Zafira rarely showed doubt.
She was elegant. Composed. Regal. The woman who stood first among Kujo's queens and never seemed shaken—even by war or politics.
But lately… things had changed.
Aeva's arrival. Seraka's closeness. Even Chusi's relentless affection. Zafira remained respected, yes—but she could feel her space shrinking. Not in power. In presence.
She needed to remind Kujo. And the others.
That she was still queen for a reason.
That night, Kujo received a formal letter sealed in gold. Written in Zafira's delicate hand:
"Come alone. Your queen requests your presence. And your focus."
He entered her chambers just past midnight. The air was thick with incense—rich and floral. Moonlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft shadows over the circular silk bed at the room's center. An enchanted harp played low in the background, strumming ancient dark elf chords.
Zafira waited for him, sitting tall on the bed, wrapped in violet silk that clung to her every curve. Her silver tattoos glowed faintly across her hips and chest. Her legs crossed with poise—but the slit in her robes left nothing to imagination.
She reached out with a single hand, her tone hushed. "You've been generous with your time. Now offer me some of it."
Kujo approached. Slowly. The mood was heavy—darker than usual, more intense. Zafira's confidence was still there… but behind it, something raw flickered.
He took her hand and sat beside her. "Zafira—"
She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "I'm not here to talk strategy. Or reports. Or war."
She climbed into his lap, legs draped over his thighs, her eyes glowing.
"I'm here to remind you who was here first."
Their lips touched—soft at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. Zafira's hands slid under his shirt, tracing the marks left by the bonding tattoos they'd shared. She leaned into him with a low, possessive hum.
And then—
The door opened.
Slowly. Quietly.
But not quietly enough.
Fiore stepped inside.
For a moment, all three froze.
The knight's face was unreadable. She was dressed casually—sleeveless tunic, hair loose from its usual battle braid—but her eyes were sharp as blades.
Zafira didn't move from Kujo's lap.
Fiore raised a brow. "Special audience?"
"It was private," Zafira replied coldly.
"I noticed." Fiore stepped forward. "You think I haven't seen you pulling away lately? Trying to get ahead of us?"
Zafira narrowed her eyes. "You had your chances. I made my vow."
"I bleed for him daily. I don't need flowers and incense."
Kujo opened his mouth. "Girls, maybe this isn't—"
They both turned to him.
Zafira leaned into his left shoulder, brushing her lips against his neck.
Fiore dropped onto the bed on his right, her arm slipping behind his back.
Then… they both pressed in.
"You want to compete?" Zafira asked, smirking. "Fine."
"Thought you'd never ask," Fiore whispered.
It began subtly.
Zafira trailed kisses down Kujo's neck while Fiore slipped her hand under his shirt.
Then it escalated.
Zafira straddled him again—graceful, slow, savoring each touch. Fiore leaned in from behind, kissing his ear, then his jaw, gripping his thighs.
Kujo tried to speak. Couldn't.
Their bodies boxed him in.
Silk and heat and muscle and breath.
Zafira kissed him again—full and deep, her tongue sliding against his with slow, commanding rhythm.
Then Fiore turned his head and stole one of her own—rougher, sharper, biting his bottom lip lightly.
He was gasping by the time they pulled back.
"You look dizzy," Zafira said, voice smug.
"He's overheating," Fiore added, brushing her hand over his chest. "We should help."
Hands roamed. Legs tangled. At some point, Zafira's robes came untied and Fiore's tunic was halfway across the bed. Kujo lost track of who kissed him when, only that he was kissed—a lot. Everywhere.
"Still standing?" Zafira teased.
"Barely," Kujo choked out.
Fiore smirked. "Then we're not done yet."
They kissed him together next—one on his lips, the other down his neck, then switching without warning. Their rivalry turned choreographed, each determined to claim his focus fully.
By the end of it, Kujo lay sprawled against the headboard, shirtless, breathless, his hair ruffled and his lips kiss-bitten.
Fiore leaned back, satisfied.
Zafira adjusted her robes with regal smugness.
"I win," they both said in unison—then glared at each other.
Kujo didn't respond.
He was too dazed to think.
The throne had no gold.
