A chromatic silver staircase, a masterpiece of engineering, coiled around her, each spine of precious metal forming an extravagant rope. With each step, Lorelai ascended the intricately carved painting, guided by the ethereal sapphire light emanating from the rare Voltites.
To say that it leaked luxury was an understatement; just the orange gemstone light bulbs alone could have sustained her for months. The silver railing was a stunning work of art in its own right. It was so beautiful that she didn't dare place her poor peasant fingers on such a delicate object. But given the look Amara gave her before scaling this frivolous tower, the cost of this must be even beyond her purse, and this came from a woman who owned her own sky-splitting ship. An object so expensive to operate, you'd need to be earning thousands of gem shards per hour, plus a surplus just to fuel the darn thing. The extravagance of it all felt like a taunt, a reminder of her pothole dress, frayed and with a loss of sparkle.
"There is one last thing to remember," Amara said.
Lore darted her eyes back to the woman, doing her best not to show the fact she was zoned out the whole time.
"Close your fangs," The woman interrupted, "I'm not going to repeat this."
Amara's golden gaze bore into her, sharp and unyielding, like the edge of a blade pressed to her skin, her eyes waiting for her to focus. Amara was intense, but when her usual model-like face had enough emotion to wrinkle, now that… was serious.
"Under no circumstances should he be allowed to leave his room while we are airborne."
Lore frowned. "So you want me to stay in a stranger's room… for a whole night? Alone?"
"Whatever you get up to is none of my business; just ensure he stays put."
"Umm…," Lore said.
The woman huffed and narrowed her glare. "Will you do it?"
Lore gnawed her lip. An Archdemon Knight… powerful enough to bring kingdoms to their knees, and here she was, ordered to contain him. Her heart quickened with dread—but also with a thrill she couldn't ignore. Simmering, she looked at the excellent, detailed door, each glistening rivet plucking her over the edge. Power. Might. And someone to teach it. When would she ever get the chance again? And there was no guarantee it would end up like she imagined. It was a typical job, just pour wine and refill snacks.
For example, the hall was quieter here, the ravishing banging on the lower floors, a silent buzz this high up. She just needed to set some boundaries, keep her distance and ask a million questions, and it would be over before she knew it.
And with that settled, she pushed aside her trembling breath, straightened her wet dress, gripped the handle, and pulled. The large, freshly lubed door slipped open with little effort. The scent of oil, wood and iron choked her nose in a wave, her eyes tearing up at the strong odour. But before she could brace herself, a heel kicked her from behind, and the door slammed shut. The click of steel sealed her fate, her frantic tug at the handle failing to unlock the bronze metal.
"Try not to mess this up. Because there won't be a next time."
Outside, the woman's footsteps receded, each step like a drop in her gut. Lore's hands tightened around the handle, her palms damp with sweat as she heard the final click. A slow wave of panic crawled up her spine, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She must have annoyed the woman somehow. It must be her fault. She must have made a mistake somehow. Amara loved her like a daughter; she was just being strict.
Then, sensing another presence in the room with her, she clicked her neck in logarithmic intervals until she locked eyes with him. It couldn't get worse, right?
There sat a rather shabby noble, his lips inhaling a glass of crimson wine. Or at least she hoped it was wine. But she wasn't sure if that was a red flag if she saw one: Drinking alone, locked in a luxury room, a prisoner aboard a pleasure cruise. Then there was the way he held his glass, loose, careless, as if he couldn't remember why he was drinking but needed to keep going.
He dressed in what she assumed was once a stunning military uniform, the torn fabric where the medals he would have earned, pulled from the stitching, his jacket shoulders bare of the honour. She would have mistaken him for a beggar without knowing who he was, the so-called Dragon Slayer.
Despite the so-so appearance, he couldn't be much older than herself, not greying but not youthful either. She wasn't sure who had more wrinkles between them. Plus his scruffy stubble, gone without any maintenance whatsoever, formed a mess of scribble on his jaw. His tired expression was one of a person who had gone nights without sleep. And by the looks of the untouched bedsheets, she questioned if this man had even slept in the few days they had been aboard.
Ego purred, and the vivid image of shaking that frame raw made Lore blush. Stupid, Stupid. Lore shook her head. That was what she got for staring at the bed for too long. She looked at the man and back the sheets, the sight of the cream cloth making her redder.
She'd spent her life hearing about Archdemon Knights, warriors carved from power and legend. But now, faced with one so close, all her words had melted away, leaving her a stammering mess. But interrupting her fantasies and feeling his glare, her tail straightened and her fingers squirmed in turmoil–this was it.
"Hello?" She squeaked.
His eyes drifted somewhere beyond her, as if she were nothing but a shadow in his fogged vision. He took another sip, the glimmer of engagement gone in an instant. Hello. Really? Out of everything, that's what she said? She fought the instinct to bang her horns on the closest wall. He was an Arch-Daemon, and as weird as he was, Hobo or not, she was here to do her job. And she'd get it done, even if her hands shook the whole way through.
"Why stop at hello?" Ego said, "You're closer to a Knight than you'll ever be—did you forget the Etiquette."
