Raising Beast Cubs to Find a Husband-Chapter 30: The Warlord’s Serenade and The Expensive Archduke.
I barely had time to recover from the Wolf Lord’s "tasting menu" when the next summons arrived.
This one wasn’t scrawled on parchment. It was delivered by a squad of six armored knights from the Crimson Fang Legion, who marched into my shop, slammed their spears against the floor in unison, and unfurled a scroll of red velvet.
"LADY PRIMROSE THISTLE!" the lead knight bellowed (apparently, volume ran in the Khanda faction). "General Rajah Khanda requests the honor of your presence at the Grand Training Grounds. He wishes to demonstrate his... devotion to the preservation of your safety!"
Oh no. Not a date. A drill.
I tried to decline. "I have dough rising—"
"The General has already secured a magical stasis-box for the dough!" the knight shouted. "Your chariot awaits!"
The Grand Training Grounds
The "chariot" was a literal war-chariot pulled by two massive, armored beasts that looked like rhinos. When we arrived at the training grounds, I realized this wasn’t a private meeting.
Thousands of soldiers stood in perfect formation. Banners snapped in the wind. The air smelled of steel, sweat, and ozone.
And there, standing on a raised dais like a golden god of war, was General Rajah Khanda.
He wasn’t wearing his tank top today. He was in full ceremonial armor—gold-plated steel intricately carved with tiger stripes, a red cape billowing behind him. He looked magnificent. Terrifying. And extremely loud.
"SHE ARRIVES!" Rajah roared, his voice amplified by wind magic.
CLANG. Ten thousand soldiers slammed their shields.
I wanted to crawl into a hole. This wasn’t a date. This was a coronation.
Rajah leaped from the dais—a twenty-foot drop—and landed in front of me with a shockwave of dust. He straightened up, beaming.
"Lady Primrose!" he boomed, taking my hand and bowing low. "Welcome to my heart! I mean—my headquarters!"
"General," I squeaked, trying to pull my hand back (it was like trying to pull away from a statue). "This is... a lot."
"Nonsense!" Rajah laughed. "A woman of your value requires a display of Strength! Rurik offers you a dark, cold castle. Cassian offers you a gilded cage. But I, Rajah Khanda, offer you an ARMY!"
He gestured to the legions.
"Behold!" he shouted. "The Crimson Fang! They are yours to command! Do you want a mountain moved? We will move it! Do you want a river diverted? Done! Do you want to invade the Southern Kingdoms? Just say the word!"
"I just want to make lunch, General."
"Then we shall conquer the ingredients!" he declared.
He pulled me toward a weapon rack. "But first... a gift."
He picked up a massive, two-handed greatsword. The blade glowed with enchanted runes.
"This," Rajah said reverently, presenting the weapon to me like a bouquet of flowers, "is ’Fang-Breaker’. It was forged in the dragon-fires of the East. It can slice through enchanted steel. It is yours."
I stared at the sword. It was taller than me.
"General," I said slowly. "I appreciate the gesture. But I chop carrots. This would... atomize the carrot."
"It is for your protection!" Rajah insisted, his green eyes pleading. "You are small! You have no claws! You need a fang of steel!"
He tried to hand it to me. I took it.
My arms immediately buckled under the weight. I tipped forward.
"Whoops!" Rajah caught me (and the sword) with one arm, pulling me flush against his cold armor.
Suddenly, the "Golden Retriever" energy shifted.
He held me there, easily supporting my weight and the massive weapon. His face was inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer, overwhelming power of a vigorous, prime-aged Tiger beast-kin.
He wasn’t smiling anymore. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. The "Warlord" was looking at me like I was a conquest he hadn’t anticipated.
"You are so... fragile," he whispered, the amplification magic gone, his voice a rough rumble. "It terrifies me. I want to build a wall of shields around you so high that no shadow, no wolf, and no snake can ever touch you."
He leaned in. "Let me be your shield, Primrose. Let me—"
"DAD!"
A small voice cut through the romantic tension like a knife.
Arjun marched onto the dais. He was wearing a miniature version of his father’s armor (which was adorable). He looked critical.