It was carved from obsidian and blackwood, lined with dark silk and glowing veins of magic-infused stone—regal, unbreakable, built to last. Just like the man sitting in it.
Kujo.
Today, he was no longer just a prince in exile. No longer a wandering outcast. No longer a threat to the Demon King's court. Today, he was king.
The ruler of a sovereign nation forged from broken bloodlines, orphaned tribes, and monsters who once had nowhere else to go.
Today, the world watched.
Five major races sent emissaries—some curious, others skeptical, but all forced to recognize that this territory, once lawless, had become a power.
A volcanic gargoyle priestess.
A centaur war envoy.
A dark elf elder from a distant matriarchy.
A werewolf alpha from the western pines.
And, most surprising of all, a vampiric highblood noble who bowed with a smirk—and called Kujo "Your Majesty."
The throne room was lit with suspended lanterns and enchanted braziers. Mana-silk banners draped from the vaulted ceiling, and the stone floor glowed beneath ancient sigils reactivated by Zafira herself.
But none drew the eyes of the guests quite like the six women who stood beside Kujo.
Each wore ceremonial garb that paid tribute to her origins—but tailored in a way that left little to the imagination.
Fiore's armor had been polished to a gleam, but beneath it, she wore a black-and-silver battle dress cut high at the thigh, her sword hanging low on her hip. Her long legs were bare save for decorative chain garters, and her chestplate stopped just short of full coverage. She stood at Kujo's right, eyes fierce, hand on hilt.
Zafira wore layers of deep sapphire silk, nearly sheer, wrapped around her body in elegant spirals. Her ceremonial jewelry glowed with ancient runes, and a body chain framed her hips and chest with gold and opal. Her tattoos were exposed proudly as she stood to Kujo's left, gaze cool and regal.
Kyrie arrived in celestial priestess garb—white cloth trimmed in glowing silver that hugged her curves and draped from her wings in flowing patterns. Barefoot, radiant, with a delicate circlet on her head, she floated behind the throne, eyes calm, voice humming low prayers that filled the air with serenity.
Dimara's outfit was the most scandalous—a chimeric tribute woven from dark chitin and crimson silk, designed to accentuate every inch of her writhing, wicked form. Her claws were polished, her tendrils decorated in gold cuffs, and her barely-there bodysuit shimmered with corrupted elegance. She crouched beside the throne like a feral queen guarding her nest.
Chusi wore furs and bone, as per werewolf tradition—but her version was designed to tease. A single fur band wrapped across her bust, held in place by twin claw brooches. Her shorts were cut high and tight, with ceremonial blue warpaint streaking across her thighs and stomach. She smirked at anyone who looked at Kujo too long.
Setara wore scholar's robes modified to show more leg than any reasonable academic would ever permit. The deep neckline barely held her together, and her hair was done up in intricate coils, bound by golden pins etched with magical formulas. She held a ceremonial tablet in her arms, pretending to read—while side-eyeing everyone near her king.
The ceremony was short.
Kujo's crown was not placed on his head by priests or nobles.
Zafira lifted it.
Dimara infused it with shadow.
Setara sealed it with words.
Fiore fastened it into place.
Kyrie blessed it.
And Chusi bit one of the envious ambassadors and told them to back off.
Cheers followed.
The people bowed.
Kujo stood tall—shadow-king, outsider, monster, sovereign.
And then the formalities ended.
Because night had fallen.
And his harem was done being diplomatic.
They waited until the final guest left.
Until the throne room emptied.
Until the doors shut with a resounding echo.
Then they turned to him—together.
"We haven't given you our real congratulations," Kyrie said, her wings unfolding behind her.
"You've been surrounded by politics all day," Setara murmured, unfastening her robe. "Time to be surrounded by us."
"I'm not asking permission," Fiore added, already removing her gloves.
Zafira stepped forward, cupping his face with both hands. "Tonight, you are ours."
Chusi jumped on his back. "Dibs on his lap!"
Dimara's tendrils were already sliding up his legs. "He's not getting any sleep~"
They pulled him toward the royal bedchamber—laughing, teasing, claiming. Six women, each beautiful, powerful, and hungry in their own way.
And Kujo—king of monsters, shadow sovereign, ruler of a rising nation—was at their mercy.