Headed by a Snake



⟬ A half-bell later... ⟭ 

Tycondrius laid face down on a couch in Chantal's personal quarters. 

He was familiar with the Fleet Admiral's sense of style, having once visited her office in the Darktide Fortress.

It was hideous-- replete with... knick-knacks, storied items looted from treasure troves, and chunks of wood with plaques undoubtedly taken from ships Chantal personally damned to the deep abyss. 

There was really no logical sense to most of it. The longer he looked, the more intense a numb sensation at the forefront of his brain. 

But thankfully, serendipity struck, and Tycon realized he just had to close his eyes. 

--and then it actually became quite nice. 

The various smells in the room calmed his nerves... gentle... and old. 

A faint incense clinging to the fabric of the couch. 

A swash of a strong spirit to hide the stale mildew scent on an old oaken armoire. 

The sweet, musty scent of a personal library...

Hm.

Tycon wondered if Chantal even read those books. 

Two moons prior, he discovered she neglected to read the reports he sent her. 

...She *must* have known how to read. She was a High Officer, after all.

--the Highest Officer~

"And what do you think you're doing, couch-slut?"

The voice belonged to Natalya. 

It lifted his mood for a half-second. 

After that, he recalled that she was the reason for him suffering from mana fatigue. 

"I'm trying to recover my mana," Tycon muttered, unwilling to remove his face from the couch cushion. 

"You look stupid," Natalya scolded. "Sit up and fix your posture. Meditate *properly.*"

"I d'n wanna," Tycon grumbled. 

"Tycondrius."

Tycon turned his head to the side, "I'm recovering well enough in my current position. But I *appreciate* thy concern."

"And just *how* long are you going to lie around?" Natalya frowned, "We've a war to win."

Tycon shifted his body to the side and clapped his palms toward her. 

"F-five more minutes," he pleaded.

That... that'd be enough. 

--just that much... 

"Hey."

Tycon didn't notice when, but Natalya had quietly knelt beside him. She was leaning over, her face dangerously close. 

"Y... yes?" Tycon pouted. 

Natalya's gaze left him feeling particularly vulnerable. 

He wasn't in the mood to be mocked. He just wanted to recover in quietude, regathering mana and perhaps a few shattered pieces of pride he somehow lost along the way. 

--if he could find them. 

He felt Natalya's soft hand brushing his hair. 

...and he mentally prepared himself for the worst.

"You were kinda cool out there."

...Tycon narrowed his eyes, finally sitting up properly. He ran the words thrice over in his head, searching for a sign of duplicity or deceit. 

Natalya sighed and shook her head, "I'm being grateful, you dullard."

Oh.

That statement, he trusted more readily than the first.

Natalya stood up and sat beside him-- right beside him. Then, in a rather forward manner, she laid her head to the side, resting it upon his shoulder. 

The scent of her hair... was sweet, and reminiscent of cherries. 

Was she... 

Bah.

Tycon didn't understand social etiquette amongst humans. 

And, considering his condition, trying to feel out the current situation was too much of a bother. 

He reached his arm up, draping it over Natalya's opposite shoulder. Then, he pulled her in closer, gently nuzzling his nose into the side of her neck. 

Her scent... was healing. 

With as much mana as Natalya had and with his reserves a stark deficit, her presence was a substantial catalyst to his mana recovery. 

"Tycon..." Natalya whispered, "do you need..."

"No," he said. "This... is more than enough."

As close as he was, he could *hear* Natalya's quickening heart rate with his human ears. 

She turned her head to look away-- a poor attempt at hiding the flush in her cheeks. 

Tycon-- or rather... an overly-optimistic Tycon surmised that Natalya was going to suggest a ⌈Mana Transfer Ritual⌋. 

If she understood just how much mana he'd expended in the last battle... and saw value in him as a Half-Step Adamantine combatant on the front lines, that might have been appropriate. 

--especially considering his vulnerable state and the charged emotions in the room... 

Tycon... wanted to kiss her. 

And, considering that the Realm was going to end...

--he wanted to do more. 

He did not want to acknowledge a largely ignored fear of regret... 

...to convey his feelings for the woman in his embrace with a show of physical intimacy. 

--a sacred contract. 

"Tycon," she whispered... "It's fine if it's you."

Tycon brushed aside a lock of Natalya's scarlet hair and nibbled on her ear. 

"This is enough," he whispered... "But after I've killed a Dragon God, I'll take everything I want and more."

"...Yeah," Natalya responded softly. "I'll hold you to that."

Suddenly, the door swung open and Tycon was overwhelmed with the strong scent of mediocre rum and Orcish Sugar. 

"Oy, Lieutenant," Chantal began. 

Then she stopped. 

Tycon sensed her shift her weight, taking a moment to take in the scene. 

"Oh, my~" she said, her voice a tinge deeper than earlier. "How bold of you, Monsieur Couch-slut."