"Dad!" Arjun yelled. "Your form is sloppy! You are compromising her center of gravity! That is not how you hold a civilian!"
Rajah froze. He blinked, the intense "Warlord" aura vanishing instantly. He looked at his son.
"Arjun! I was... executing a tactical stabilization maneuver!"
"You were squishing her!" Arjun accused. He marched up and gently took the massive sword from my hands (he lifted it easily—beast-kin strength was unfair).
"Here, Prim," Arjun said, handing me a small, reasonable-sized dagger from his own belt. "Use this. Dad’s sword is for compensating."
Rajah choked. "Compensating?! Arjun! Who taught you that word?!"
"Jasper," Arjun said. "He calls it ’Overcompensation for Tactical Insecurity’."
"Huh?" Rajah raised his brow, looking confused.
Arjun sighed and said simply, "He said you have ’Big Sword Energy’."
The ten thousand soldiers behind us were shaking, trying desperately not to laugh.
Rajah turned bright red. He looked at me, looked at the giant sword, and realized he looked ridiculous.
"I..." Rajah coughed. "I shall... have the smith forge something smaller. A... a paring knife of destiny!"
"That sounds lovely, General," I said, patting his armored arm. "Maybe we can skip the invasion of the Southern Kingdoms for now?"
"Postponed!" Rajah agreed quickly. "Until after lunch!"
As Arjun dragged his father away to lecture him on "Proper Civilian Interaction Protocols," I leaned against the weapon rack.
Wolf: Too aggressive.
Tiger: Too overwhelming.
I looked at the dagger Arjun had given me. At least the kids had common sense.
Two romantic disasters down. Two to go.
And I had a feeling the Snake wasn’t going to try to bite me or crush me. He was going to try to buy me.
After the Tiger’s shout-fest, I was hoping for a quiet day before I started preparing for the festival again.
Instead, I got a carriage made of solid ebony with gold rims parked in front of my shop.
Alistair stepped out, holding a velvet cushion. On it sat a black envelope sealed with a gemstone.
"Lady Primrose," Alistair intoned. "The Archduke requests your presence at the Gilded Vaults."
The Auction House. The place where kingdoms bought their artifacts and nobles bought their egos.
"Is this a drill?" I asked suspiciously. "Do I need armor?"
"You need silk," Alistair corrected, handing me a dress box. "Formal wear is mandatory."
The auction house smelled of beeswax, money, and desperation.
Archduke Cassian Argentis was waiting for me in a private box that floated magically above the main floor. He looked devastatingly elegant in a suit of midnight-blue velvet with emerald buttons. His deep purple hair was tied back with a silk ribbon, and his liquid gold eyes tracked me like a viper watching a mouse.
"You look... adequate," he murmured, kissing my hand. (Translation: "You look expensive because I paid for the dress.")
"Archduke," I nodded. "Why are we here?"
"Acquisition," he said simply.
The auction began—and instantly devolved into aristocratic chaos.
Gilded lights shimmered over the crowd, nobles whispered behind jeweled fans, and the auctioneer strutted across the stage with the swagger of a man who had sold his morals decades ago.
Cassian lounged beside me in the private balcony, elegant and coiled like the serpent he was, one leg crossed over the other, expression bored enough to insult a deity. Alistair stood behind him, straight-backed and dignified—typical crane-kin posture—though his feathers visibly twitched in preemptive stress.
The first item of the evening was unveiled:
A Phoenix Feather, still glowing with immortal heat.
The room gasped. Bidders leaned forward.
Cassian didn’t even look up.
"Sold," he murmured to Alistair, voice soft as silk. "For the boy’s pillow."
Alistair’s feathers fluffed in alarm. "My lord, a phoenix feather is not—"
The gavel slammed.
SOLD.
Next came a Crate of Eternal Ice, frost spilling dramatically across the stage as if trying to intimidate the audience.
Cassian sighed, flicking imaginary lint off his velvet sleeve.
"Sold," he said, "for the pantry. It’s been warm lately."
Alistair opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked like he was calculating how many centuries of financial recovery this would require.
Then the velvet curtains parted to reveal the third item:
The deed to a secluded island, pristine and private, surrounded by crystalline waters and flowering coastline.
