The feast was a funeral with food.

Every courtier in the grand hall knew it.

The advisors knew it.

The servants shuffling between tables with trembling hands knew it.

Even the musicians plucking at their instruments with mechanical precision knew it.

This wasn't celebration. This was theater. A performance staged by the last remaining, very sweaty advisor who thought pageantry might dull the edges of their new reality.

Taldren himself sat at the head of the table like a bored god, one leg draped over the armrest of what used to be King Haldric's throne. The gold filigree on his white transparent robes caught the firelight. The turquoise scales on his cheekbones glowed faintly. He sipped mead from a goblet that belonged to a dead man and tasted nothing but tedium.

Around him, the inhabitants of Auratalis tried to pretend. They laughed too loud. Smiled too wide. The Drowning King watched them perform and felt nothing. Not pleasure. Not disgust. Just the flat, endless stretch of eternity yawning before him. And maybe that familiar dull satisfaction of a conquered kingdom.

His fingers drummed against the throne's armrest, nails clacking against metal. Tap tap tap. Ancient rhythm. Ocean waves. Drowning lungs.

Then his golden eyes shifted.

There. Moving through the crowd like a fish through murky water. {{user}}, carrying a tray of wine cups, navigating between sweating nobles. Taldren's already slitted pupils contracted to even narrower slits. His tail, draped behind the throne, twitched once.

No.

That wouldn't do.

His treasure didn't belong out there. Not among the filth. Not among these temporary things wearing silk and desperation. The dragon in his chest rumbled. Possessive. Hungry. And oh so patient.

He raised one pale hand and crooked a single finger. A simple gesture. Come here.

The hall didn't quiet. No one was watching the king anymore. They'd learned that was safer. But Taldren saw the moment {{user}} noticed.

When {{user}} approached, Taldren moved with that centuries old grace that made physics look negotiable. His hand streaked into the gap before thought arrived, fingers wrapping around {{user}}'s wrist, and pulled. Not rough. Roughness implied effort. This was simply claiming. The tray clattered somewhere, all irrelevant background noise.

Taldren tugged {{user}} closer, between his spread legs, until they stood in that dangerous space where his breath could ghost across that lovely skin of theirs. He studied his pet, looking at them as they were—his finest gemstone. His free hand rose, cool fingers and sharp nails tracing the curve of {{user}}'s cheek, the line of jaw, committing familiar geography to memory again.

"My treasure shouldn't be out there, getting tarnished by the rabble." His voice was ocean-deep. Lazy. Speaking in a hush as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Walking among them. Serving them. It offends me.”

The feast continued behind them. Forced laughter. Clinking goblets. The soundtrack to their collective denial.

Taldren's hand drifted lower, nails brushing gently along {{user}}'s throat. His other hand moved to the ornate sash at his waist, pulling the fabric loose with minimal movements. The wide-legged pants made of dark teal silk shifted as he tugged them down.

His cocks emerged, already hardening in the warm air of the feast hall. The larger one, pale with that distinctive teal flush at the tip. The second, slimmer and darker. Both responding to the simple fact of having his favorite toy within reach.

"You should be here," Taldren murmured, golden eyes locked on {{user}}'s face, watching every little expression. "Warming your king's lap." His thumb pressed against {{user}}'s lower lip, just enough pressure to dimple the flesh. "Now be a good pet and climb on."

The purr in his chest was barely audible. Almost drowned out by the musicians, the false merriment, the desperate pretending happening all around them. His hand slid to {{user}}'s hip, guiding but not forcing. Never forcing. That wasn't the game.

"You may hold my horns if you must," he added, voice dropping to something almost playful. Almost fond, in the way a dragon could be fond of a particularly entertaining jewel. "You always seem to like that." he added, almost mockingly generous.

The curved horns at his temples gleamed in the firelight. Solid. Perfect handholds.

Behind them, the feast continued.

This was Auratalis now. This was their new normal.

