The Last Human: Unlimited Power, Unlimited Beauties

Nemris led me deeper into the capital until the streets began looking increasingly expensive.

You could tell.

The pavement became cleaner.

The shop windows became larger.

The people walking around somehow developed better posture.

Even the flower arrangements looked like they had inherited money.

Eventually, Nemris stopped in front of a prestigious cake shop tucked along one of the busier avenues.

The building had enormous glass windows displaying rows of pastries arranged with enough precision to suggest somebody had threatened the bakers with execution if a strawberry leaned three degrees too far left.

Cakes sat beneath crystal covers.

Fruit tarts gleamed beneath thin layers of syrup.

Cream-filled pastries rested beside colorful little desserts I could not identify but was fully prepared to form emotional attachments to.

A delicate sign hung above the entrance.

I looked through the window.

Then at Nemris.

“You planned dessert for breakfast.”

She lifted her chin slightly.

“I said something sweet.”

“I knew there was a reason I agreed to this date.”

“You agreed before knowing about the cake.”

“Then I was rewarded for good judgment.”

Nemris shook her head and walked inside.

A small bell chimed above us.

The interior somehow managed to smell like butter, sugar, fruit, and financial irresponsibility all at once.

The walls were decorated in pale colors with polished wooden trim. Small round tables filled the room, each covered with spotless cloth and tiny flower arrangements. Several display cases ran along one side, packed with enough baked goods to make self-control feel like an outdated moral philosophy.

Then the staff approached.

Beastkin women.

Wearing maid outfits.

Of course they were.

Not ridiculous costume versions either.

Elegant ones.

Black dresses with white aprons, lace around the sleeves, small decorative headpieces, and neatly tied ribbons. Different animal ears poked through carefully styled hair.

A Rabbitkin maid stepped forward first.

“Welcome.”

She bowed.

Two others bowed with her.

The movement was synchronized.

Cute enough to cause structural damage to my dignity.

Nemris glanced sideways at me.

Danger.

The Rabbitkin maid smiled brightly.

“Table for two?”

Nemris nodded.

“Yes.”

“Please follow me.”

We did.

I followed primarily because that was where the table was.

Certainly no other reason.

The maid guided us between tables before stopping near a window.

She pulled Nemris’s chair out first.

Nemris sat.

Then the maid did the same for me.

I took the seat opposite Nemris.

“Thank you.”

The maid bowed again.

“My pleasure.”

Then she walked away to greet another group.

I watched her go for perhaps one second longer than necessary.

Maybe two.

Nemris spoke.

“You like it.”

I looked back.

“Cake?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“The uniforms.”

Ah.

Caught by the authorities.

“I appreciate good craftsmanship.”

“They are wearing maid outfits.”

“Exactly. Craftsmanship.”

Nemris folded her hands on the table.

“You like Beastkin women dressed that way.”

There was something dangerously close to accusation in her tone.

I leaned forward.

“Actually, I was thinking about something else.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“What?”

I looked her over.

Slowly.

Then smiled.

“I was imagining you wearing one.”

Nemris stopped.

Beautiful.

The suspicion disappeared from her face so quickly it deserved applause.

A faint red tint touched her cheeks.

“You were what?”

“You heard me.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the effect had been weakened considerably by the blush.

“I think you would look adorable.”

“I am not adorable.”

“You’re currently wearing a blue dress on a cake date.”

“That proves nothing.”

“You held my hand through half the capital.”

“That also proves nothing.”

“Princess, the evidence is becoming overwhelming.”

Nemris looked away for a moment.

I expected a threat.

Maybe a warning.

Maybe a promise that I would never see such an outfit during my remaining lifespan.

Instead, she hesitated.

Then looked back at me.

“That could be arranged.”

My brain stopped chewing invisible food.

“What?”

Nemris’s cheeks became noticeably warmer.

She kept her tone controlled through heroic effort.

“If you earn it.”

Oh.

Oh, this date had become strategically significant.

I rested both elbows lightly against the table.

“What exactly are the victory conditions?”

Her eyes sharpened.

“I haven’t decided.”