Cassian’s golden, slit-pupiled gaze flicked to me for exactly one second.
Then he exhaled leisurely.
"Sold. I dislike neighbors."
Alistair made a strangled crane noise—something between a honk and a prayer.
The gavel struck again.
Except... Cassian had not lifted a hand. He hadn’t raised a paddle. He hadn’t even looked at the auctioneer.
He was simply nodding.
And every time he nodded, millions of gold coins vanished from the imperial treasury.
The auctioneer, sensing a gold-fountain when he saw one, stopped even pretending to ask for competing bids.
I felt dizzy.
I leaned toward Cassian, whispering urgently, "Cassian, you’re spending enough money to topple an economy!"
He finally turned his head, his expression calm, his smooth serpent grace on full display.
"My dear Primrose," he murmured, his voice a warm, dangerous slide, "I am the economy."
Alistair quietly fainted behind us.
He leaned closer, the air around him dropping in temperature. The "Sugar Daddy" energy was overwhelming.
"I can buy anything in this world," he whispered, his golden eyes glowing. "Rare spices. Magical ovens. An army of sous-chefs to chop your vegetables so you never have to lift a finger again."
He pulled a document from his coat. It was heavy vellum, glowing with binding magic.
"This," he said, sliding it toward me, "is the deed to the Argentis Summer Palace. It has three kitchens. A garden of rare herbs. And a staff of fifty."
I stared at the deed. It was a chef’s dream.
"It is yours," Cassian purred. "Sign it."
"What’s the catch?" I asked, my Top Chef instincts flaring. There was always a catch.
"No catch," he smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips. "You simply move in. You cook what you want. You run your daycare... exclusively on my grounds."
Ah. There it is.
"Exclusively?" I repeated.
"Why serve the Wolf or the Tiger?" Cassian sneered elegantly. "They are brutes. They will work you to death. I offer you luxury. Safety. You will never have to worry about Marquis Grieve, or bills, or cleaning again. You will be... kept."
He reached out, his cool, pale fingers encircling my wrist. It wasn’t aggressive like Rurik or crushing like Rajah. It was a shackle. A cold, golden shackle.
"Be mine, Primrose," he whispered, leaning in, his slit pupils dilating. "Let me hoard you."
It was terrifying. It was seductive. It was the ultimate "Golden Cage" ending.
I opened my mouth to panic—
"OBJECTION!"
A small, imperious voice cut through the tension.
Jasper Argentis was sitting in the corner of the box, reading a book on economics. I hadn’t even noticed him (he was very good at being quiet).
Jasper snapped his book shut. He adjusted his glasses and looked at his older brother with deep disappointment.
"Brother," Jasper drawled. "Your strategy is flawed."
Cassian froze. He didn’t let go of my wrist, but he glared at the boy. "Jasper. Be silent."
"Negative," Jasper said, hopping off his chair. He walked over to the table and poked the deed.
"Primrose is a ’Fox-kin’," Jasper lectured. "Foxes require a territory range. If you confine her to a single estate, her productivity will decrease by 40%. Furthermore, she derives dopamine from the chaotic social interactions with the other heirs."
Jasper looked at me. "She likes the noise. Even though it is illogical. If you cage her, she will wilt. And then the soufflé will taste sad."
He looked at his brother. "Do you want sad soufflé, Cassian?"
Cassian looked at the deed. He looked at me. He looked at his little brother.
The magical binding on the contract sizzled and faded.
Cassian sighed, a long, suffering sound. He let go of my wrist.
"You are... irritatingly observant, Jasper," Cassian muttered.
"I am pragmatic," Jasper corrected. He turned to me. "Ignore him, Prim. He attempts to solve emotional voids with asset acquisition. It is a coping mechanism."
I choked back a laugh. This five-year-old just psychoanalyzed the Archduke.
"We are leaving," Cassian announced, standing up and sweeping the deed back into his coat. He looked annoyed, but his ears—hidden under his hair—were slightly pink.
He paused at the door and looked back at me. The scary "owner" look was gone, replaced by a sullen, spoiled aristocrat look.
"The offer for the ovens still stands," he muttered. "No strings."
"I’ll take the ovens," I said, smiling.
