Vivianna beamed at my words and nodded. ''Such a kind grandson, but our meeting isn't the only reason I'm here. Your father wants you to return to Varanthal; he wants to meet the new you.''
Damn, they won't leave me alone until seeing me, I mused, watching my new grandmother fill up my cup.
I shook my head, taking a sip of the tea. ''I won't be returning anytime soon. I'm going to clear the Bleakmarch. Then he won't find a reason to take my legion from me, and I need a place away from Varanthal.''
The older woman's smile widened, and she bobbed her head. ''I knew you would say that. The soldiers have been talking about the Devourer Prince. The one who eats monsters and marches to reclaim lands lost to the kingdom.''
''What can I say? My Mana Core changed, as did I,'' I replied, taking a sip of the hot tea.
A burst of sweetness erupted in my mouth, causing my eyes to widen in surprise. Vivianna giggled. ''Cores are fickle things; they can change before one comes to their power, but what surprised me was that the old Arthur was adept at Earth and Fire Magic.''
This news caused my eyebrows to rise as she continued. ''Can you use magic? Or limited to those claws and teeth of yours?''
''No, I can't, but even then I'm not too sure,'' I revealed, finishing the tea.
''Interesting,'' Vivianna muttered.
Following that, we continued talking. I learned my new grandmother is the headmistress at the Verona College of Magic. I wasn't shocked, thanks to her immense power. By the time she got up, an hour had passed. She smiled at me before stepping forward, wrapping me in a warm hug.
''You're a delight to talk to,'' she said. ''We will see each other when you're back in the capital. Until then, look after yourself, grandson.''
I couldn't help but let out a fake smile to hide all the pain from my previous life and the complicated relationship with my family that I left behind. A heartbeat later, a soft flare of light blue erupted in the air. My new grandmother vanished completely, dissolved into nothingness. After a few minutes, the tent flaps whooshed open.
Sahara stepped inside, a sly smile crossing her lips. ''Let's talk, my prince. But I need to take this armour off.''
She reached up and began unfastening pieces of armour, storing them in a storage ring I spotted. As the final plate vanished, a thin shirt was pulled impossibly tight across her big chest. The fabric strained with each slow breath, outlining every curve in stark relief. I swallowed hard, too loudly.
The woman's dark green eyes gleamed; she tilted her head, letting a low chuckle roll out. ''Like what you see, my prince? Didn't think you had a taste for green.''
Heat flooded my face at the older woman's teasing. I tore my gaze away, clearing my throat. ''Just… take a seat.'' I gestured toward the heavy oak chair opposite me. ''Have the Royal Guards gone?''
Sahara moved and sat down, looking pleased with herself. ''They vanished the moment I stepped inside,'' she said, leaning forward so the shirt pulled even tighter. ''So what do you want to talk about, my prince?''
''How much does the kingdom send for the legion's wages?''
She thought for a second, then came up with an answer. ''About two hundred and fifty thousand silver per year. It's split into four parts.''
''For each of the seasons, I assume?''
''Yes, your highness.''
I nodded, reached into the nearby drawer, and pulled out a sheet of paper along with a pencil, which was the primary thing people used on Lumira. As ideas began to spill out, I started writing quickly, the scratch of ink against paper filling the quiet tent. She sat there, watching me, a small, gentle smile appearing.
I should raise their pay; that will make them fight better, I mused.
Thanks to Sahara, I already knew the standard pay for a Veronian Legionnaire: two hundred silver coins every four months. In this world, coins mattered as much as steel or loyalty, so I decided to change the game. I raised the base legionary salary to five hundred silver per season.
That kind of jump should light a fire under the men and make recruitment far easier. The First Cohort, always the elite of the legion, would move from their old four hundred to seven hundred and fifty silver per season. Finally, the Legionary Cavalry, who risked both horse and life, would also receive seven hundred fifty silver per season from their previous five hundred.
Now I must see to the sword-and-shield warriors I'm bringing into the legion. They'll be vital in the campaigns to come. Four hundred silver coins a season should be enough to keep the recruits loyal and satisfied. Sahara and the other commanders can be dealt with once Blue Bay and the surrounding mines are firmly in our grasp.
