifted her gaze to the room around her: Aelbes devouring like beasts, nobles who deserved the pyre, a fiancé who would hopefully not live till dawn, and a father who—Better not finish that thought.

In truth, the princess felt wretchedly alone.

Announcement to Sector Hope:

 Priam Azura has become a Collector.

Esméralda nearly burst out laughing.

Tomorrow, when all is said and done, I shall wear the red dress.

*

Esméralda - red dress