Chapter 307: Beast Clans

The morning after their arrival at the Conclave of Five Peaks was a study in calculated power dynamics. The initial flurry of diplomatic feelers from the lesser kingdoms had been handled with Queen Ondine’s practiced, regal grace, establishing the new Jorailian Empire as a significant, if enigmatic, new player on the continental stage.

But Alaric Steele was not a man to linger on past victories. The true game lay not in receiving the petitions of the desperate, but in appraising the strengths of the powerful.

“It is time for a walk, my ladies,” Alaric announced, his voice a low, calm murmur that cut through the quiet efficiency of their magnificent pavilion. He stood by a large, open archway, gazing out at the sprawling, temporary city that filled the valley below.

Queen Ondine Bellerose, who had been reviewing a report from General Tauron on their encampment’s security, immediately set the scroll aside. She rose, a vision of dark, breathtaking beauty. Her gown for the day was a masterpiece of political statement—a creation of deep Jorailian black silk, interwoven with threads of Eloriath royal blue, a symbol of the two kingdoms now united under her rule. It was elegant, powerful, and utterly regal.

Archmage Priscilla and Archmage Zylle Mordan, who had been standing silently, like beautiful, dangerous statues in the corners of the grand chamber, moved to flank him. Their attire was a different kind of statement altogether.

Priscilla wore a gown of shimmering, ice-blue silk that clung to her magnificent, mature, voluptuous form like a second skin. It was cut in a way that was subtly, scandalously revealing, the neckline plunging just a fraction too low, the fabric stretching taut across her full, heavy breasts and impossibly curvy hips. It was the gown of a prized possession, not a respected advisor.

Zylle’s attire was even more audacious. A creation of shadow-black lace and violet silk, it was more a web of intricate patterns than a solid garment, offering tantalizing glimpses of the pale, perfect skin and magnificent curves beneath. Her own full breasts and magnificent buttocks were barely contained by the delicate fabric, her every movement a symphony of forbidden allure.

They walked a half-step behind Alaric, their posture a perfect, unsettling blend of high-status power and absolute, willing servitude. Their eyes were downcast, their hands clasped demurely before them. They were Archmages, beings of immense power, yet in his presence, they were merely his mistresses, his beautiful, broken trophies.

Alaric offered his arm to Ondine. She took it, her touch a reverent caress. And so, their procession began. A king, his queen, and his two Archmage concubines.

As they descended from their elevated plateau into the bustling central valley, a wave of whispers and stares followed them. They were a spectacle of power, beauty, and mystery. The other delegations, from the mighty empires to the smallest tribal clans, watched them pass, their expressions a mixture of awe, suspicion, and undeniable, primal interest.

“That is the new Queen of Jorailia,” a portly merchant from the Azure Serpent Republic murmured to his companion, his eyes wide as he took in Ondine’s regal beauty. “And the young man beside her… that must be the Duke Steele. The one they call the ’Demon King Slayer’.”

“And the women behind him?” his companion whispered back, his gaze lingering on the breathtaking, scandalous forms of Priscilla and Zylle. “By the sea serpents, they are magnificent! But their posture… they walk like… like favored slaves, not advisors.”

The central valley of the Conclave was a grand marketplace, a vibrant, chaotic bazaar where each faction displayed its unique goods, its cultural treasures, its national pride. It was a place of trade, of espionage, of posturing.

Alaric’s tour began at the pavilion of the Rimefrost Imperium. It was a breathtaking structure of enchanted, ever-frozen ice, radiating a palpable aura of cold that made the temperate valley air seem to shimmer. Inside, displayed on pedestals of pure, clear ice, were the treasures of the frozen north. Massive, flawless cryo-crystals, pulsing with a deep, inner blue light. Weapons forged from frost-steel, their edges so sharp they seemed to cut the very light. And vials containing the frozen, preserved essences of ancient ice beasts.

Alaric stopped before a particularly large cryo-crystal, its facets catching the light and refracting it into a thousand glittering shards. “Priscilla,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Analyze the resonant frequency of these crystals. They are different from the ones in the Mystic Ice Sect. More… primal.”

Priscilla stepped forward, her eyes, once filled with defiant pride, now holding only a cool, professional focus. She raised a hand, her Archmage senses extending, probing the crystal’s energy signature. “The resonance is… incredibly stable, my Lord,” she reported, her voice a soft, respectful whisper. “And the energy density is at least three times that of the Sect’s crystals. They feel… older. More saturated with the world’s natural cryo-energy. They could be used to create a far more potent core for our ’Arctic Warden’ array, or to power a new generation of ice-based weaponry.”

