Wangchuan ignored him and floated straight toward the dais.
He really did float, his feet half a foot above the ground, his sleeves hanging down.
He floated up to the throne, turned around, and sat down.
A gold-threaded rug covered the obsidian throne. Wangchuan leaned back, rested his arms on the armrests, and tapped his fingers twice against the one with a chipped corner.
Drago stood below the dais, rubbed his claws together, and said nothing.
That was his seat.
Tso Lan had taken it.
He stood beside him, his tail curling twice behind him, and found something to talk about.
"Uncle, those clothes look pretty nice. Where did you buy them?"
"I conjured them myself."
"Heh, you've got taste."
Wangchuan tilted his head and glanced at the dozen or so women huddled in the corner.
Those women had just retreated half a step in fear of Drago, and now Wangchuan had glanced at them too.
Their legs went weak. Several dropped straight to their knees, while others buried their faces in their arms, not daring to breathe loudly.
Drago followed Wangchuan's gaze, and something in his mind went taut.
His eldest uncle, Tso Lan.
He was famously solitary among demons.
He had no interest in women, disliked bustle, hated having people hovering around him, and liked the dead silence of the moon.
Unlike his third uncle and his youngest uncle, Hsi Wu, who always enjoyed singing and dancing women.
His father had told him that if anyone lacked the sense to know better and lingered beside him, he could throw them into space to swim around for three days.
"Everyone, leave."
Drago waved a claw.
"Hurry up. Stop dawdling."
The women scrambled out, not even daring to return for the two high heels they lost.
Only uncle and nephew