The three of them lingered over their tea, savoring the quiet companionship in the softly lit room. Soon, attendants arrived carrying platters of delicate sweet pastries and baked treats. Eleonor and Isabel eagerly sampled the confections, their refined palates clearly pleased by the delicate flavors and artistry.

  John, however, was not a typical child in this regard. The sweet cakes held little appeal for him—not out of disdain, but rather a simple preference cultivated by a childhood shadowed by scarcity. Yet, his modest upbringing taught him to accept what was offered graciously, and he ate sparingly, savoring only what truly pleased his palate.

  Similarly, tea was not his favorite drink, but he found it bearable, the warm cup a comfort amid unfamiliar surroundings and thoughts swirling too fast for his young mind.

  Isabel chuckled as she recalled their duel during the final of the Tournament of Juniors. “I transformed into my Ice Queen form to stand a chance against you,” she said with a gleam in her emerald eyes, “but I still lost.” Her voice carried a mixture of pride and amusement at the memory.

  Eleonor grinned as she added, “And let’s not forget that you two were found in a compromising position right after.”

  John’s face flushed a deep red once again, caught between embarrassment and the remnants of youthful awkwardness. Isabel, however, laughed freely at the recollection, her laughter light and unrestrained, easing the tension and reminding them all of the strange and unbreakable bond they shared forged through challenge and camaraderie.

  Though Isabel and Eleonor had known each other for many years, the bond between Isabel and John was newer and had yet to be steeped in as many shared experiences. Eleonor’s connection to John had grown steady and deep over more than two years—marked by trials, mentorship, and battles faced side by side.

  Yet, in the cozy setting of John’s hotel room, the trio moved with the ease of close, old friends—heralding a camaraderie born not just of history but of mutual respect and the silent understanding of the burdens they each carried, John’s collar, Eleonor’s family and Isabel’s icy secret and responsibility to the people and the crown.

  The door opened once more, and Shira stepped inside, her presence immediately commanding attention. Gone was her usual battle-worn armor and the feral tiger form she often assumed in the wild or within the weretigresses' encampment. Instead, she wore a flowing scarlet dress that clung to her statuesque frame, accentuating the full, generous curve of her enormous breasts and the lithe power in her movements. Her silver hair fell loose around her shoulders, framing a face both fierce and stunning in its beauty.

  John blinked in surprise, unused to seeing this side of Shira—the warrior transformed into a vision of elegant grace. It was a world apart from the rugged leather garb or primal form he was accustomed to, revealing a new dimension to the fierce tigress who had become one of his closest allies.

  Shira stepped into the room with the confident grace of a warrior born of the wild. Her silver hair shimmered like moonlight, framing sharp features and piercing blue eyes that seemed to glint with both warmth and mischief. The scarlet dress she wore hugged her powerful frame, accentuating the strength and hypnotic allure beneath her refined exterior.

  Approaching the trio, Shira grinned teasingly. “Are these princesses flirting with my John? But you’re not daring enough to win him. I showed my unclothed body to him before the two of you even met him.”

  John thought, Again with this... Shira had mentioned their first encounter in the forest so often to tease him that the words barely flustered him anymore. However, Isabel and Eleonor were caught off guard by the bold declaration from the respected white weretigress. Both flushed subtly, caught between astonishment and embarrassment. Was John not as innocent as they thought?

  Shira plopped down onto the sofa with a casual lack of ladylike grace, stretching out with the relaxed confidence of someone completely at ease. Before anyone could say another word, the door creaked open once again, and in stepped two dark elves—Nyssara and her younger sister Lysara.

  Nyssara emerged from the shadows like a figure carved from midnight itself—tall, athletic, lithe yet powerful. Her midnight-black skin gleamed faintly where the fading light kissed it, smooth as polished obsidian. Her flowing jet-black hair tumbled in wild waves to her hips, framing a face sharp and alluring, with high cheekbones and an angular jaw softened by full lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. Her amethyst eyes, vibrant and piercing, held a wicked intelligence beneath arched brows, a look of cool detachment mingled with sly amusement. Elegant ears swept back, adorned with silver rings and dark gemstones catching any stray glimmers. As always, she wore form-fitting and revealing dark leathers, complemented by silver and deep violet filigree along the shoulders and hips, with boots laced tightly to her calves. A tattered midnight-blue cloak, fastened by an onyx brooch, trailed lightly behind her. A slender chain with a glowing black crystal rested above her scandalous décolleté. Her long fingers, tipped with pointed nails, hovered near curved daggers at her belt, each gesture radiating a wary confidence. As John’s gaze unintentionally lingered on her ample curves, his face flushed, and he forced himself to look away, thinking of how old encounters with her had not been different.

