Chapter 159: Grand Elder Maeve

“…Mm, how do you smell so ridiculously good?”

The sleepy, breathless murmur cut through the solemn imperial protocol like a stray arrow.

Instantly, the gaze of every single Empress, matriarch, warlord, and attendant in the hall snapped in synchronized shock toward the source of the voice.

Nobody dared project hostility, killing intent, or even a sharp glare.

The woman speaking was a Grand Elder of the Ancient Beast Academy, the single most untouchable, sovereign institution on the entire continent, an organization that stood above all five empires combined.

The room didn’t dare react with anger; instead, the gallery was gripped by stunned, breath-held reverence.

Every eye in the hall locked straight onto Azriel.

Standing right beside the dark-haired beastman, far away from the celestial jade throne prepared for her, was a woman who practically defined decadent excess.

She was impossibly voluptuous, her exaggerated hourglass figure packed with lush, heavy curves that severely strained the loose, haphazardly draped academy robes of black silk.

The dark fabric hung precariously low, slipping off one shoulder to reveal flawless, pale skin accented by clusters of iridescent, emerald scales glistening along the sides of her neck and down her collarbone.

From her waist down, instead of legs, rested the magnificent coils of an abyssal serpent, thick, emerald-scaled coils dusted with gold flecks, undulating with lazy, hypnotic fluidity over the polished granite.

Her messy, voluminous dark green hair was loosely pinned with a jade hairpin, heavy stray curls framing a drowsy, pouty face.

She looked thoroughly like an airhead, blinking slowly through half-lidded, slit-pupil eyes as if she had just wandered out of an afternoon nap and forgotten she was attending the most prestigious assembly on Gorgorath.

Yet, deep beneath that sleepy, dreamy haze, there was a razor-sharp, terrifying depth in her emerald irises, an ancient intellect that observed every subtle twitch of muscle and shifting bloodline in the room.

Completely oblivious to the dead silence she had caused, and unbothered by the five ruling Empresses watching from the dais, Grand Elder Maeve leaned in closer.

She rested a soft, claw-tipped hand lightly against Azriel’s void-drake lapel, tilting her head up until her button nose brushed the warm skin at the crook of his neck, mere millimeters away from his dark slave brand.

Parting her glossy lips, she took a deep, slow, and undeniably intoxicated sniff of the primal, suppressed musk humming beneath his collar.

“So sweet… but so heavy,” she murmured aloud, blinking dreamily up into his violet eyes, tilting her head like a curious, overgrown pet.

“Hey… what kind of beast are you hiding under there?”

Rosalind’s golden slit-pupils contracted into needle-thin slits.

A sudden, possessive snarl caught in the back of her throat as her hand twitched toward her side, her predatory instincts flaring at the sight of another woman’s lips hovering over the very skin she had claimed and bitten just hours before.

Before the young Duchess could take a single step forward, a cool, manicured hand snapped around her wrist with an iron grip.

Vesperia held her daughter firmly in place. Her crimson lips curled into a calm, effortless smile, her golden eyes glittering with deep amusement rather than jealousy.

She knew Rosalind’s fiery temper all too well, and confronting an elder of the Academy in the middle of court protocol would be disastrous.

“You haven’t changed in the slightest, Maeve,” Vesperia’s smooth, gravelly purr broke through the breathless silence of the concourse.

“Still as tactless as ever. You never did learn how to mind your tongue. Wrong words, wrong place. Some things never change.”

A ripple of muted gasps stirred the surrounding gallery.

Even the five Empresses on the elevated dais shifted slightly, their expressions hardening with quiet recognition.

In all of Gorgorath, no one dared address Grand Elder Maeve by her first name without an honorific.

Not the duchesses, not the warlords, and certainly not the reigning Empresses, though their mothers, who had once walked the ancient halls of the Academy alongside them, might have possessed the right.

Vesperia was of that golden generation, one of the few living matriarchs who shared blood, sweat, and youth with the serpent elder.

Maeve blinked slowly, pulling her nose away from Azriel’s collar with visible reluctance.

Her heavy emerald coils uncurled by a few inches, shifting with a soft, scaly rustle against the black granite.

She turned her drowsy face toward Vesperia, tilting her head to the side as if trying to place the face through a foggy morning haze.

After three agonizingly quiet seconds, her slit-pupils widened with a spark of recognition.

“Oh… Vessie?” Maeve gasped softly, a charming, slightly embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks. She tapped a claw against her plump lower lip.