“Unfair.”

“It gives me leverage.”

“You really are a politician’s daughter.”

“I am the king’s daughter.”

“Much worse.”

She almost smiled.

I leaned back.

“Fine. Deal.”

Nemris nodded with an expression far too dignified for someone who had just conditionally promised to wear a maid outfit.

“Deal.”

I was going to remember that forever.

Possibly carve it into stone.

One of the maids returned carrying two menus.

She placed one before each of us.

The menu was decorated with painted flowers and tiny drawings of pastries.

I opened it.

Mistake.

Everything looked good.

The problem with having money was suddenly developing the desire to purchase enough cake to require military transport.

Nemris studied hers carefully.

“Do you know what you want?”

“No.”

“You’ve been staring at one page.”

“I’m grieving the fact that I cannot eat all of it.”

“You probably could.”

I looked at her.

“That sounded like encouragement.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Too late.”

We eventually ordered several sweets to share.

Nemris chose more than I expected.

A layered berry cake.

Small honey pastries.

Something involving cream, roasted nuts, and fruit.

I ordered chocolate because certain principles transcended worlds.

When the desserts arrived, I understood why the shop had such a reputation.

Each plate looked like artwork.

My cake had thin layers of dark sponge separated by rich cream, with glossy melted chocolate flowing over the top. Nemris’s berry cake looked too perfect to attack with a fork.

I did anyway.

Priorities.

The first bite nearly made me forgive mornings.

Nearly.

I looked across the table.

Nemris was eating with noticeably more elegance than usual.

Not that she normally ate like a barbarian.

But around soldiers, she was practical.

Efficient.

Food went from plate to mouth without ceremony.

Today every movement was controlled.

Small bite.

Fork lowered gently.

Napkin used delicately.

Princess behavior.

I smiled.

She noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That never means nothing.”

“I’m watching you.”

“I noticed.”

“You really like sweets.”

Nemris stopped with her fork halfway toward another bite.

“No more than normal.”

She had already eaten half the berry cake.

I looked at the plate.

Then her.

Then the plate again.

“Your evidence disagrees.”

“It is a small cake.”

“Defensive.”

“I am not defensive.”

“Very defensive.”

Nemris put another bite into her mouth and ignored me.

I laughed.

Honestly, this version of her was dangerous in a completely different way.

Armor Nemris could break armies.

Dress Nemris apparently liked cake, held hands, promised hypothetical maid outfits, and tried to pretend none of those things affected her.

My odds of survival felt approximately the same.

I took another bite.

Then Nemris frowned.

“Stop.”

I froze.

“What did I do?”

“You have something there.”

She pointed toward my mouth.

I wiped the wrong side.

Nemris sighed.

“Other side.”

I wiped again.

Still wrong.

Her expression suggested the kingdom’s newest diplomat had successfully negotiated with Agran but was losing to cake crumbs.

“Hold still.”

She leaned across the table.

Her finger touched the corner of my mouth.

Soft.

Warm.

She carefully brushed away a small bit of cream and cake.

Then her finger stayed there.

Only for a second.

Maybe two.

Longer than necessary.

Her eyes remained on my mouth.

Then lifted toward mine.

Neither of us said anything.

Interesting.

Nemris finally pulled her hand back.

And without thinking, put the fingertip into her own mouth.

She cleaned the crumb from it.

Then froze.

I froze too.

Not because I was embarrassed.

Because watching the realization arrive was incredible.

Nemris slowly lowered her hand.

Her eyes widened by the smallest amount.

Her face immediately turned red.

Oh.

This was priceless.

She looked away.

I smiled.

She continued looking away.

My smile grew.

“Not one word.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Your face is saying plenty.”

“My face is innocent.”

“Your face has never been innocent.”

I leaned back comfortably.

Nemris refused to look at me.

“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “sharing food is an important part of intimacy.”

Her eyes snapped toward me.

“Caled.”

“What? Cultural observation.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“More than the cake.”

She narrowed her eyes.

Then deliberately took another bite and ignored me.

Beautiful recovery.

We finished breakfast without another accidental finger incident.

