Chapter 678 Drow Princess

Tycondrius had a quest: to deliver King and his swords to Whitehearth.

Captain Krysaos did not work for free. While Tycon had ensured the gentleman's survival thus far, it would behoove him to receive reward or compensation for his efforts.

The one that wished to be called King commandeered the... man's second ship.

Such was a risk Krysaos did not need to take-- allowing one of his most prized possessions to possibly sail away into the horizon.

Regardless of the time and place that the elf had originated, ships had never been so common to be loaned out so easily.

Thus, Tycondrius would take Imperia under his protection.

Looked upon kindly, the notion was to promote amicable cooperation between the crew of the Neptune's Revenge and the Elven sovereign's budding faction.

In truth, Imperia was a hostage... and would remain as such until recompense was paid... or the formerly Nemayan ship was returned to him.

If the young woman was... disagreeable, Tycon had several measures available to him.

Guilt, in particular, seemed appropriate. She had a duty to her sovereign... for what reason was unimportant.

If Imperia decided to act against him-- even with Tycon's left arm as *crippled* as it was, he could merely reactivate Krysaos' ⌈Tendril Entrapment⌋ spell circle.

In such a case, he would not be as merciful as above-deck, where King could still observe his heavy hand.

Seated on a chair, the charcoal-skinned Elven woman wore a scowl and remained guarded with her arms and legs crossed. Though she tried to look aloof and generally uncomfortable... her eyes betrayed her wonder as she looked around the cabin.

Tycon's personal quarters were fairly simple. It had two ironically exquisite chairs, a simple desk... and a variety of seals and spell circles on the walls, made with Krysaos' assistance.

The designs were neat and aesthetically pleasing; thorough, with clear definitions; and-- due to redundancy, difficult to subvert. As Imperia had a caster Class, Tycon expected her to have at least a modicum of understanding of their functions.

...at least more than Krysaos was capable of, anyroad.

Forced to spend less time on physical training, Tycon had focused on practicing his spellcraft. His expertise, however, remained in working with rituals and theory-- the manipulation of existing elements, rather than the development of his own pitifully weak Circle mastery.

Fresh air and mana cycled into the room, promoting general comfort. Sounds from outside the cabin were largely muted, making the Coral Boys' nighttime snoring tolerable.

...Scrying magic from outside sources were blocked, as well as mundane eavesdropping. Arcane magic was exponentially more difficult to cast within the room, as well.

The woman could not rely on her strongest assets within the sealed cabin. Regardless of her sovereign's Elven eyes or ears, they would not see her. Though she was a Cleric of some power... the god that backed her would not hear her prayers.

Then her gaze... that was completely useless if her target was Tycon.

One function the circles did not provide, however... was temperature control for persons other than himself.

Tycon was sheathed in a thin, magical layer of warmth, the range of which extended to all sections of the Neptune's Revenge.

The price for the range, however, was its single-target effect.

Imperia wore armored leggings and gauntlets that covered her shoulders and arms... but her underdeveloped chest was only covered by thin cloth. As the spell circles also mitigated Imperia's ability to utilize mana to regulate her body temperature, she shivered and rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to keep warm.

She looked ridiculous... attempting to look confident while her teeth chattered from the cold.

"You said your name was Imperia?" Tycon asked.

The name was in the style of the Holy Country... but he was asking to ensure his pronunciation was proper.

"What is it?" The woman glared hatefully.

...It appeared that Tycon had given the woman far too much credit.

She did not understand her position.

With such safeguards in effect, Tycon could treat her as he pleased, privately and without fear of consequence.

The prospect was... tempting.

Tycon took a deep breath, trying to remain calm... "I *was* going to offer you a coat."

"Took you long enough," Imperia narrowed her eyes as she held out a hand, "Where is it? Hand it over."

"Mind your tongue, young lady," Tycon shook his head. "I'm fairly certain you heard... but I shall remind you..."

