Chương 32: Vol 1. Eye to Eye: Part 1

Korra strode through the estate's long central corridor, her spine and tail rigid. Banners of crimson and gold with embroidered crossed spears hung between the arches, their edges faded from generations upon generations of dust and direct sunlight streaming in from the stained-glass windows. The eyes of dead Seran matriarchs plastered on the walls followed her, each wearing the same expression typical of a retired battler. Servants clustered in the alcoves, running to and fro and speaking, whispering, gossiping.

"They look so bizarre, don't they?"

"I think that is just what elves look like."

"Yeah, I have never seen an elf."

"I can't tell if it is a boy or a girl."

"Girl, obviously!"

"Are you sure?"

"No boy has muscles that big!" They scattered off every which way when Korra looked in their direction, her boots striking against the tiled floor with a rhythmic sharpness. A servant ran up to her and bowed.

"They are waiting for you in the audience chamber, my lady. We have guards surrounding the room and more outside, should this be some manner of deception on behalf of House Orien."

"Good," Korra said.

"Close the gates and double the guard at the eastern entrance."

"Yes, my lady." The servant bowed reverently and hurried off. Kurik tugged his neckline higher for the sixth time; like the previous five times, it immediately slipped back down. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Ohhh, everyone is going to stare at my chest."

"I don't blame them," Korra said with a playful ear flick.

"You're not helping," Kurik mumbled. As they neared the room, the estate became quieter. Several guards stood near the narrow ivory door bearing House Seran's crest, armoured, with their paws hovering near the hilts of their sheathed swords. At the edge of her remaining vision, Korra noticed several younger servants lingering in the distance, still chatting and whispering. Kurik caught up to his wife's side.

"Are you planning to be, you know, diplomatic about this?"

"Of course," Korra said evenly.

"Your, um… claws are out." Korra looked down. She swished her tail in acknowledgment.

"So they are." One of the guards unhurriedly opened the door and peered inside. After a moment, she nodded and stepped aside. Korra entered. The audience chamber was modest, at least by royal standards, with stone walls painted a tannish hue, broken only by crimson banners with crossed ceremonial spears. The narrow window on the east wall was stained ruddy, green, and cyan.

Evening light streamed through it, casting crystalline red, green, and cyan patterns across the polished tiled floor and the worn, yet still elegant, furniture arranged around an old-fashioned hearth. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Sitting on the couch with a straight posture was a Kharani man—Prince Tahir, she assumed.

At the sound of them entering, Tahir rose too quickly, and his knees nearly buckled before he caught himself against the arm of the couch. Swiftly, he sat back down, returning to a prim and proper gentlemanly posture, with his spine straight, his tail held rigidly behind him, his expression serious, though a trace of nervous warmth still showed through, and his paws clasped neatly in his lap. He wore clothes that were coarse and travel-stained—and very peasant-like.

His fur had been combed well enough, and yet Korra could tell servants had not brushed it, as it was still littered with knots around his neck and shoulders. Exhaustion darkened the skin beneath his brilliant eyes. Yet Korra could still tell he was of noble birth at a glance. The stories she had heard through the grapevine were true. Tahir was an absurdly beautiful man; it almost seemed that "beauty" was an inherent, ontological trait of his very nature.

His fur was a striking marigold-gold, more yellow than was typical, patterned with eerily symmetrical ebony spots, and his eyes were an equally brilliant gold. He was petite, with a delicate frame, a narrow waist, and a healthy softness around his thighs and arms. Korra just stared at him for a moment. Her remaining eye widened. Her heart began to go thump-thump-thump in rapid succession. No wonder he was still unmarried.

Zahra could force him into a marriage, certainly, but someone like him offered greater possibilities. There was leverage in beauty like that. Dishonourable leverage, but leverage nonetheless. And someone as dishonourable as Zahra would absolutely use that leverage. If I were not already happily married, she thought, I would spend long evenings devising some suitably knightly and honourable method of courting him. Tahir nodded. Breaking the silence, he said, "Good afternoon.

You must be Lady Korra of the esteemed House Seran."

"Huh?" Korra said. She snapped out of her trance and returned to a cold and calculated demeanour.

"Good afternoon. You must be Prince Tahir of House Orien. It is a"—she nearly barfed as she said the next few words—"pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. May House Orien prosper." Tahir gracefully rose from the couch and knelt while picking up the sides of his dress's skirt.

"Likewise, Lady Korra. House Seran's honour is well known, and it is wonderful to meet you eye to eye." She winced at that last remark. Probably unintentional… but… Tahir stood up, his paws still held together in front of him. He turned to the side and whispered something inaudible, but Korra read his lips: "Now, just like we practised." She turned towards where Tahir was looking and, for the second time that day, was taken aback. Beside Tahir was a furless—Korra cocked her head quizzically—woman? An elf, maybe?

She had the appearance of one, if Korra's memory served correctly. The stranger was tall, a little taller than Korra, and brawny, with sizeable arms and broad shoulders. She wore battered clothes, had faint scars spread across her visage, and had a heavy mane of fur growing from her jaw. A weapon hung at her hip, and she stood with the still confidence that one only got from being a seasoned warrior. Korra could only assume she MUST be a woman. Morton tried to get on one knee.

She wobbled a bit and almost lost her balance as she did so, but managed to get into a bowing position, albeit with a stiffness that showed she had never greeted someone with that type of formality before. Then she placed her hand across her breast and said, "Thank y'all kindly for lettin' us in your house, Lady Korra Seran, and Sir Kurik Seran."

"Prince Kurik," Tahir quietly corrected.

"Right, right. My deepest apologies, Your Highnesses." Morton got up and put forth her hand.

"Name's Morton Christian. Pleasure to meet ya'." Korra looked down at the hand. It was quite chapped and calloused; she was certainly not a pretty woman, that was for sure. Not that it was a bad thing! She clasped her paw in Morton's hand and flinched at the sudden firmness. After they shook a good number of times, Morton stepped back and tipped her hat.

"Likewise," Korra said. She wasn't exactly sure how she was supposed to address this… Morton Christian. Her knowledge of elf culture was quite limited. Not that she was ever one for formalities; no, it was simply something she did out of habit and a sense of honour. She could imagine herself at five again, her mother whacking her over the head for not using the proper niceties. Korra looked down at Morton's belt.

"What is that on your hip?" Korra asked.

"A pistol, Your Highness," Morton said. Korra squinted her remaining eye.

"It is remarkably small for a pistol."

"S'ppose it is."

"I ask that, temporarily, my guards seize it."

"With respect, ma'am, I won't be doin' that."