So the young females, those of breeding age, chosen from among their people as the most beautiful of their kind competed against one another in the rhythmic dance. They splayed their wings, tossed their heads to show the beauty of their horns. They batted their lashes and shimmied their hips, they flared their dorsal ridges and displayed bold patterns. It was an unashamedly carnal display which inflamed the desires of all who were present. The courtiers and nobles stared at the beautiful, brilliant display, each and every one of them jealous to the core, hoping that the king would leave them some scraps.
The old king had a habit of taking every female presented and inseminating them all. He was free with his seed, and produced a great many worthy heirs. Then he had died, and those heirs had gone to war with one another. It had been a long, brutal, and bloody battle.
In the end, there could be only one. That one was now sitting on the throne watching the dance: Archon.
The odds that the ignobly born Archon would ever take the throne were so vanishingly small that it was almost impossible - and yet he had been crowned not three months earlier in a ceremony which drew consternation and celebration across the kingdom. There was no doubting his claim to the throne. He bore many of the marks of the Energon across his body. There was also no doubt that the other contenders for the throne were very much dead. There was, however, some doubt as to how long a creature like Archon could stay seated on the throne of Archaeus.
It was not a concern the king himself shared.
King Archon hid a yawn behind a massive scarred palm.
“Which of the maidens captures your eye, my king?” Brimsley, an old courtier, head of household, keeper of the king’s chamber, and many more titles besides, leaned in toward Archon, his frail personage the complete antithesis of the massive king who made the traditional throne creak whenever he took it. It had been reinforced several times by the throne makers, but Archon grew more massive with every battle victory, adding fresh muscle and new bone every time he was injured. He had grown to almost nine feet according to the royal tailors, who despaired of clothing their monarch who rarely bothered to wear clothes anyway. It was all they could do to get him into pants, never mind a shirt.
Archon was a brute king. A bastard king. A king without diplomatic interest, or culture, or education, but possessing more wit and intellect than the entire court put together. He was also universally considered incredibly handsome.
There was a notable gold and red scaling over his shoulders and chest. It also ran over the back of his neck, and over the bicep areas of his arms, emphasizing all the most powerful parts of the king. Scaling was considered to be the mark of a very powerful king in the realm of Archaeus over which he ruled.
His face was particularly striking, notable for its relative simplicity. He walked among aliens with all manner of horns and swirls, big dark eyes and long sharp fangs, and still managed to stand out among them because his visage was strong, a smattering of scale over his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, his pupils vertically narrowed, but otherwise almost… a word whispered in the corners of his court… human.
In response to the courtier’s question, Archon’s dark brows rose a fraction, the bright blue of his gaze flaring for a moment as he allowed himself a swift and clearly disinterested glance across the dancing females.
“Not a one of them.”
“Not one of them, my liege?” Brimsley’s concern was unveiled. “Perhaps you are not in good temper. Perhaps it would be better to have them perform individually.”
“And force me to watch every single one of these tedious dancers again?”
“My liege,” Brimsley coughed, his antiquated face having been more or less stuck in an expression of perpetually enraged horror since Archon took the throne. “My liege, there are no finer females in the land. Surely one of them is worthy of being your mate?”
“I can mate anything with a wet hole,” Archon grunted in reply. "There is a pie over there which exceeds several of these candidates in desirability.”
The old attendant pursed his lips and bit back what was sure to have been a reproach. The kings of Archaeus had chosen their royal mates by the dance for as long as anybody could remember. The first dance had taken place when their species were little more than cave dwelling animals, and since then, through their dark histories, to brighter civilizations, to taking to the stars themselves, at every generational juncture, the king of Archaeus had chosen his mate from among the dancers.
Archon was not interested in history. He was not interested in dancers, either. He was interested in conquest, victory, and in that precise moment, bed. He yawned again, displaying sharp fangs and a complete disinterest in proceedings. Even the most eager and excited of dancers could not help but be slightly cowed by the king's lack of desire.
“Sire is tired,” Brimsley said. “Sire may find himself in a better disposition tomorrow.”
“Sire would like to return to the battle front, not be called away to be begged to rut one of the daughters of the aristocracy,” Archon replied. “I have no interest in these maidens, and my patience for your customs is at an end.”
“These are your customs as much as they are ours. You are our king.”
Brimsley was taking his life in his hands by speaking to Archon that way, but as the oldest member of the royal household, he had a certain immunity, or at least acted that way. He may very well simply have been tired of life, it was impossible to tell from his dour demeanor.
Archon rose, and all the courtiers and soldiers and general hangers on rose with him. The women continued their dancing, though a few faltered nervously, thinking that he had come to a decision.
He had, though not the decision they had hoped.
All twenty four dancers watched, bereft, as the king turned his great muscular back, bare and shirtless, showing the scales over his shoulders and down the center of his back. The marks of Energon. They proved he was of royal blood, a direct descendant of the dragon king.
The more a king embodied the dragon which allegedly founded the royal line with its seed more than a thousand years earlier, the more blessed he was considered to be.
Archon was forty years old, and in those forty years he had built up a mythology about himself which made the blood of even the hottest of enemies turn to ice in their veins. His reputation for mass brutality preceded him. A gathering like this was more likely to turn bloody than culminate in celebration.
That was the reason everybody stayed silent until Archon had safely departed the chamber. The music had stopped when he stood up, in anticipation of him speaking, so Archon departed the chamber to the sound of silence punctuated by a few disappointed sobs from the dancers.
“Bastard,” a noble cursed when they were very sure he was gone, his voice swept up in the concerned clanking of cutlery and glasses as everybody rushed to finish the feast.
The dancers would not be honored with the king’s seed tonight. None of the delicate political alliances which had been hanging in the balance based on the king’s choice would be coming to fruition. By leaving without choosing a mate, Archon had thrown the kingdom of Archaeus into quiet chaos.
It did not take long for someone to take advantage of the situation. A room full of powerful nobles was trouble waiting to happen. A good king would have known better than to leave until the nobles had departed, fallen asleep, or otherwise neutralized the threat they posed. But Archon was not a good king. He was a new king, and an arrogant one.