“Excellent,” Alaric said, a flicker of satisfaction in his ruby eyes. He turned to Ondine. “My Queen, have your people inquire about their price. Offer them a trade of our surplus fire-aspected demonic cores. A perfect counterpoint to their icy domain.”

“As you command, my Lord,” Ondine replied, a subtle gesture to one of her aides who had been following at a discreet distance.

They moved on, leaving the Rimefrost delegation to ponder the unexpected, and surprisingly valuable, trade offer.

Their next stop was the opulent pavilion of the Celestial Dragon Empire. It was a masterpiece of eastern architecture, all lacquered wood, golden silk, and intricate jade carvings. Silent, terracotta-like golems stood guard, their impassive faces a testament to the Empire’s ancient, formidable power.

Inside, merchants displayed their wares on tables of polished rosewood. Rare, glowing herbs that pulsed with a gentle, life-giving energy. Intricate scrolls containing the secrets of their unique elemental magic. And vials of potent alchemical ingredients that made Alaric’s own inner alchemist stir with interest.

His gaze fell upon a particular item, displayed on a bed of black velvet. A gnarled root, shaped like a coiled golden serpent, that seemed to hum with a faint, vibrant energy.

“Zylle,” Alaric said, his voice a low command. “Identify that root. The one that resembles a coiled golden serpent.”

Zylle stepped forward, her own dark eyes, once filled with rebellious fire, now holding only the cold, efficient knowledge of a well-trained asset. “The archives of the Phantom Assembly, which contained information about the rare herbs of the Celestial Dragon Empire, called it the ’Golden Serpent Root’, Master,” she reported, her voice a low, resentful, yet utterly obedient murmur. “It is said to be a key ingredient in longevity elixirs, capable of extending a mortal’s lifespan by centuries. The last known samples were thought to have been lost in the Burning of the Jade Library, five hundred years ago.”

“We need it,” Alaric stated simply, his voice leaving no room for argument. “All of it. See what they will accept in trade. Offer them the schematics for our mid-tier ’Sanctuary Ward’ artifacts. A fair price for a chance at immortality, I think.”

Zylle bowed her head. “Yes, Master.” She moved to speak with the Dragon Empire’s merchants, her every movement a testament to her broken will and her new, absolute purpose.

Their tour continued, a slow, deliberate appraisal of the world’s powers. At the spartan, minimalist pavilion of the Kensei Shogunate, Alaric paused, his gaze fixed on a lone Kensei warrior who sat in deep meditation, his katana resting across his lap. The warrior was utterly still, yet he radiated an aura of potential energy so profound it was almost a physical force.

“Observe his aura, Priscilla,” Alaric murmured, his voice a low, analytical hum. “It is not just channeled into his body, but into the blade itself. The sword is an extension of his soul. A different philosophy of power. Not just wielding a weapon, but becoming one with it. We must acquire their training manuals.”

Priscilla nodded, her own Archmage senses analyzing the unique flow of spiritual energy. “It is… a profound fusion, my Lord. A level of unity between warrior and weapon I have never witnessed before.”

Finally, their tour led them to the vast, more chaotic encampment of the beast races. The air here was different, thick with the primal scents of fur, earth, and untamed power. The pavilions were replaced by magnificent yurts, carved wooden longhouses, and dens dug into the valley walls.

They were met with a wall of wary, hostile stares. The beast races, for all their internal rivalries, were united in their deep-seated distrust of humans.

Alaric, however, walked through their encampment with an air of calm, unassailable confidence, his [Emperor’s Presence!] a silent, powerful declaration that he was not a mere human to be trifled with.

Their first, and most important, stop was the central longhouse of the Three-Headed Golden Lion Clan, the undisputed leaders of the beast race factions. At the entrance, two massive, golden-furred lions, each the size of a warhorse, lay sunning themselves, their intelligent eyes tracking their approach.

As Alaric drew closer, he felt it. A sudden, crushing pressure. A wave of pure, primal, spiritual authority that slammed into his own Azure Spirit Lion essence. The ethereal lion within him, a being of mythical power, recoiled, a feeling of innate, instinctual suppression washing over it.

Alaric froze, his ruby eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He immediately, instinctively, suppressed his own spiritual aura, concealing the presence of the Azure Spirit Lion, his face a mask of calm neutrality.