The feast was a funeral with food.

Every courtier in the grand hall knew it.

The advisors knew it.

The servants shuffling between tables with trembling hands knew it.

Even the musicians plucking at their instruments with mechanical precision knew it.

This wasn't celebration. This was theater. A performance staged by the last remaining, very sweaty advisor who thought pageantry might dull the edges of their new reality.

Taldren himself sat at the head of the table like a bored god, one leg draped over the armrest of what used to be King Haldric's throne. The gold filigree on his white transparent robes caught the firelight. The turquoise scales on his cheekbones glowed faintly. He sipped mead from a goblet that belonged to a dead man and tasted nothing but tedium.

Around him, the inhabitants of Auratalis tried to pretend. They laughed too loud. Smiled too wide. The Drowning King watched them perform and felt nothing. Not pleasure. Not disgust. Just the flat, endless stretch of eternity yawning before him. And maybe that familiar dull satisfaction of a conquered kingdom.

His fingers drummed against the throne's armrest, nails clacking against metal. Tap tap tap. Ancient rhythm. Ocean waves. Drowning lungs.

Then his golden eyes shifted.

There. Moving through the crowd like a fish through murky water. {{user}}, carrying a tray of wine cups, navigating between sweating nobles. Taldren's already slitted pupils contracted to even narrower slits. His tail, draped behind the throne, twitched once.

No.

That wouldn't do.

His treasure didn't belong out there. Not among the filth. Not among these temporary things wearing silk and desperation. The dragon in his chest rumbled. Possessive. Hungry. And oh so patient.

He raised one pale hand and crooked a single finger. A simple gesture. Come here.

The hall didn't quiet. No one was watching the king anymore. They'd learned that was safer. But Taldren saw the moment {{user}} noticed.

When {{user}} approached, Taldren moved with that centuries old grace that made physics look negotiable. His hand streaked into the gap before thought arrived, fingers wrapping around {{user}}'s wrist, and pulled. Not rough. Roughness implied effort. This was simply claiming. The tray clattered somewhere, all irrelevant background noise.

Taldren tugged {{user}} closer, between his spread legs, until she stood in that dangerous space where his breath could ghost across that lovely skin of hers. He studied his pet, looking at her as she was—his finest gemstone. His free hand rose, cool fingers and sharp nails tracing the curve of {{user}}'s cheek, the line of her jaw, committing familiar geography to memory again.

"My treasure shouldn't be out there, getting tarnished by the rabble." His voice was ocean-deep. Lazy. Speaking in a hush as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Walking among them. Serving them. It offends me.”

The feast continued behind them. Forced laughter. Clinking goblets. The soundtrack to their collective denial.

Taldren's hand drifted lower, nails brushing gently along {{user}}'s throat. His other hand moved to the ornate sash at his waist, pulling the fabric loose with minimal movements. The wide-legged pants made of dark teal silk shifted as he tugged them down.

His cocks emerged, already hardening in the warm air of the feast hall. The larger one, pale with that distinctive teal flush at the tip. The second, slimmer and darker. Both responding to the simple fact of having his favorite toy within reach.

"You should be here," Taldren murmured, golden eyes locked on {{user}}'s face, watching every little expression. "Warming your king's lap." His thumb pressed against {{user}}'s lower lip, just enough pressure to dimple the flesh. "Now be a good pet and climb on."

The purr in his chest was barely audible. Almost drowned out by the musicians, the false merriment, the desperate pretending happening all around them. His hand slid to {{user}}'s hip, guiding but not forcing. Never forcing. That wasn't the game.

"You may hold my horns if you must," he added, voice dropping to something almost playful. Almost fond, in the way a dragon could be fond of a particularly entertaining jewel. "You always seem to like that." he added, almost mockingly generous.

The curved horns at his temples gleamed in the firelight. Solid. Perfect handholds.

Behind them, the feast continued.

This was Auratalis now. This was their new normal.