9,759,800 silver coins, I calculated. The cost of a single year's wages for my standing forces, including the Sahara and the centurions.
After some time, I finished, then pushed the paper toward Sahara, who took it and began reading. I watched as the orc woman's eyes widened, but soon a smile appeared. ''This is good and will build the strongest army on Aldoria, but it's also costly. How will we afford ten million silver coins per year?''
''I've decided,'' I said, a slow smirk curling my lips. ''We retake the Blue Bay Mines and the nearby city of Highcrest to set up a base.''
Sahara's eyes narrowed, assessing. ''Bold, my prince.''
''I'll lead my bodyguards straight into the mines and purge them myself,'' I continued. ''Meanwhile, the legion sweeps Highcrest clean. Once those shafts are ours, the ore will feed and pay the legion, no more begging at my father's table.''
A spark of genuine respect flickered across her face. ''If the rumours are true, the wealth buried there could reshape Verona itself. Control the mines, and you'd eclipse every other prince before they even draw their blades.''
''Exactly.'' My voice hardened. ''When the kingdom lost Bleakmarch, we lost Blue Bay, and every vault of silver and gold along with it.''
Sahara nodded in agreement. ''Over one hundred years ago, when the Dungeons burst in the Duchy of Ravencourt, the Bleakmarch was lost, but Verona never lost grip thanks to Altanar City and Count Ashwood's ancestor. We're taught about the kingdom's history during my days in the academy.''
''Tell me what you know about it?''
The Orc smiled. ''We'd better have a drink? It's a long story. My family has many books on it, and I read about it during my childhood.''
Just then, Lily materialised from thin air, slipping straight past my Senses as though they weren't even there. My heart lurched, but I collected myself and stared, mind blank with the impossibility of it. No ripple, no warning scent of mana, no tremor in the ambient flow. There was nothing.
She might as well have stepped out of a fold in reality itself. Then understanding crashed in. She's on low Fourth Circle.
The realisation hit like cold iron. My throat worked; I swallowed hard. She wasn't just stronger; she outclassed me so thoroughly that my vaunted senses had been rendered child's play against her power. Lily tilted her dark brown hair, catching the dying light seeping into the tent.
Her expression was calm and faintly amused as though she'd caught me sneaking sweets from the kitchen. ''Here you go, my prince,'' the maid said, placing a tray in front of us.
There were two mugs of ale sitting there, and another blonde maid brought in a massive pitcher, causing the Orc General's dark green eyes to widen in shock. ''Oh wow. Spoiling us soldiers, your highness?''
''Just have your drink and tell me what you know about Bleakmarch,'' I stated, causing Sahara to laugh.
After that, we settled in with the ale and warm air radiating from the nearby fire. Lily slipped quietly out of the tent after bowing her head, leaving just the two of us in the flickering lamplight. Sahara lifted her tankard, took a long, appreciative pull, then let out a low, satisfied breath.
''You've got the broad strokes of that nightmarish place,'' she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ''But the real trouble isn't just the ruins. It's the bandit crews and cannibals that roam all over. Also, the death cults chanting in the catacombs, and worse things that only come out when the moon's wrong.''
I met her gaze steadily. ''Most of them I can handle, thanks to what I've become. But I need details. Every threat, every story, every rumour you've ever heard.''
Sahara's eyes narrowed, sharp and gleaming. A slow, sly smile curled the corner of her mouth as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. ''And what exactly,'' she murmured, voice dropping into something velvet and dangerous. ''Do I get in return?''
''What do you want?''
She beamed. ''I want you to take me for a drink in Tidewater.''
I was surprised by her request and nodded in agreement. ''Alright, we'll go tomorrow night. We're not marching into Bleakmarch until the day after.''
When Sahara heard my answer, her smile stretched wide, eyes sparkling with mischief. Then she launched into it, stories of prowling monsters, ruthless bandit gangs, cannibal tribes that kidnapped travellers and wild dungeons teeming with creatures so thick you could barely swing a blade.
