Dragon King's Harem Chapter 529. End The Threat

Dragon King's Harem Chapter 529. End The Threat

The rest was…

Normal.

Well, my version of normal.

Which meant, no explosions. No assassination attempts. No sudden realm-wide disasters. Just paper, mana-sealed reports, and a persistent humming headache in the back of my skull reminding me how much was at stake.

But even in the calm, I couldn’t relax.

Not fully.

Not after everything.

I spent more time than usual with Sela and Marissa. Didn’t say it aloud, but I knew they felt it. The way I lingered after giving orders. The way I watched them a little too long during dinner. The way my hand brushed their shoulders when they weren’t expecting it, quiet, grounding touches. Not passion. Not domination. Just… anchor.

They needed that now.

And as much as I wanted to be the goddamn blazing warlord in every room, I was their husband.

And they weren’t just tools or pawns in this war.

They were going to face their homes again.

Sela would have to walk into the halls of stone where they stripped her name and smile like it didn’t shake her.

Marissa might have to see the forest that burned behind her when she was cast out.

Both would face the ghosts of crowns that betrayed them.

And me?

I’d have to watch them do it.

And I’d have to let them.

Because this was theirs as much as it was mine.

It was easier to rage at enemies I could name.

Harder to stomach the truth I already knew.

That sacrifice was normal here.

Common.

Routine.

People were used to it.

To being pawns for royal ego.

To burying sons and lovers and childhood friends because someone in a crown didn’t like to be questioned.

And I hated it.

But I also knew that even kings couldn’t fix that overnight.

So I did what I could.

I signed letters. Approved countermeasures. Ordered stealth units into position. Held Sela’s hand when she fell asleep in the messy room because she wouldn’t leave her blueprints alone. Let Marissa brush my hair once at sunset without asking questions because maybe that’s what she needed that day.

Then…

Later in one evening…

A letter came.

Fancy. Purple wax seal. Burned rose scent clinging to the paper.

I didn’t recognize the courier.

Didn’t like that either.

I didn't touch it at first.

Just stared.

Because after what happened with the dwarven king, there was no way in hell I was opening anything without a full arcane scan.

I held it up to the light. Al checked the runes. Summoned the detection barrier, then a third-layer resonance strip to see if any latent glamour hid inside the text.

It passed.

Barely.

So I opened it.

Carefully.

In my office. Alone.

And yeah.

It was exactly who I thought.

The Witch King’s daughter.

Handwritten in silver ink. Flowery loops and careful script, like she thought beautiful words might rewrite the past.

She apologized.

For her obsession.

For the stalking.

She said she’d grown.

Said she hoped I would give her “another chance.”

That she still admired me.

That she still felt something.

I folded the letter.

Didn’t rip it.

Didn’t respond either.

I had too much shit on my plate to entertain broken obsessions and clingy witches looking for power or redemption.

Let her chase someone else.

The war was already at my doorstep.

I didn’t need another one brewing in my bed.

So yeah. The witch princess could cry over someone else’s royal blood. I had enough on my throne to drown in.

One week passed.

Which, in Dragon King time, translated to roughly four hours of sleep, six meetings, twenty-two high-priority documents, and one almost accidental trade agreement with a literal swamp guild because I signed the wrong scroll after three drinks that were similar to espresso shots.

And now?

Now I was dying.

Dying like a majestic, scaled beast slowly withering under the weight of grain tariffs and noble land dispute forms.

I was slouched over my desk. Uniform messy halfway. Cape draped over the back of the chair like a defeated flag. The only things keeping me upright were something similar to caffeine and spite.

The piles hadn’t shrunk.

If anything, they’d multiplied. Like cursed paper rabbits.

I reached for the next file, glanced at the title “Resource Claim Reassessment: Eastern Quarry Fungus Growth Protocols” and genuinely considered igniting the whole stack with a breath of fire. Just once. Just one little fwoosh. That wouldn’t be too tyrannical, right?

Then…

The doors burst open.

Hard.

Like, cracked-hinge levels of force.

“Your Majesty!”

Eir treated the announcement like it was life or death.

I looked up slowly.

Eyes dead. Soul gone.

If dragons could molt from exhaustion, I’d have shed my scales three days ago.

“What,” I said, voice hollow, “could possibly be so important that you just kicked in an enchanted door?”

He ran in, hair a mess, sweat clinging to his brow like he’d sprinted across allfloors.

He stopped just short of my desk, panting.

“The… wedding invitation…” he wheezed, holding out a scroll wrapped in ceremonial gold-threaded ribbon. “From the dwarves… it’s here…”

I blinked once. Slowly. Like a lizard debating if biting someone was worth the effort.

“Invitation?” I repeated.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Eir said, nodding quickly. “It’s official. It bears the seal of the Dwarven King and the signature of his new bride-to-be.”

I sat up straighter. A flicker of interest pushing through the graveyard of my motivation.

“…And Al scanned it?” I asked. “All layers?” I made sure. Nope, I didn’t want to get in the same trap with the dwarven king.

“Yes, three times.” Eir held up the parchment like it was divine proof. “No poison. No illusion. No latent love dust. No whisper curses hidden in the creases.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Not even a trigger spell in the ink?”

“Al said it was weirdly clean, actually. Suspiciously clean. So he triple-checked.” Eir offered a thin smile. “His report was ‘Safe, but unsettling. Like a fresh apple in a poison orchard.’”