The town square had been cleared for the occasion.
A delegation had arrived that morning—carriages clad in gold-edged black, pulled by fiend-blooded steeds and escorted by armored demon knights bearing the crest of the House of Nrazhul, one of the more politically treacherous noble families from the outer ring of the demon kingdom.
Kujo stood at the entrance to the main road with his council at his back. Dimara flanked his left, calm but alert. Fiore stood to his right, hand on the hilt of her sword. The others watched quietly from the walkways above.
The emissary emerged from the carriage with theatrical disdain.
He was tall, thin, and wore velvet robes adorned with a dozen unnecessary jewels. His expression was pinched, his nose permanently wrinkled as if the air itself was beneath him.
"I am Maladrix, voice of Nrazhul," he declared, loudly and obnoxiously. "I come bearing a message of neutrality from my house. We offer neither war nor alliance."
Kujo nodded. "Then speak it plainly."
Maladrix's gaze swept the town. "It is… cleaner than I expected. Though I can still smell the stink of half-breeds and lesser bloodlines."
Zafira's gold jewelry rattled as she stiffened.
Fiore's blade clicked in its sheath.
Maladrix smirked, ignoring the tension. "And you, Prince Kujo… They call you prince, but all I see is a keeper of concubines and misfits. This? This is your court? A collection of mongrels and lap-warmers?"
Fiore stepped forward, eyes glowing. "You want to lose your tongue?"
Zafira raised a hand and whispered something in a language older than stone—her magic flared gold for a moment.
"Ladies," Kujo said, his voice calm but sharp.
They stopped.
Barely.
Kujo stepped forward.
"If my court offends you so deeply, then let's settle it the way demons should."
Maladrix raised an eyebrow. "You suggest a duel?"
"A champion battle," Kujo confirmed. "You or your best against me. Winner decides if your house officially recognizes this town's sovereignty—or walks away disgraced."
Maladrix laughed. "You'd fight yourself? Not even your beasts?"
"They're not beasts," Kujo replied. "But no—I fight. Myself."
"Fine," the emissary said with a grin. "One hour. Your square. Our rules."
That square was now packed with citizens. Word had spread fast. Vampires, elves, werewolves, and others gathered around the outer ring. Kyrie watched from a roof. Chusi leaned against a tree, arms crossed. Setara took detailed notes on a scroll. Zafira stood regal and unreadable. Fiore watched like a hawk.
Kujo stepped into the ring.
The emissary's champion was a brute. A massive ogre-blooded demon in plated stone armor with a hammer the size of a tree trunk. His magic radiated destruction—brute force, not elegance.
The match began with a roar.
Kujo danced around the first few swings, slashing with blades of shadow, dodging and weaving. But this foe was different—his sheer size and reach made it difficult to get in close.
The champion landed a heavy blow across Kujo's shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The crowd gasped.
He rolled, breathing hard, ribs aching.
Then a gust of wind swept down from above.
Kyrie landed behind him.
"I'm not interfering," she said, raising a warding glyph that linked only to Kujo's back. "Just… giving you a breeze."
The magic surged into him—light as air, fast as flight. His limbs moved cleaner. The pain dulled. His shadow magic responded faster.
He charged.
One fakeout to the left, a dive to the right, and then a sweep under the brute's guard. His claws burst forth, black and violet, and drove directly into the ogre's chestplate.
The champion fell.
The crowd roared.
Maladrix seethed, muttered something under his breath, and left without another word.
Kujo stood in the square, panting.
Not victorious by pride.
But victorious nonetheless.
That night, he returned to his room aching, shirtless, towel draped across his shoulders. The moonlight filtered through the window.
And there she was.
Zafira.
Seated calmly on the edge of his bed, her long white hair tied into a loose braid, her legs crossed in fine silk.
"You kept calm," she said softly. "You kept control. That deserves reward."
She straddled him gently, her hips lowering onto his lap, her hands brushing his shoulders.
"Let me give you a royal massage."
Her fingers dug into his muscles slowly, precisely. Her thumbs traced the tension from his shoulders down his back. Her body moved with hypnotic rhythm—closer, firmer. Her chest pressed to his with each shift. Her voice whispered soft praises into his ear.
"You hold so much stress in here," she said, rubbing his chest. "Let me help you forget."
She leaned in to kiss him.
And then—
The door opened.
Fiore entered.
Kujo flinched. "Wait, I—"
"You're not doing it right," Fiore said, tossing her gloves aside. "That's not how you relax someone."
Zafira raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I've watched him longer. I know his spots."
She walked up and climbed onto the bed behind Kujo, pressing her body to his back, wrapping her arms around his waist.
Zafira stayed on his lap.
Kujo was now trapped between both of them, hands and bodies working him from front and back—one elegant and slow, the other firm and direct.
"I'm supposed to be resting," he muttered.
Fiore kissed his neck. "You are."
Zafira smiled. "This is care. Enjoy it."
He wasn't sure if this was heaven or war.
Possibly both.