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  Following closely behind Nyssara was Lysara, her sister, younger but no less striking. She moved with the assured grace of royalty, clad in sleek black leather straps woven into a bold yet artful ensemble. The outfit revealed much of her slender figure while leaving little to the imagination, the dark shades highlighted by silver clasps and a short flowing drape around her hips, starkly contrasting with her smooth grey skin. While Nyssara had midnight-colored skin, Lysara’s was grey.

  Nyssara’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she declared, “Old Shira is flaunting about having shown John her body. Quick, Lysara, take off your clothes so you can make him yours—and I will do the same!” Her tone carried a wicked playfulness, clearly relishing the scandal she was stirring. Lysara, younger yet unbothered by modesty as befitted a dark elf, merely grinned and seemed ready to comply, completely comfortable with the idea.

  But before things could escalate, a sharp, commanding sound of someone clearing their throat disapprovingly interrupted—“Ahem!”—cutting through the room with quiet authority. All eyes turned as Elyndra stepped into view, her presence radiating serene grace and gentle power. She was the high elf whose beauty silenced rooms: cascades of golden hair framed her angelic face, her green eyes vivid and deep, full of wisdom and warmth. Her modest green dress struggled to hide her striking figure, the fabric outlining the softness of her giant breasts, yet her posture and demeanor exuded an air of gentle dignity, a contrast to the impetuous dark elves.

  John found himself surrounded by a rare and remarkable gathering of beauty and strength in his hotel room. Before him sat a human princess, regal and poised; a human heiress to a duchy, elegant and sharp; Shira, the fierce weretigress daughter of the Shaman and tribe chief, radiant even out of battle in her scarlet dress; the two dark elf princesses, Nyssara and Lysara, their alluring presence woven with mystery and danger; and Elyndra, the high elf princess with her serene grace, golden hair, and piercing green eyes.

  Though the collar sapped him of his powers, rendering him vulnerable, John was far from alone. This unique constellation of allies and friends—each formidable in their own right—was a living testament to the diverse strength that now clustered around him, a force that promised to carry him forward despite the darkness pressing near.

  John took advantage of the moment and said, "Thank you, all of you, thank you! I would be dead without you. Isabel, I thank you, and I hope I will have a chance to thank your father for standing up for me when I was being oppressed in the arena. Elyndra, thank you for helping me, thank you for that arrow that silenced the dark voice speaking for the emperor, thank you to you, your mother—the queen of the high elves—and your people for helping me, and thank you, in particular, for always being there for me and being my teacher and friend. Thank you, Shira, for all you did for me. You taught me so much about controlling the monster inside me, about how to fight, and you found other teachers for me, you even shared the secrets of your tribe with me. And thank you for also standing up for me in the arena. Nyssara, thank you, and thank you to the dark elves for also helping, and thank you, Lysara, as well, of course."

  Nyssara laughed and said, "Our John is getting all emotional."

  The door had remained open, and there stood Leona, the werelioness—her expression one of shock and barely concealed tension. Her presence was a potent contrast of raw power and natural beauty, marked by wild, flowing waves of golden blonde hair that shimmered like a cascade of sunlight. The untamed volume of her mane flared wildly in every direction, as if charged with primal energy.

  Her body was a sculpted testament to relentless discipline and animalistic grace—muscular yet lithe, with razor-sharp definition in her abs that surpassed even the most elite aura knights John had witnessed. Her sun-kissed skin glowed warmly under the room’s light, the stark simplicity of her battle attire—a mere two pieces of rugged, brown leather—leaving her formidable muscles exposed and ready for action.

  She carried no weapons or shoes, her fierce gaze locking onto the gathered group with predatory intensity, a living embodiment of the arena’s primal spirit. The shock on her face hinted at an intrusion upon the private moment unfolding within this intimate chamber.

  Leona’s voice suddenly cut through the room, loud and filled with emotion. “What is this? You were supposed to become my husband after what happened during our fight! You never said you had so many wives!”

  With the ferocity of a wild lion, she jumped onto John, who instantly felt a surge of fear. Frail and powerless because of the collar, he knew she could hurt or even kill him if she wished or even just by accident. But instead of aggression, Leona slowed down and just wrapped her large, muscular arms around him in a heavy embrace. John’s face pressed against her ample breasts, causing a deep flush to spread across his cheeks.

  “We will get rid of that collar for you,” Leona said with a determined but simple-hearted earnestness.

  The unexpected scene left everyone a bit stunned. Eleonor blinked in surprise and asked, “Husband?” The word hung in the air, both startling and charged with unspoken possibilities.