Tragic.

Afterward, Nemris paid before I could even reach for anything.

Princess privilege.

Or strategic control.

Probably both.

We left the shop and returned to the streets.

The capital had become busier while we ate.

Morning had turned toward noon.

Merchants shouted from stalls.

Carriages rolled over stone streets.

Children ran between adults with the supernatural confidence of creatures who had never paid taxes.

Nemris led me toward one of the capital’s large parks.

We spent most of midday there.

No mission.

No diplomatic lesson.

No king.

No council.

Just walking.

The park stretched across several blocks, filled with broad lawns, flowering trees, stone fountains, and winding paths.

We stopped near a pond where bright fish moved beneath the water.

Passed musicians performing beneath a pavilion.

Watched children chase each other around a statue of some historical Lionkin whose contribution to society had apparently earned him permanent bird attacks.

Nemris relaxed gradually.

The princess posture remained.

But the stiffness faded.

She even laughed more easily.

Not loudly.

Nemris did nothing loudly unless she was commanding soldiers.

Still, every laugh felt like discovering money in old clothes.

Eventually, we noticed a crowd gathered near an open section of the park.

People were cheering.

I looked toward Nemris.

“Either entertainment or public execution.”

“In the middle of a park?”

“Entertainment, then.”

We approached.

Two Spriggans were performing.

That immediately caught my attention.

A man and woman hovered several meters above the ground.

Real magical wings extended from their backs.

Not the white constructs used by royal horses.

These were unmistakably Spriggan.

Their wing-shaped markings had manifested outward into luminous physical forms, intricate and translucent, with delicate patterns running through them like veins of light.

The two performers moved together effortlessly.

Below them stood a Beastkin woman wrapped in shimmering magic.

She was floating too.

Not with wings.

The Spriggans were supporting her with their spell.

The woman laughed nervously as the performers circled her.

Then music changed.

The two Spriggans spiraled around their passenger.

One above.

One below.

Trails of colored magic followed them.

The passenger rotated gently in the center as though dancing with gravity itself.

The crowd applauded.

Oh.

That was actually beautiful.

The performers landed together.

The floating woman touched the ground and immediately started laughing with her friends.

Another customer stepped forward.

Apparently people paid for the experience.

And judging by the line, business was excellent.

Nemris watched the performers.

Then looked at me.

“These two are Azalean.”

I turned slightly.

There it was.

Another test.

Casual words.

Careful eyes.

Her expression remained pleasant, but she was studying my reaction again.

“Isn’t that where you said you came from?”

I did not answer the question.

Not directly.

I looked toward the performers.

“You want to try?”

Nemris blinked.

“What?”

“The flying dance.”

I nodded toward the line.

“Looks fun.”

She folded her arms.

“No.”

“No?”

“I have flown enough recently.”

“Fair.”

She looked at me again.

“But I haven’t seen yours.”

I knew exactly what she meant.

Still, opportunities should never be wasted.

“My what?”

Nemris narrowed her eyes.

“Your wings.”

I smiled.

“Oh.”

“Your real Spriggan wings.”

There was no attempt to disguise it now.

No soft probing.

No casual little question.

She wanted proof.

Interesting.

I looked toward the two Spriggans.

Two of them.

Perfect.

The resonance requirement would be satisfied.

Nemris continued watching me.

I shrugged.

“If you want to see them that badly, Princess, all you had to do was ask.”

Her eyebrows tightened.

“I just did.”

“Then I’ll show you.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Expectation.

Not excitement.

Something sharper.

She had a theory.

And she thought this might confirm it.

Poor woman.

I walked toward the payment booth.

Nemris stayed behind near the crowd.

I paid.

Then joined the line.

The performers finished another flight.

Then another.

Eventually my turn came.

I stepped into the open area.

The two Spriggans looked toward me.

Both paused.

They were twins.

That became obvious up close.

Same black hair.

Same black eyes.

Similar features.

The man wore a fitted dark performance outfit with silver embroidery.

The woman wore a matching version designed for easier movement.

Their manifested wings shone behind them.

