Dragon King's Harem Chapter 523. As Her Flame

Dragon King's Harem Chapter 523. As Her Flame

A weak smile tugged at the edge of my mouth. It didn’t last.

Sela wasn’t just a wife I took for politics or warmth.

She was fire in a different way. The kind that built. The kind that forgave. The kind that grieved so slowly, it turned to vengeance before it ever showed tears.

He was one of the last tethers to her old life. To her home.

Now gone. Executed. Branded a fool.

And she didn’t even know yet.

“I need to handle this,” I said.

Evelina didn’t argue. She stood too, wrapping the robe around herself as she walked to me. She placed her hand over my heart.

“Go,” she whispered. “But don’t go as a king.”

I turned to her, brow furrowing. “Then how?”

“Go as her husband. As her flame.”

My heart clenched.

I leaned in. Kissed her forehead. Held it there for a moment longer than I should’ve. Then I pulled back and got dressed.

The fire was rising again.

But it wasn’t hunger this time.

It was war.

Quiet.

Personal.

Draconic.

And I knew one thing for sure.

If the Nymph Queen thought she could silence loyalty, twist grief into marriage, and play politics with poison…

Then she had never pissed off a dragon who could bend a realm.

Not yet.

But she would.

I stormed out of the room.

But the doors hadn’t even finished swinging open when I saw her.

Glasha.

She froze halfway down the hall.

Orc princess.

She wasn’t holding a blade.

She was holding a tray.

A tray.

Her usually confident expression flickered into awkward panic the second she saw me. Her mouth opened, closed, then she looked down at the thing she was holding like it had betrayed her.

The scent hit me first. Spices. Real ones. Not from cultivated gardens but wild. Sharp. Rich. Thick with meat and herbs I couldn’t name… at least not in any common tongue.

Orcish war-stew paste on roasted bread. Dried thunderfruit, spiked with fermented roots.

And the drink? A thick, dark liquid in a carved stone cup. It shimmered faintly with grounding mana. That wasn’t a calming brew.

That was a stamina booster.

She’d brought me a second wind.

I stopped.

My boots planted like I’d hit an invisible wall.

Glasha blinked at me and, for once, looked small. “Uh… you… finished already?”

Her voice wavered at the end.

I stared at her.

My gaze wasn’t the wrathful one I’d worn into the hallway. It softened. A breath.

Because… yeah. Among my wives, Glasha was the only one I’d taken not out of love. Not at first. It was for peace.

She hadn’t wanted to be here.

But she stayed.

And this? This tray? This clumsy, awkward offering?

This was more than progress.

It was choice.

“I have something to do,” I said quietly.

Her shoulders stiffened. She nodded, eyes lowering like she expected me to walk right past.

“Oh,” she said. “Then… go ahead.”

She stepped aside without looking at me. Gave me space like she always did. Distance. Coldness.

I didn’t move.

I just looked at her. Really looked.

“This is for me, right?” I asked.

Her head jerked up slightly. “What?”

I nodded to the tray. “The food. The drink. It’s for me?”

She fumbled the cup slightly. “I… no— I mean yes, but I thought— You looked busy, so I—”

“Then why don’t you give it to me?” I said.

That froze her.

Her mouth parted. Her green skin flushed darker. She didn’t answer at first. Her hands tightened around the tray like she didn’t know how to move anymore.

“I’m serious,” I added. “If you brought it all this way, you might as well finish the gesture.”

Her lips wobbled. “I just… I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I stepped forward slowly.

Her eyes widened as I reached out and took the tray from her hands. My fingers brushed hers. Her hands were warm. Callused. Strong.

But trembling.

I lifted one of the snacks, some kind of meat pastry baked in volcanic salt, and bit into it.

Hot. Salty. Spiced with something that made my nostrils flare. The meat wasn’t beef or lamb. It was gamey. Smoky. Almost electric.

I chewed slowly, let it sit on my tongue before I swallowed.

“I still can eat,” I said, glancing at her. “Even standing.”

She laughed softly, nervous. “It’s not much.”

“It’s good.” I took another bite. “Is this orc tribe recipe?”

“Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper. “From the south range. My— my mother used to make it.”

I stopped chewing.

She rarely spoke of her mother. Of her home.

But here she was.

Sharing it.

I looked at her again.

“I like it,” I said simply.

She stared at me. Like she couldn’t believe I meant it. Like maybe this was a trick.

It wasn’t.

I finished the last bite. Licked the spice from my thumb. Drank from the stone cup. The liquid burned slightly on the way down. Not in a bad way. Like it was waking up the fire already inside me.

I exhaled slowly and looked at her again. She was still standing there, awkward, half-fidgeting, clearly unsure if she should stay or bolt. Her eyes flicked between mine and the floor, then to the tray she’d brought, then to the distant walls like they held the answers to whatever the hell she was feeling.

And yeah, this was rare. She didn’t hover. She didn’t try. Not unless someone made her. That tray? That was probably the fifth time she’d walked past my door with it and talked herself out of knocking.

So I stepped forward.

Lifted my hand.

And touched her hair.

She froze.

Like actually froze. Shoulders stiff. Breath held. Eyes wide like I’d just unsheathed a blade against her neck. Orcs weren’t used to being touched like that, especially not princesses raised on pride and battle training.

But I didn’t yank. I didn’t pet her like she was something fragile either. I just ran my fingers slowly through that thick hair. Coarse at first. Then soft once I reached the lower strands. She smelled like ash root and boneflower soap, faintly herbal, something earthy beneath it.