Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

”It’s not a ritual. Stop calling it that,” Veyron snapped from the front.

”My apologies for the mislabel,” Guinevere replied. ”On my land, when a community gathers together to perform group activities with sequential steps, while wearing ceremonial garments, we call that a ritual. But I recognize that my people’s traditions may not translate directly to yours. I don’t want to impose my framework on your customs. What term does your community prefer?”

”Criminal intake process.”

”Criminal intake process,” Guinevere repeated. ”Understood. I’ll use that going forward. I do want to flag that ’criminal’ carries negative connotations in my culture, but I recognize I’m a guest and your language norms take priority here.”

”I’m co-signing her feedback,” Kael cut in. ”If you are open to workshopping terminology, Commander, what about guests of the light-bearer justice system?”

The corridor went quiet. Not because the suggestion was bad. Because nobody could figure out if he was serious. He wasn’t sure either.

Guinevere looked at Kael with genuine pride.

Veyron blinked three times. The third blink lasted longer than the first two combined.

”Or, if you would feel more comfortable meeting us halfway, we could drop the word ’criminal,” Guinevere offered. ”Would your community accept ’intake process’?”

Veyron physically turned his body away from them. No response. No acknowledgment. The back of his head was what they got.

”I don’t think ’intake process’ resonated with him,” Kael commented, loud enough that Veyron could absolutely hear.

”Fair. Some leaders need to sit with new ideas before adopting them. We planted a seed. That’s what matters. Give it some time.”

”How much time?”

”Historically, institutional change takes seven to ten years,” Guinevere replied.

Veyron’s step faltered for half a second when Guinevere said ’ten years.’ His shoulders rose by an inch and did not come back down.

The clapping followed them as they walked like an applause after a curtain call, not stopping until well after they rounded a corner.

The cells in this corridor lit just like the last one.

No clapping.

They were halfway down when someone spotted her.

Then recognition spread through the cells like fire through dry brush. Heads turned. Bodies stood. Faces pressed against glowing bars.

Guinevere stopped dead.

The guards stopped. Kael stopped. The entire procession halted.

Veyron pinched the bridge of his nose. They did not get to halt the proceeding. Protocol had died, and Veyron was the only one who seemed to notice the body.

Guinevere had recognized these citizens immediately.

The purse woman. The bartender. Paul. Paul’s friend. The old man with the pan. The group who had clinked their beverages together in ceremony before drinking them. The civilians who had been arrested for the crime of defending a stranger in a bar and were now serving time for obstruction, interference, and whatever the old man did with his cookware.

Kael looked at the cells. Looked at the faces. Looked at Guinevere. He could feel her emotions loud and clear through their matebond.

”You know these people.”

”Oh yes. We met during my last visit.”

”Of course you did.”

The clapping started again, this time in a thunderous ovation as recognition spread.

”IT’S HER.”

”OH NO. THEY GOT HER, EVERYONE.”

”GLOWING GIRL!”

”Hello,” Guinevere waved both hands again with her cuffs. The chain jingled. The wave was warm, genuine, and aimed at every face she could see with the gratitude of a woman greeting old friends at a reunion she had accidentally organized through crime. ”You opened your establishment to an outsider and treated me as one of your own. I want you to know that this arrest and what happened is not a reflection of your character. I will advocate for your release with whoever governs your community at my earliest opportunity.”

They cheered louder.

”WE’D DO IT AGAIN!”

”PAUL WOULDN’T.”

”SHUT UP, KEVIN.”

Kael looked down at her. Looked up at the cells. Looked down at her again. His face cycled through the seven stages of what the fuck, hit the end of the cycle, looped back, and started over because the first pass hadn’t covered it. She had a fan club. In prison. She had been arrested, processed, mugshot-taken, jumpsuited, and walked into the holding wing to a standing ovation from people who had been imprisoned because of her and were thrilled about the reunion.

The guards exchanged a look. The look was brief, loaded, and carried the mutual understanding of men who had been present for the bar incident and were choosing, collectively and permanently, to never mention any of this to Commander Veyron because Commander Veyron was sensitive about that particular evening.

The purse woman pressed her face between two bars, spotted Kael, and squinted.

”Oh, what happened to that young man you were with? The gentleman,” she asked Guinevere.

Guinevere stopped in front of her cell. The procession stopped with her.

”He is doing very well,” Guinevere said, stepping closer to the bars with the casual warmth of a neighbor stopping by a fence. ”I’ll tell him you say hello. How are you settling in?”

”Can’t complain,” the purse woman answered, adjusting herself against the bars like she was leaning on a kitchen counter. ”The beds are firm but the lighting is lovely. Have you had the soup yet?”

”I have not had the soup yet!”

Kael looked between them. His eyes moved from Guinevere to the purse woman and back with the bewildered ping-pong of a man watching two women catch up at a market and having to remind himself, repeatedly, that the market was a prison and the women were inmates and the soup review was happening through iron bars.

They started walking. They made it two cells before Guinevere stopped again. The guards stopped with her.

An old man waved from his cot. He was sitting with his legs crossed, his back against the glowing wall, looking more relaxed than anyone had a right to look in a correctional facility. The pan was gone. The energy was not.

Guinevere’s face softened. ”I’m so sorry about your establishment. The damage to your bar was a direct consequence of my presence and I take full responsibility.”

”Don’t be.” The old man waved a hand. ”Best night of business I’ve ever had. Twenty officers. Four rounds each. Full price. They tipped. I’m remodeling the kitchen when I get out.”

”I shall love to see it someday.”

”You’re welcome anytime. First round’s on the house. You and the gentleman.”

”That’s very generous of you. I’ll pass that along to Nicholas. We want to try one of those glowing beverages you were serving.”

”Swap that last part,” Kael cut in. ”Kael Ashenvale will be the one getting that beverage with you.”