The man’s expression brightened immediately.

“Well.”

He smiled.

“A brother.”

There was warmth in the greeting.

Something familiar in his cadence and manner marked him clearly as Azalean, though the words reached me as naturally as every language did.

I smiled back.

“Good to meet one.”

The female twin approached.

Her eyes went briefly toward my back.

Probably checking for markings beneath my clothes.

Then she smiled too.

“This is fortunate.”

She looked toward the audience.

“Most people here only see our dances as entertainment.”

Her gaze returned to me.

“This is a chance to show them something more authentic.”

The male nodded.

His sister extended one hand toward me.

“Join us.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“For the regular performance?”

“No.”

Her smile widened.

“The Dance of Three.”

I had absolutely no idea what that was.

Naturally, I nodded.

“Sounds good.”

Confidence.

The universal replacement for information.

The male laughed.

“I like him.”

We walked toward the center.

The resonance between the twins was already present.

I felt it the moment I stepped close enough.

Their manifested wings brightened.

And the copied Spriggan ability inside me responded immediately.

The wing-shaped markings across my back warmed.

Magic gathered.

Then wings emerged.

They did not tear through my clothing.

They were magical manifestations, forming directly through and beyond the fabric without damaging it.

Light spread from my back.

Two luminous wings unfolded.

Intricate.

Authentic.

Spriggan.

The crowd reacted immediately.

Gasps.

Excited whispers.

People pointed.

I looked toward Nemris.

Her expression had gone very still.

Interesting.

The male performer grinned.

“I’m Gusta.”

The woman touched one hand to her chest.

“Asta.”

Then both smiled.

“The Eirwood twins.”

I inclined my head.

“Caled Morningwood.”

Gusta’s eyes brightened.

“Morningwood.”

Apparently memorable.

Asta took my hand.

Music began.

Not the cheerful tune from before.

This one was different.

Lighter.

More rhythmic.

Flutes joined delicate strings while a soft drum provided a heartbeat beneath everything.

Gusta launched first.

His wings folded once.

Then opened.

He rose smoothly into the air.

Asta squeezed my hand.

“Follow.”

Easy instruction.

She jumped.

I followed.

Our wings beat.

Magic lifted us.

For one brief second, Asta held my hand while we climbed together.

Then she released me.

I hovered.

Gusta moved above us.

Asta below.

Then the dance began.

At first, I had no idea what they were doing.

Which was becoming a recurring theme in my life.

They moved in opposite spirals.

Gusta rotated clockwise.

Asta counterclockwise.

Their wings left trails of pale light behind them.

Then both turned toward me.

They expected movement.

Fine.

My body understood faster than my mind did.

The pattern clicked.

Not because I knew the dance beforehand.

Because I was watching it.

Learning.

Asta swept left.

I mirrored.

Gusta descended.

I rose.

The three of us crossed paths in the air without touching.

The audience gasped.

Then the rhythm accelerated.

We circled one another.

Dove.

Climbed.

Turned.

Our wings flashed in alternating patterns.

Three Spriggans weaving through open sky.

Sometimes one remained still while the other two spiraled around.

Sometimes we formed a triangle and rotated together.

Then broke apart.

Rejoined.

The dance felt nothing like court dancing.

No floor beneath us.

No fixed orientation.

Up could become sideways.

Down could become part of a turn.

Movement happened through three dimensions instead of two.

It was exhilarating.

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

Gusta heard me.

He grinned.

Asta spun around me.

I followed her rotation.

Then overtook her.

Her eyes widened in delighted surprise.

Good.

Apparently I was doing well.

The music reached its fastest section.

All three of us climbed.

Higher.

Then folded our wings simultaneously.

We dropped.

The crowd screamed.

Not frightened.

Excited.

At the last moment, our wings opened.

Three bursts of magic flared across the park.

We separated just above the ground.

Then spiraled upward again.

Light trails intertwined behind us like glowing ribbons.

Beautiful.

Even I had to admit it.

For several minutes, everything else disappeared.

No war.

No human secret.

No suspicious princess studying me.

Just movement.

