Chapter 125: Logistics
"Finally free of duty?" Oathran greeted with a rumble of warm, amused voice in the quiet of Eastiel’s private chambers.
He was lounging in a deep chair, still wrapped in a plush bathrobe, his damp hair slicked back. A glass of rich, dark date wine glinted in his hand as he took a slow sip.
Eastiel stood across the room, having just shed the outermost layers of his court regalia. He was still in his official white desert robe, the heavy, embroidered fabric quite a contrast against his sun-bronzed skin and golden mane.
The garnt was pristine but showed the faint signs of a long day. A slight crease across the shoulders from sitting on the throne, a dusting of fine sand along the hem from crossing the courtyard.
He looked every inch the weary king. But the aura of authority slowly lting away into the more familiar tension of the man beneath.
His sharp eyes scanned the room.
"Where’s she?" he asked, cutting straight to the point.
Oathran grinned. His canine was a flash of white, just a little taunting. "In the bath. Go and serve, if you like."
The lion scoffed, a short, derisive sound. "Ah, the life of consorts..."
But the barb lacked its usual heat. Instead of heading for the bathing chambers, he moved to the sideboard and poured himself a generous glass of the sa wine Oathran was enjoying, the liquid catching the late afternoon light like liquid amber.
The action made Oathran raise his elegant eyebrows. This was unusual. Eastiel, upon finding Cecilia nearby, was typically a force of single-minded, horny gravity. Now, though...
"What’s wrong?" Oathran asked, his tone shifting from teasing to sothing more solemn.
Eastiel took a long swallow of wine, then cleared his throat, as if organizing a thought that had been plaguing him. "Elder Brother," he began, his voice lower, "do you notice... how strong you’ve beco after you... after we..."
"Hmm?" Oathran’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. He set his glass down with a soft clink. "Oh. You noticed too? I confess, the increase was so seamless I didn’t fully comprehend the scale until recently."
"Right?" Eastiel’s frown deepened. "I didn’t an to strike my own courtyard with lightning when that bastard Arzhen ca. The fury was there, yes, but the power that answered... it felt like opening a floodgate I didn’t know existed. It just... happened."
Oathran’s eyebrows climbed even higher. He picked up his glass again, taking a contemplative sip. "Oh."
"Just ’oh’?" Eastiel pressed, his voice a hushed whisper ant only for the dragon’s ears. "How strong are we supposed to be after bonding with a human? The old texts, the rumors... they say it’s a significant boost, maybe 60% for a compatible match with a powerful soul. But this..."
He flexed the hand not holding his glass, staring at it as if it belonged to soone else. "I feel more than a 120% increase. And it doesn’t even feel like my full capacity yet. It’s still... settling. I thought I was just channeling my rage into a convincing bluff when I threatened the bastard, but the lightning was real. It was mine, but more than mine."
"Well," Oathran shrugged one shoulder, "perhaps because we are not just bonding with a human, little brother. Cecilia is a Saintess. Was, and in her essence, still is. The wellspring of power she represents... it may not be quantifiable by standard bestial-human bond trics."
"Did you speak to Brother Arkai about this?"
"Not yet. But I am certain he has already realized it by now as well. The signs would be unmistakable for one of his perception."
"Huh."
A mont of shared, weighty silence passed between them.
"Do you feel any strain?" Oathran asked, a tad worried. "A surge of this magnitude can destabilize one’s core if not integrated properly. Should I help check your body?"
Eastiel shook his head. "No, Elder Brother. I don’t feel much strain. It feels... natural. Thanks."
"Good."
The heavy door to the bathing chamber swung open with a soft sigh of steam.
"What are you two whispering about?" Cecilia asked, padding into the room on bare feet, her skin glowing from the heat of the bath, her hair a damp cascade over a simple linen wrap.
She tilted her head, her eyes curious, moving from the dragon to the lion.
Oathran smiled serenely. He seed totally untroubled, expertly erasing the gravity of their previous conversation. He set his wine glass aside.
"Saintess, what do you say I return alone to my castle and take Miss Bessa along to prepare another batch of Diluting Potions? I will also handle the ingredient gathering on that end."
The logistics of their burgeoning elixir operation were a delicate problem to solve.
The primary sourcing of the rare components was handled by the deep coffers of the Edengold and Dawnoro families. But all three of them understood the principle of dispersion.
The more scattered the supply chain, the harder it was for any curious party, be it the Temple, their enemies, or the Empire itself, to trace the recipe’s origin or replicate its production at all.
"What is your plan?" Cecilia asked, grateful. She leaned against the doorfra, the steam from her bath curling around her.
"Your friend Hettor should be able to connect us with so... discreet rchants," Oathran elaborated.
"And the human, Qinryc Lukas, ntioned in our last crystal communication that the Cassian Royal Family has expressed an interest in becoming a partner. Their involvent would depend, of course, on projected output and absolute discretion."
Cecilia blinked, impressed, her damp lashes clinging together. "When... did you sort all this out for ...?"
"When you ditate, my Lady," Oathran chuckled, the laugh rich and fond. "And it is not so complicated. I rely needed to talk to them."
Of course. A dragon’s proposition, even a logistical one, tended to command attention.
Eastiel, who had been listening while absently swirling the wine in his glass, nodded. "Then we better start dividing the sourcing lists imdiately," he said.
"Make sure each contact only procures one kind of ingredient. It’ll be harder to trace." He tapped a finger against the crystal of his glass, thinking. "Hmm... who else can we trust?"
Cecilia looked down, sad. "Yes... If only Angela were out of her cell..." she murmured, clearly disappointed. "I miss her already..."
At that mont, gratitude flashed between Eastiel and Oathran. They didn’t need telepathy. Just a single glance and they knew they were thinking the sa thing.
Thank every god that ever was that our wife loves cocks.
If Cecilia and Angelica, with their combined intelligence, ruthlessness, and chaotic synergy, were also romantically inclined... The world as they knew it would end. It wouldn’t stand a chance.
It would be a revolution too elegant and too devastating to survive. The conspiracy would be flawless, the aftermath, absolute.
"Ah," Cecilia’s voice cut through their catastrophic daydream. She blinked, her expression clearing as a new idea sparked. "I know soone else we can trust."
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