’The bloodline pressure… it’s real,’ he thought, a cold, analytical thrill shooting through him. ’The Azure Spirit Lion is a mythical beast, but this… this feels like a direct descendant of a divine one. Its very presence challenges my own.’

From the longhouse emerged their Khan, Leo a’Tarr. He was a majestic being, his form a near-perfect fusion of man and lion. He was tall, powerfully built, his skin the color of sun-kissed gold. A magnificent mane of golden hair cascaded down his back, and his eyes were like molten gold, holding the ancient, predatory wisdom of his race. He radiated three distinct, powerful auras, a testament to the unique nature of his bloodline. He was, without question, a being of immense power, a true king of beasts.

He glanced at Alaric’s group, his gaze lingering for a moment on the powerful auras of Priscilla and Zylle, then sweeping over Ondine and Alaric with a cool, dismissive indifference. He saw only humans. Insignificant. Unworthy of his attention. He turned and strode back into his longhouse, his message clear.

Alaric did not take offense. He was, in fact, fascinated. This was a power he had not encountered before. A power he would one day have to understand. And conquer.

“They are said to be the arbitrators of the beast clans, my Lord,” Ondine whispered, her voice filled with a genuine awe and fear. “Their word is law among the tribes. To offend them is to offend all.”

Alaric simply nodded, his mind already filing away this new, tantalizing piece of the puzzle.

Their next stop was the encampment of the Heavenly Fox Clan. And here, Alaric’s clinical appraisal gave way to a more… personal… interest.

They were a clan of stunningly beautiful women, their forms a perfect, alluring fusion of human and beast traits. They moved with a captivating, almost hypnotic grace, their soft, twitching fox ears a delightful, exotic touch, their multiple, fluffy tails swaying behind them like silken banners.

Their leader, the elegant Matriarch Kitsune Inari, possessed seven magnificent, swaying tails, a symbol of her immense power and ancient bloodline. She watched their approach with intelligent, almond-shaped eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets.

Alaric’s gaze, however, was drawn to a younger fox woman, who possessed three magnificent, swaying tails. She was laughing with her sisters, her voice a melody, her body a masterpiece of feminine curves and exotic allure.

“Fascinating,” Alaric murmured, his voice a low purr of appreciation. “A perfect fusion of human and beast traits. Their charm… it feels innate, almost a passive magical effect. And those tails… I wonder how sensitive they are.”

Zylle, standing a half-step behind him, her face a mask of resentful servitude, replied with a dry, almost inaudible whisper. “I am certain you will endeavor to find out, Master.”

Alaric simply smiled, his gaze still lingering on the three-tailed beauty. A new, delightful target for his collection had just presented itself.

They continued their tour, a brief, respectful nod to the fierce Alpha Fenria of the Silver Moon Wolf Tribe, her silver eyes burning with a wild, untamed fire. A similar acknowledgment to the stoic giant, Chief Tuskarr of the White Scaled Mammoth Clan, his presence as solid and unyielding as the mountains themselves.

As they finally left the beast encampment, their tour concluded, a single, nagging question remained in Alaric’s mind.

“Priscilla,” he said, his voice thoughtful as they walked back towards their own pavilion. “The Eloriath Royal Archives spoke of an ’Age of Dragons’. Where are they? I see only their lesser, brutish kin—wyverns and drakes used as mounts by some of the minor kingdoms.”

Priscilla, her mind still a chaotic mix of humiliation and a strange, unwilling fascination with her new master, forced herself to focus on the scholarly question. “The texts are fragmented, my Lord,” she replied, her voice a soft, respectful murmur. “Most scholars believe the True Dragons, the ancient, intelligent beings of immense power, departed this world in a forgotten age. Or perhaps… they were driven to extinction in a war that predates human history.”

“Why they left, or what could have possibly defeated them… that is a mystery lost to time, my Lord,” she concluded.

Alaric’s ruby eyes gleamed with a new, profound interest. Dragons. The ultimate symbol of power, of conquest. The strongest of all beasts and monsters. To think that they had once existed here, and were now gone… it was a puzzle. A challenge. And Alaric Steele loved nothing more than a challenge.

He returned to his pavilion, his mind a whirlwind of new information, new ambitions, new targets. The Conclave of Five Peaks had proven to be even more… enlightening… than he had anticipated. The world was vast, filled with powerful players and beautiful, exotic women. And he, Alaric Steele, intended to conquer it all. The game was afoot. And he was ready to make his next move.