Music.

Sky.

And two people whose magic resonated naturally with the ability I had borrowed from their race.

The final sequence came.

Gusta extended one hand.

Asta did the same.

I caught both.

We formed a circle.

Rotated once.

Then descended together.

Our boots touched the grass at the same moment.

The music ended.

Silence.

Then applause exploded across the park.

Asta grabbed my hand.

Gusta took the other.

We stepped forward.

Then bowed together.

The twins lifted our joined hands.

“A round of applause,” Gusta called, “for our brother!”

Asta smiled brightly.

“Caled Morningwood!”

The crowd applauded harder.

Most of them.

I looked toward Nemris.

She was standing with her arms crossed.

Not clapping.

Her face was controlled.

But I saw it.

Disappointment.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

Not because my performance had been bad.

Quite the opposite.

I had performed the dance well enough that even Gusta and Asta looked impressed.

No.

Nemris had wanted something else.

A failure.

A hesitation.

Wings that would not appear.

A cultural dance I could not follow.

Something that would support whatever theory had started forming inside her mind.

Instead, I had given her genuine Spriggan wings and danced with two Azaleans like I belonged there.

Whatever puzzle she had been assembling had just lost several pieces.

I smiled at her.

Nemris caught me looking.

The disappointment disappeared instantly.

Hidden.

Again.

Then she uncrossed her arms.

And clapped.

Slowly at first.

A small smile appearing.

Nice recovery, Princess.

I released the twins after thanking them.

Gusta slapped my shoulder.

“You should perform with us again.”

“Careful. I might start asking for a share of the profits.”

Asta laughed.

“Definitely Azalean.”

If only she knew.

I walked back toward Nemris.

My manifested wings faded once I moved away from the twins and the resonance ended, dissolving into particles of light behind me.

Nemris watched that too.

Every detail.

I stopped in front of her.

“That was fun.”

She looked toward Asta and Gusta.

“It looked like it.”

I smiled.

“You sound jealous.”

“I am not.”

“You answered too quickly.”

Nemris ignored that.

Her gaze returned to the twins.

“You seemed comfortable.”

“I was.”

“With your people.”

There was meaning underneath that.

I laughed lightly.

Nemris studied me again.

Still looking.

Still searching.

Her eyes moved across my face like she expected some crack to appear if she stared long enough.

Then her hand lifted.

Her fingertips touched my cheek.

Gentle.

Unexpected.

I blinked.

Nemris seemed almost distracted by whatever she was thinking.

Her thumb brushed lightly near my cheekbone.

I smiled.

“Not in public, Princess.”

Her eyes sharpened immediately.

There she was.

She slowly removed her hand.

“I was checking something.”

“Of course.”

“I was.”

“I believe you.”

“You don’t.”

“Not remotely.”

Nemris narrowed her eyes.

Then turned.

“We should go.”

I stayed where I was.

Just watching her.

She walked several steps.

Stopped.

Realized I was not beside her.

Then turned back.

Her expression immediately became suspicious.

“What?”

I smiled.

“Nothing.”

“Caled.”

“I just realized something.”

Her eyes narrowed more.

Dangerously.

“What?”

I looked at her blue dress.

The carefully tied golden hair.

The faint blush still hiding around her cheeks.

The woman who had cleaned cake from my mouth, accidentally eaten the crumb herself, interrogated my species through a public performance, touched my cheek without realizing she was doing it, then tried to march away before embarrassment caught up.

I smiled wider.

“You can actually be cute.”

Nemris froze.

Completely.

For one beautiful second, the Lord Commander of the Knights Order suffered total system failure.

Her lips parted.

No response came out.

Then her face warmed.

She cleared her throat.

Once.

Very formally.

As if clearing her throat could execute the sentence I had just said.

She extended one hand toward me.

No comment.

No denial.

Just the hand.

I looked at it.

Then at her.

Nemris refused to meet my eyes.

I laughed quietly.

But I did not tease her any further.

I stepped forward.

Slipped my hand into hers.

Her fingers closed gently around mine.

And together, we walked wherever she had planned to take me next.