“Ah! That’s right… today was the opening ceremony, wasn’t it? I was looking for the snack pavilion and got turned around by the stairs…”

She looked up at the elevated dais, noticing the five Empresses staring down at her with varying degrees of exasperation.

“Ah, sorry, sorry, Empress Mahesa,” Maeve said with an airy, apologetic wave of her hand, completely devoid of courtly tension.

“I didn’t mean to ignore the throne. The morning sun was just so warm by the garden, and then… well, this tall boy smelled like crushed star-herbs and old blood. My nose just dragged me over.”

She turned back to Azriel, blinking her emerald eyes with innocent wonder, utterly unaware of the sheer chaos her casual interest had provoked across the entire imperial court.

“Don’t mind me,” she smiled, her plush cheeks dimpling with pure, disarming warmth.

“Keep standing pretty.”

Maeve let out a lazy, breathy chuckle, sliding her emerald coils smoothly across the dark granite floor with a soft, hypnotic rustle.

Without a shred of courtly stiffness, she glided up the carpeted incline toward the northern dais, casually stepping past the imperial guards and taking her place on the vacant, white jade throne.

Resting a soft cheek against her palm, she looked out over the grand concourse and gave a sleepy, charming smile.

“Well, everyone knows why we’re here,” Maeve said, her voice lilting and breezy, completely skipping the heavy, archaic heraldry.

“No need to waste breath on pretty speeches while the sun is already high. Let’s just start the tournament.”

Beside her, Empress Mahesa al-Sekhmet offered a tight, knowing nod, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of her golden lips at the serpent elder’s trademark lack of decorum.

Turning to face the gallery, Empress Mahesa raised both hands and struck her palms together in a single, crisp, resonant clap.

Clang!

A deep runic pulse rippled through the architecture.

The massive southern wall of the Concourse, hundreds of tons of reinforced red basalt and etched dragon-glass, parted smoothly down the center, sliding away into hidden recesses in the floor and ceiling.

A deafening wall of sound crashed over the pavilion.

Half a million roaring spectators packed the colossal amphitheater, their cheers vibrating with enough force to shake the marble balustrades.

Shimmering, tiered seats materialized out of thin air along the newly opened terrace, woven from condensed light and golden stone to accommodate the matriarchs and duchesses.

Standing tall at the edge of the open overlook, the desert wind catching her thick golden mane, Empress Mahesa cast her gaze down into the heart of the Colosseum.

There, lined up across the pristine white sands beneath the colossal arcane dome, stood tens of thousands of elite beast-maidens.

Scions of every sovereign clan, clad in shimmering plate, enchanted silks, and bloodline leathers, stood in rigid formation, their auras humming with suppressed ambition.

Empress Mahesa raised her chin, her throat vibrating with a low, sovereign rumble that was caught by the celestial resonance arrays and amplified into a thundering gale across the heavens.

“Daughters of Gorgorath!”

The call struck like a physical hammer against the stadium’s boundary wards.

The sheer, predatory weight in her tone stripped the breath from half a million spectators, instantly turning the raucous basin dead quiet.

When she spoke again, the calculated polish of court diplomacy burned away, replaced by raw, intoxicating martial hunger.

“Today, five sovereign thrones, every apex lineage of the continent, and the ancient heavens above are watching your every breath!”

Her golden slit-pupils blazed like twin suns as she looked down upon the thousands of young beast-maidens assembled below.

“The law of the sands has not softened by a single drop in a thousand winters! Unforgiving. Absolute. Pure elimination! One against one, tooth against tooth, bloodline against bloodline, until the sand drinks its fill and only the unyielding are left standing!”

A wild, blood-drunk roar surged from the commoner stands and high pavilions alike, but Mahesa’s razor-edged cadence ripped straight through the seismic tremor, demanding absolute silence with nothing more than her presence.

“Out of the tens of thousands standing before me today, only the top two hundred will earn the right to cross the boundary gates and enter the sacred halls of the Ancient Beast Academy!”

“And for those who climb higher, for those who claw their way into the supreme vanguard ranks, the empire and the academy have prepared rank-based rewards far beyond your mortal imagining!”

“Divine treasures, ancestral bloodline potions, and ancient artifacts that can elevate your lineages for generations! The spoils are too precious to leave anything held back! Give every drop of your blood, hold nothing in reserve, and prove your supremacy!”

The Empress swept a ringed hand outward toward the sands, her golden slit-pupils flaring with radiant brilliance.

“Let the tournament begin!”