In an instant, Lore stood upright, her feet together, her fingers clawed over her heart. Yes, she remembered it from the founder's Marches, a salute the Knights did while surging their powers, the visible steam that hissed out their fangs, a demonstration of the superheated core. Her back straightened, her posture as if stone. Indeed, he would recognise this stance. For a fleeting moment, she experienced a surge of pride, an almost unfamiliar feeling, blooming through her entire being.
"Dragon slayer!" The words shouted out her lungs, her voice attempting to mimic a fraction of the founding commanders.
However, when she looked back at the man, he stopped mid-sip, the liquid spluttering to the table's edge. And with an ethereal snap, he yanked her body towards him. Dragged forward by her glass buckle, she closed the distance in an instant, and in one swing, his fingers snatched her and slammed her to the floor, her back breaking through the mattress. The shrapnel of feathers exploded in her sight; her chest lagged as a mountain of air chugged inwards, her vacant lungs gushing.
Catching her breath, she watched; his blizzardous cold eyes scanned her up and down. An air of steam broke his lips, his fingers felt like steel against her, radiating a warmth that could embrace her, or snap her. It almost felt comforting to experience the power she desired first-hand, but as her body shook numb in his grip, her throat dried up like paper. It had all caught up like a freight train.
Ego brightened in delight, her sultry intentions clear. Lore's back knotted into the sheets, the Archdemon a living weapon that could kill her, holding her captive. He could do anything. Absolutely anything.
The man's face, too close for her liking, prowled over her. His low growl, ready to tear apart his prey and her in an instant. She felt like a deer under the inspection of a solitary wolf. Was it hungry? Did it thirst for blood? Or did he have other intentions? His gaze lingered over her, scrutinising each inch as if searching for — something?
The silence chewed her, Ego's playful coos background noise as all she could hear was breath—one then another, each heavier than the last. Was it hers or his? She couldn't tell.
"Where did you learn that?" said the Archdemon.
"I…"
Her body shivered as his jet-blue eyes held her hostage. She was utterly shaking now, her spasming lips unable to form the words.
Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. 'I thought… I thought maybe you could help me," she said honestly.
"Is that the truth?" he asked.
She nodded slowly, swallowing what little moisture gathered in her throat.
Then, she felt the grip loosen a little, the energy the man emitted dulling a smidge. Bright-eyed, she flicked to the man, his face hovering an inch from hers. It was still too close. He twisted a lip, his rough jaw contemplating something. Until, like all she had wished to have, the man's pupils sparked a faint glow like a ruby-hued Hemarite, flicked to life as he bared his sight at her. She could feel a warmth oozing out, his core-powered eyes working to investigate her reactions. The heat of his energy washed over her, almost magnetic, like she could reach out and hold a piece of it. Her own core felt empty in comparison, a hollow space that ached to surge like his.
"You. You're surging, aren't you?" She said. "I've tried everything but can't figure out how-"
She caught her tongue. Why was she revealing so much to what is a complete stranger? It was a weakness in her and power that others wanted, and in some gory cases, it was a power that could be stolen. She swallowed, her fingers clutching atop her gem heart, her dried throat like rain on sandpaper, her sweaty fingers like lube on her skin.
However, she couldn't get anywhere studying on her own, book after book, promising greatness, power and glory. Yet after all these years, nothing. She was either wrong or too stupid to know that.
She peered straight at him, firm or as firm as her noodled body could muster, every bit of determination fueling her stare.
"Teach me," she said. Her heart hammered as she forced the words out, half-terrified he'd laugh, or worse—ignore her.
The man sighed, and all at once, his fingers slipped away, a rush of cold replaced the warmth of his grip. Her horns banged the deck. Her spiralling body whined as she dropped. However, instead of the glorious details she desired, the Valkar pulled out his stool and sat. A new cup of wine filled and pressed his lips, her questions left unanswered.
"Hey!" Her heels hit wood, and she stormed over, "Is that it? I answered your questions, but what about mine?"
He refilled his cup and continued drinking without so much as a glance. In fact, he barely acknowledged her, lifting his cup with a lazy tilt of his head, as if her demands were nothing more than background noise. Lore pouted; of all the excitement to meet an Archdemon, reality gave her the alcoholic before her.
Lore growled at him, and with a spark in her blood, she snatched the glass of suspiciously red liquid and downed the contents. The buzz laced her tongue, the stab of toxic crimson hitting her tastebuds.
"No more until you answer me!" Lore said.
However, like a magician, the Archdemon pulled another bottle and uncorked the lid.
Lore scoffed. Her fingers drummed against her arm as she glared at him. "Where the hell are you pulling them from?"
The Knight's lips curved, a faint, almost mocking smile, as if her insistence was merely entertaining. His annoyingly handsome eyes melted Ego into a puddle and Lore growled. No, she was better than this; she had to think of something else, like gears. There's nothing sexy about clockwork. Shiny, safe and unable to hurt her. Nothing like the Archdemon before her.
She took a seat, offering up her cup. If he wants to drink, then so be it. The rain of liquid flowed, her eyes meeting his. It takes two to play. A pulse of doubt flickered in her chest, but she smothered it, lifting her cup to meet his gaze head-on. She steadied her grip on the cup, feeling its cool weight against her palm.
"I'm going to get my answers one way or another."