“This one is honored you recognize her face,” declares Yavena, her command of the Gak’s growling, liquid language impeccable. With monarchs, subservience is never inappropriate. “This one begs an audience from the Scourge of Kyonadrila Valley, the Conqueror of the Ten Thousand Colors, the Lord-General of the Gak, the—”

“‘This one’”—a youthful playfulness thrusts through the Dog-King’s voice—“is overwhelmingly polite. We’re amazed that you resisted the temptation to call us the Dog-King. After all, is it not our name among those of the Ten Thousand Colors, our most treasured of vassals?”

Yavena snaps her head up, guilt blooming. Words can be schooled, but thoughts have always enjoyed a rebellious autonomy in her head. “This one would not dare! This one—”

“We would have you address us as peers, Yavena.”

A beat. “My lord.”

“Good enough, we suppose.” A broad hand, caged in iron rings and steel-grey bangles, is flapped delicately.

Yavena unbends but finds herself unable to loosen the knot of tension crushing her lungs. She is disarmed, robbed of equilibrium by the Dog-King’s frictionless affability. She folds her arms behind her, adopts the posture of a soldier at rest. As she does so, she captures the sliver of a smile on the Dog-King’s mien, its meaning impenetrable.

Unbidden, her gaze jumps back to Hahvak next, but she finds no reassurance there, only slyness, a wheedling humor. Yavena stiffens further, elegant in defiance.

“So,” the Dog-King begins as he mounts the steps to his throne. It is an intimidating structure, mythic in proportion, cobbled together from the bones of a thousand devoured Mothers. “What is it that you wish to ask from us, Yavena?”

“This one—” She stumbles, words snagging on ceremony. “I mean, I wish to play a game with you.”

The Dog-King laughs loudly. “Cordial and learned! Trust the Ten Thousand Colors to know the ten thousand desires that lurk in the living heart. Tell us the desire that beats at the core of that most sacred organ.”

The massive Gak monarch slouches onto his seat, elbow propped on an armrest, muzzle cupped in a broad paw. A hush glides over the dignitaries in the audience chamber, tautening muscles and attention. Dark eyes anchor on Yavena. They wait. Watch.

The Ovia inhales thinly, exhales her entreaty in a measured torrent.

“As per custom, I have won all of the Supplicant’s Challenges.” Here pride burgeons for an instant. “I have beaten all your Overseers. I have earned innumerable favors, six guild recruitments, three requests to join a noble’s entourage, and… one slightly drunken marriage proposal.”

Silence. The Gak are barely respiring, their bodies statue-still. Only the Dog-King alters expression, smile broadening. In the background, Hahvak’s slithering giggles. “Small little thing? Carmine fur? Pompadour? Speaks like he swallowed a flute?”

Yavena nods, expression grave.

“Avah has always enjoyed unusual tastes.” A chuckle that spreads like an infection through the courtiers. “We apologize for the interruption. Continue.”