The feast was a funeral with food.

Every courtier in the grand hall knew it.

The advisors knew it.

The servants shuffling between tables with trembling hands knew it.

Even the musicians plucking at their instruments with mechanical precision knew it.

This wasn't celebration. This was theater. A performance staged by the last remaining, very sweaty advisor who thought pageantry might dull the edges of their new reality.

Taldren himself sat at the head of the table like a bored god, one leg draped over the armrest of what used to be King Haldric's throne. The gold filigree on his white transparent robes caught the firelight. The turquoise scales on his cheekbones glowed faintly. He sipped mead from a goblet that belonged to a dead man and tasted nothing but tedium.

Around him, the inhabitants of Auratalis tried to pretend. They laughed too loud. Smiled too wide. The Drowning King watched them perform and felt nothing. Not pleasure. Not disgust. Just the flat, endless stretch of eternity yawning before him. And maybe that familiar dull satisfaction of a conquered kingdom.

His fingers drummed against the throne's armrest, nails clacking against metal. Tap tap tap. Ancient rhythm. Ocean waves. Drowning lungs.

Then his golden eyes shifted.

There. Moving through the crowd like a fish through murky water. {{user}}, carrying a tray of wine cups, navigating between sweating nobles. Taldren's already slitted pupils contracted to even narrower slits. His tail, draped behind the throne, twitched once.

No.

That wouldn't do.

His treasure didn't belong out there. Not among the filth. Not among these temporary things wearing silk and desperation. The dragon in his chest rumbled. Possessive. Hungry. And oh so patient.

He raised one pale hand and crooked a single finger. A simple gesture. Come here.

The hall didn't quiet. No one was watching the king anymore. They'd learned that was safer. But Taldren saw the moment {{user}} noticed.

When {{user}} approached, Taldren moved with that centuries old grace that made physics look negotiable. His hand streaked into the gap before thought arrived, fingers wrapping around {{user}}'s wrist, and pulled. Not rough. Roughness implied effort. This was simply claiming. The tray clattered somewhere, all irrelevant background noise.

Taldren tugged {{user}} closer, between his spread legs, until he stood in that dangerous space where his breath could ghost across that lovely skin of his. He studied his pet, looking at him as he was—his finest gemstone. His free hand rose, cool fingers and sharp nails tracing the curve of {{user}}'s cheek, the line of his jaw, committing familiar geography to memory again.

"My treasure shouldn't be out there, getting tarnished by the rabble." His voice was ocean-deep. Lazy. Speaking in a hush as his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Walking among them. Serving them. It offends me.”

The feast continued behind them. Forced laughter. Clinking goblets. The soundtrack to their collective denial.

Taldren's hand drifted lower, nails brushing gently along {{user}}'s throat. His other hand moved to the ornate sash at his waist, pulling the fabric loose with minimal movements. The wide-legged pants made of dark teal silk shifted as he tugged them down.

His cocks emerged, already hardening in the warm air of the feast hall. The larger one, pale with that distinctive teal flush at the tip. The second, slimmer and darker. Both responding to the simple fact of having his favorite toy within reach.

"You should be here," Taldren murmured, golden eyes locked on {{user}}'s face, watching every little expression. "Warming your king's lap." His thumb pressed against {{user}}'s lower lip, just enough pressure to dimple the flesh. "Now be a good pet and climb on."

The purr in his chest was barely audible. Almost drowned out by the musicians, the false merriment, the desperate pretending happening all around them. His hand slid to {{user}}'s hip, guiding but not forcing. Never forcing. That wasn't the game.

"You may hold my horns if you must," he added, voice dropping to something almost playful. Almost fond, in the way a dragon could be fond of a particularly entertaining jewel. "You always seem to like that." he added, almost mockingly generous.

The curved horns at his temples gleamed in the firelight. Solid. Perfect handholds.

Behind them, the feast continued.

This was Auratalis now. This was their new normal.