Temple of Cocidius: A Monster Girl Harem Adventure Serial Part 5 by Maxx Whittaker

Author:Maxx Whittaker [Whittaker, Maxx]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-01-08T05:00:00+00:00

–The Throne Room–

My escort leads me on a twisted path. Almost immediately, we’re beyond the sounds of revelry, then private, intimate conversation, and soon, all sound but the dull thrum of something like a clock ticking far off in the mansion.

We pass gates and side doors, all closed and most sentried by pairs of men who are near-copies of my guard.

The mansion’s opulence fades, too. Paint and plaster give way to ancient stone, iron braziers, and no windows. This is the fortress proper.

Knowing this, I’m surprised when we move through a series of five gates, each more heavily guarded than the last, only to enter a room more breathtaking than any near the ballroom, and twice as large.

The main chamber is a rectangle the size of a city square, its clove-point domes painted crimson in contrast to white marble columns and floors.

In its center, curtained by red silk, a gold throne sits atop a marble dais.

At each rear corner of the chamber extends a passageway, a bend in each obscuring what lies beyond.

The guard deposits me here, on a herald’s carpet just inside, and leaves me in silence, incense-laden air stirred by the doors slamming behind him.

From outside, he turns a lock.

No one comes. Nothing happens.

Curious and lacking manners, I wander in. The peaks of each dome are so far overhead that I’m forced to tip my head all the way back to see them. The room’s scale, the distance between everything, is almost uncomfortable.

Each of the columns is carved with names. Or places? A heraldry is etched above each so I assume they’re names. Wax from the candelabrum high above drips into the words and runs briefly like tears before hardening.

As I walk, I spy more and more names cut with a single sharp line. This is not an accident of damage or time, not in a hall so well kept. We have a similar practice in my kingdom; it’s reserved for fallen heroes.

If that holds true here, Akershus has a lot of fallen heroes. Legions.

Breath heats the back of my neck, seeping through all the layers of clothes.

I spin around, hating that I’ve been caught off guard and unarmed.

Nostrils fill my vision. They flare, a gesture of curiosity, more reassuring than the ivory points curved from the dragon’s jaw.

I raise my eyes slowly, working up my courage. The whole time, a hand span away, the creature is soundless.

Its snout and face are a rising series of points and bony crests, the face of a weapon. Gold brow ridges slash above its bronze eyes, lending a permanent look of malicious consideration.

It clouds me in another waft of steam, its breath the incense odor I first smelled on entering. I turn my face from the heat of it and realize for the first time how big the creature is. Its head fills most of the space between two columns, body and tail winding and weaving between the others, beast and chamber braided together.

It slips left, circling me, claws ticking the marble.

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