Natalya immediately tried to escape. Unfortunately for her, Tycon was much stronger than she was. 

Despite her embarrassment, he selfishly did not want to let her go. 

Tycon took a punch to the nose. It had strength and intent, but it didn't have the weight of rotational force. 

Even if it did, he was confident that his physique would have allowed him to withstand the strike without flinching. 

"OwW," she whined. "Is your face made of f*cking iron? L-let me go, you dolt."

Tycon kissed Natalya on the cheek before he released her. 

"You should have known better," he teased. 

Natalya hurriedly stood up and crossed her arms, "Sh-shut up."

"Awww, (you two make a perfect couple~)" Chantal sang. "(Magnificent!~)

She leaned forward, "But why did you not tell ze Madame zat her clothes look better on ze floor zan on her person?"

At that, Natalya dropped her gaze to the deck. She hurriedly-- but clumsily tried to fix her hair and smooth her disheveled robes. 

Tycon found it amusing. 

Her face was just as red. 

"Please, Grande-Capitaine," Tycon said as he got to his feet. "My woman is unused to our common vernacular."

Chantal tapped a finger to her lips, "Ah, my apologies, Madame De la Croix. I mean no offense."

"I... I'm fine," Natalya said, pouting miserably. "I'll be fine."

Was that so? 

Tycon doubted that greatly. 

He stepped forward to properly face his superior Officer. 

"Admiral."

"Chantal," she replied. 

The Admiral took off her hat and bandana, allowing her magenta hair to spill free. 

The scent of her sweat dazed Tycon momentarily, but he was keen enough to not let it show in his expression. 

He had the suspicion that Natalya would not appreciate a visible emotional response to anything Chantal did or said. 

"No need for rank in my personal quarters, Monsieur," Chantal explained. "And besides-- wis ze Madame present, I no longer fear for my chastity."

Tycon furrowed his brows.

There was one or more implications in the statement that he had difficulty understanding. 

First of which... was that he did not take Fleet Admiral Chantal for a... chaste woman. 

"(Whatever is swimming in your head, Lieutenant, keep it to yourself,)" Chantal warned. 

ραΠdαsΝοvel.cοm Hm. Very well. 

Still, Tycon appreciated her sincerity. 

Considering her position, she did not need to extend it as far as she had. 

It was the duty of a Royal Marine to protect the ship and crew of the Royal Navy. 

Tycon took a deep breath.

"Chantal... how are our casualties?"

The Admiral's eyes narrowed, "(I've become a religious woman, as of this sun.)"

...If that was an answer to his question-- and he feared it was, then the casualty count was... unsettling. 

And worse... the pyrrhic victory aboard the Kida Thatch spoke of a core, underlying issue. 

The armies of the Wyrmslayer Alliance were lacking. 

And the reason they were lacking was because they were human. 

That... could have been alleviated. 

There were many ways he could have done so: time, training, resources... 

Merely being human was not a weakness in itself. 

Yet... that was the summation of the problem, as short-sighted as it seemed. 

Arrogance alone was not enough for mortal men to stand against figurative dragons.

...But the current state of events could not be slowed or stopped. Time and training... they had little to spare. 

The denizens of the Realm had reached the climax of their preparations. The sun of reckoning was close at hand-- perhaps even being the quickly approaching break of dawn. 

And as ill-prepared as they were, they could only choose to stand fast against the enemy... 

--or die. 

Hm. And as Chantal implied... they could also pray. 

Though the gods had been grossly unreliable, as of late... he'd certainly appreciate a miracle or three. 

Tycon walked to over to the side wall, recovering his coat from a clothing hook. He fixed his buttons and re-buckled his belt in front of a body-length mirror, a great luxury that spoke leagues of Chantal's attention to personal detail. 

"Mademoiselle Capitaine, was there something else?"

"Oui," Chantal nodded. "Ze Royal Dragonhawks have come from ze capital to take you to port."

Tycon rolled his eyes. 

Dragonhawks were not related to dragons. They were named as such some centuries prior because the people of the Realm were stupid and glorified the disgusting beasts. 

The beasts of flight were almost exclusively bred in the Kingdom. 

Then, considering the respect in Chantal's voice, it was likely the dragonhawks she spoke of (and assumedly, their riders,) were sent by wise King Adal, himself. 

As an Officer in his Royal Navy, Tycon could scarcely refuse. 

"Lieutenant~" Chantal hummed, "Where is your answer? Are you going to refuse a gift from ze youngest Princess?"

Oh. Or they could have been from Aurala. 

"Oy!" Natalya interrupted, "You still talk to her?"

"N-no?" Tycon answered. 

Natalya turned her head, crossing her arms, "Hmph. Send them away." 

What?

She turned back, her eyes alight, "I will take my husband, myself."

Tycon and Chantal turned as one, "Huh?" "Oho~"

"Wh-what? Y-y-y-y-you called me your woman! That means I'm your wife now! Chantal called me Madame! I heard it!"

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