Champion Of Lust: Gods Conquer's Harem Paradise!

The doors to the lavish waiting room swept open with the soft chime of luxury—an entrance that didn't need fanfare because the sheer presence of the women stepping in was more commanding than any announcement.

Zara and Nysa entered first, their elegance impossible to ignore. Zara's crimson gown flowed like liquid fire, hugging her figure with an effortless grace that balanced allure and authority. The plunging neckline was bold but tasteful, framed by delicate gold embroidery that danced along the hem and sleeves. A slit traced up her thigh, offering just a tease of skin with every step, but her posture and confidence made it clear—this wasn't about seduction; it was power wrapped in elegance.

Following behind them, Ammit strode forward, her presence carrying that fierce, raw energy unique to her.

She was a demoness storm disguised in human form—dangerous, yet somehow inviting. Beside her, Rose was a quieter presence but no less significant, her eyes sweeping the room with a sharp awareness before landing on Astrid.

Zara's amused chuckle broke through the thick tension like a blade cutting silk.

She shook her head as her eyes settled on Astrid's figure, curled gracefully on the expensive lounge chair. "Emberly was right," she said with a teasing glint in her eye. "Look at you—drowning in sorrow on such a beautiful evening. Tsk."

Ammit, arms casually crossed yet radiating warmth, smirked and added, "That's why she told us to keep you company, I guess. Can't have the Empress sulking when the mortal realm's finest are gathered just downstairs."

"Honestly," Nysa chimed in, stepping closer, her emerald gown matching her eyes shimmering subtly under the soft lighting. The deep-cut neckline framed her collarbone perfectly, and every movement revealed just a little more of the elegance beneath her playful demeanor. "I was getting bored with all that serious talk. But now that Zara's here—and Astrid? You two can spill all the good secrets about these so-called 'important figures.' of the mortal realm."

Her tone was light, but there was genuine understanding behind her words—a silent acknowledgment of Astrid's worries, her fears, the weight crushing her shoulders tonight. It wasn't just small talk. It was an attempt to ease her heart, if only for a moment.

Zara's smile softened as she moved to sit beside Astrid, the crimson fabric of her dress catching the light like liquid fire.

She leaned in just slightly, her voice warm yet teasing. "I'll gladly play the guide. I know pretty much everyone here… though most of them don't know me." She lowered herself elegantly onto the plush couch, crossing her legs effortlessly—a vision of power wrapped in grace.

Her hand lightly brushed Astrid's arm in reassurance. "But Astrid knows their secrets," Zara added, flashing a sly grin. "She could tell you stories that would make even the bravest choke on their champagne."

Astrid couldn't help but smile—genuinely. The tight knot in her chest loosened just a bit, the dark cloud of sorrow lifting for a brief, precious moment.

"Maybe I will," she murmured, her silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight down her shoulders.

And just like that, for the first time that evening, she didn't feel so alone.

_____

In the heart of the grand Dragon Palace, where every wall was carved with ancient symbols of power and legacy, the atmosphere was thick with tension and purpose. The air seemed to hum with the weight of impending change—a storm long whispered about was finally beginning to stir.

Within his vast chamber, Crown Prince Drakon stood tall, an embodiment of authority forged from centuries of dragon-blooded royalty. The sharp lines of his jaw and cold, calculating eyes reflected not just nobility but a mind sharpened like a blade over years of silent observation and ruthless strategy.

Silken robes of black and dark gold draped his broad frame—regal, intimidating, and designed to both charm and assert dominance.

The patterns embroidered into the fabric shimmered faintly with ancient runes of his bloodline, power etched into every thread. The black base swallowed the light, while the gold ran along the edges like liquid fire, catching just enough reflection to give him a near-mythical presence.

Maids worked silently around him, ensuring every detail was perfect—folding the fabric just so, adjusting the ornate dragon clasp resting on his chest, smoothing back his hair with utmost precision. But none of them dared speak. Not out of fear of his wrath but because they knew better than to disturb the Crown Prince when his mind was at work.

His reflection in the towering obsidian mirror was flawless—intimidating, magnetic, and dressed to conquer. But beneath the surface of that polished arrogance was something far more dangerous: intention.

Soon, his steps echoed through the palace halls, every stride calculated and graceful, his robes whispering power with every movement.

The corridors were lined with centuries of history—portraits of past emperors whose legacies weighed heavy on every stone. But Drakon carried none of their foolish pride. His father, the current Emperor, might let emotion rule him, but Drakon was different. The nobles knew it, and many whispered that under his reign, the Dragon Empire might reclaim its lost glory.

Even Zed had voiced respect for the prince's strategic prowess.

This time the apple apparently fell far from it's tree.

As Drakon reached the grand entrance, his entourage was already assembled.

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First, there was the woman in her forties—sharp as a scythe, her presence carved from sheer authority and deathly precision. Her eyes alone could cut through lies and fear. Beside her stood a man in his thirties, stoic and battle-hardened, the kind of soldier who didn't need words to intimidate. The last was another woman, equally deadly, whose elegance masked a ruthless spirit beneath the surface.

They bowed in perfect unison. "Your Royal Highness."

Drakon barely acknowledged the gesture with a nod—there was no need for pretense among those who already understood their place. They led him forward, opening the door of the sleek black limo waiting at the palace steps.

The ride was silent, save for the soft hum of the engine. But Drakon wasn't interested in conversation. His mind was already calculating, dissecting every possibility the night might hold.

Tonight would not just be another political gathering—it would be history in motion.

"Where's the young duke?" Drakon's voice cut through the silence, directed at the older woman.