Each word hit like kindling on a fire. My pulse raced; excitement coiled tight in my chest. All I could think about was tearing through them, ripping out hearts, gorging until my well brimmed and overflowed. Afterwards, the ale flowed freely. Sahara matched me tankard for tankard, her laugh rolled through the tent each time I failed to keep pace.
She had a way of telling them that made the Bleakmarch sound almost inviting: bandit chiefs with names like One-Eye Korr and Mother Vex, death-cult zealots who painted their faces using powdered bone, tunnels that twisted like living things and spat out horrors that even seasoned legionaries refused to name.
Somewhere around the third refill, the flush on her cheeks deepened from a faint green to a rich, warm emerald. Her words started to slur at the edges, just enough to soften the sharp edges of her usual command. She leaned forward more often, elbows on the table between us, the tight shirt pulling even tauter across her chest with every slow breath.
''You're really going to do it, aren't you?'' she murmured, voice lower now, almost intimate. ''March into that graveyard and come out richer than the nobility.''
''That's the plan,'' I said, raising my tankard in a mock toast. ''No more begging. No more waiting for my father's table scraps.''
She snorted softly, then reached for the pitcher and poured herself another generous measure. Some of it sloshed over the rim, dripping down her wrist. She didn't seem to care. Instead, she licked it off with a slow swipe of her tongue, dark green eyes locked on mine the whole time.
''Careful, prince,'' she said, voice husky. ''Pride like that gets men killed.''
''Pride didn't change my Core,'' I replied. ''Hunger did, I also don't feel like a man anymore.''
Sahara's gaze lingered on me, longer than before, heavy with something that wasn't just amusement. She set the tankard down with a clunk, then pushed herself up. The Orc woman's balance wavered for half a second; she caught herself on the edge of the table, laughing under her breath.
''Enough for one night,'' she announced, though she didn't move toward the flap. ''If I stay any longer, I'll start singing old marching songs… or worse.''
I stood too, instinctively stepping closer. ''Wouldn't mind hearing an orc war chant.''
She turned toward me, closer now, the scent of ale and warm skin filling the space between us. ''Trust me. You would.''
That sharp, purple-lipped grin flashed again, but this time it was slower, lazier. She swayed just a fraction, enough that I reached out without thinking. My hands found the soft curve of her waist through the thin fabric of her shirt. She didn't pull away. Instead, she let out a low, pleased hum, leaning into my grip.
Her hands came up to rest lightly on my chest, fingers splaying over the fabric as if testing the solidity of me. The older woman, twenty years my senior, a general who'd seen more battles than I'd lived years, tilted her head and grinned up at me, tusks gleaming in the lamplight.
''Tell me something, my prince,'' she murmured, voice velvet and thick with drink. ''Do you find me attractive? Even though I'm old enough to be your mother?''
Heat rushed through me. My thumbs brushed the dip of the older woman's waist, feeling the warmth of skin through the cloth, the subtle give of muscle beneath. ''I do,'' I admitted, the words coming out rougher than I intended. ''More than I should.''
Sahara's grin widened. ''Good answer.''
Then she closed the last inch between us. Her lips met mine, firm, warm, tasting of ale and something wilder, something uniquely her. One of her hands slid up to curl around the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, pulling me deeper into the kiss, which I found amazing.
I tightened my hold on her waist, drawing her flush against me, feeling the generous press of her body, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against my chest. She kissed like she fought: confident, unhurried, claiming. A low rumble vibrated in her throat, and I answered it without thought, letting the hunger inside me rise, not to devour, but to taste.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she rested her forehead against mine for a long moment. Her dark eyes were half-lidded, glittering with mischief and something softer. ''Tomorrow night, my prince,'' she whispered. ''Tidewater. You promised.''
''I did.''
She gave me one last lingering look, then gently disentangled herself. Her steps were steadier than I expected as she moved to the tent flap, pausing only to glance back over her shoulder with a wicked smile. ''Sleep well. Or don't.''
The canvas fell closed behind her. The tent felt suddenly colder. I stood there a moment longer, lips still tingling, the imprint of her body burned into my palms. The brazier crackled low. Outside, the camp had quieted. I exhaled slowly, then dropped to the rug. Cross-legged. Hands on my knees, palms up.