He took the room's second chair and placed it where he could sit face-to-face with his whelpling company... "Your sovereign renders me the respect I deserve... Will you grant me any less?"

Imperia sneered, her purple eyes glowing with restrained fury as she cursed in Elven, "(Accursed snake, I will tear out your eyes and feed them to my karkinii.)"

Tycon grimaced. Being polite had earned him nothing but contempt.

His courtesy was not weakness.

« System, activate snake form. »

⟬ Activating large snake form... ⟭

Tycon stood from his chair, feeling his bones pop and his muscles condense, twisting and writhing. His skin hardened to scale harder than steel and his form grew... and grew... until the room was filled with his white-scaled body.

From the look in Imperia's eyes, she was beginning to understand... but that had arrived unacceptably late.

He spoke to her... in Parseltongue... "(Flowing in your veins is the dark elf bloodline of the eastern jungles... You know my tongue, imprinted in your memories, do you not?)"

"Tch..." The woman grit her teeth. Though she wore her brave front as best as she could, her entire body shook-- and not from the cold. "I... at least know this much..."

He was testing her... and found the result impressive. Elves tended to be notorious for having weak ancestral memories. He had wondered how such a spoiled child was in command of a powerful retinue of servants.

It was likely that her people recognized the purity of her bloodline.

Or... she was of a royal lineage.

Arrogance and royal blood... they were often closely linked.

He slithered around her shins... and coiled around her body... his weight stifling her breath.

He could crush Imperia's bones into pulp with so very little effort... but he would ensure she understood the consequences of her foul attitude before he did.

...

⟬ The Neptune's Revenge, the Snake Prince's quarters. Imperia's point of view ⟭

Imperia's heart pounded quickly and painfully in her chest, seeing the Prince take to his true form.

Everything she had done in the past century had been useless.

She'd spent decades cultivating her gift... her ocular ability. With it, she received her mother's blessings over her other sisters... gaining power and subordinates... and with those gaining accolades... trust.

It was all... useless...

Her current enemy was a Maedar, a man born immune to her gaze.

And worse... the man belonged to an undeniably pure bloodline to have such a powerful transformation.

A snake... a massive... impossibly large snake.

Imperia hated snakes.

They were vile creatures that hid in the shaded places of her terrestrial, childhood home. Even when she'd become a Priestess of the Storm and lived almost exclusively in the waters, she sought to slay the sea snakes whenever they dared to rear their ugly heads around her.

For whatever accursed reason, her magic wasn't working in the cramped cabin... something in the borrowed seals etched into the walls-- or maybe a poison in the air she was affected by.

That white snake body... it writhed and undulated across hers, the smooth and cold scales brushing against her thighs and breasts. The monster's grip was steady... forceful and strong... like a king taking ownership of their consort.

It made her feel nauseous.

It made her want to scream... to rage... to beg for mercy...

Even if she could, she would suppress that urge with all her being.

She would not look weak in front of her subordinates... nor would she show weakness in front of her enemies.

"(I... can taste... your... f e a r ,)" The Maedar whispered as his forked tongue gently kissed Imperia's cheek.

The complex hiss sent a low fear thrumming through her insides, threatening to make her loose her bowels. She shivered as a chill ran down her back, colder than the depths of the ocean.

Imperia could understand him... She did not know why...

And that she did so clearly... it terrified her.

"My... king..." She winced and took a deep breath, "--he will not stand for this..."

Her will began to waver... but that, she could not allow. If she shed a single tear... if she tried to struggle... if she even thought about running to the door... the Maedar would show no mercy.

"Oh, he will..." Tycon hissed in amusement, "He is old... Ancient. As protective as your Ancients may be... he will think twice before he offends someone of my station."

"(He... is different,)" She whispered to herself in Elven...

The Elven sovereign was... different from the other Ancients she knew. He chose to act rather than to debate. He wore his physical scars with pride. He spoke with confidence...

He demanded respect with certainty and straightforwardness.

Maybe... he would even rescue her from the monster's jaws...