Zariyah’s temper boiled, each second ticking downward like a venomous insect burrowing into her brain. *Ten.* The audacity! To claim Tariq, the awe-inspiring, world-bending genius, was not ‘undisputed’ because some simpering, sweat-soaked figurehead still clung to a wooden seat. It was a technicality. A childish, infuriating, Alpha-Zariyah-esque quibble. She would not let her soul be wiped out over imperial furniture. Not when victory was so utterly, gloriously *hers* for the taking. [ *Countdown to erasure: 9…* ] Raoul al-Gharib, a man whose face was now a fascinating shade of bruised violet, remained prostrate, hands pressed to the ornate tiles, mumbling fervent apologies to the void where Faridah’s beast had once stood. Around him, the arena crowd stayed frozen in terror and worship. Tariq, a shimmering figure of calm power, floated just above the ground, his violet irises surveying the kneeling masses with unnerving tranquility. He was a god, undeniably. A god who, apparently, needed a proper seat. [ *Countdown to erasure: 8…* ] “Get up, you sniveling worm!” Zariyah’s voice, sharp as a freshly honed blade, lacerated the terrified hush. She stalked forward, her silk robes — mercifully restored by some earlier, more benevolent system reward — rustling like a desert wind. Her gaze locked onto the ruler's gilded seat perched high on the dais, an insult to true authority. Raoul al-Gharib flinched, scrambling to his feet, eyes wide with incomprehension. “Your… Your Eminence? I… I swear fealty to the new… the new master!” He gestured vaguely at Tariq, then back at Zariyah, clearly unsure who was in charge of his sudden, precipitous demotion. [ *Countdown to erasure: 7…* ] “Fealty?” Zariyah scoffed, a sound of pure disdain. “Fealty means nothing when your *buttocks* are still occupying a seat of power. Do you truly believe, you blithering fool, that an omnipotent Weaver who just turned a monster into glitter could not also simply… rearrange your molecules? Or perhaps, more humorously, turn your beard into live scorpions?” Raoul’s face paled further, if such a thing were possible. His hands flew to his meticulously braided beard, his eyes darting to Tariq, then back to the enraged woman approaching him like a sand-devil. [ *Countdown to erasure: 6…* ] Zariyah reached the dais, her steps deliberate, heavy with purpose. The disgraced monarch, still babbling, edged away from the dais, sensing the imminent tempest. He moved too slowly. With a snarl of pure disgust at Alpha-Zariyah’s pettiness, Zariyah raised her slippered foot and drove it squarely into his soft backside. The impact sent the plump ruler tumbling down the marble steps, drawing sharp gasps from the stunned onlookers. “Off! My genius needs his rightful seat!” Zariyah roared, her voice echoing through the arena. Her head whipped around, her eyes blazing, fixing Tariq in their commanding glare. “Tariq! Sit! Now! Unless you prefer to continue floating there like a particularly useless cloud!” [ *Countdown to erasure: 5…* ] Tariq, who had watched the entire exchange with an inscrutable expression, simply inclined his head. His movements were fluid, graceful, betraying no haste, yet imbued with an undeniable, quiet power. He drifted towards the dais, his amethyst eyes meeting Zariyah’s for a brief, intense moment. The air crackled with unspoken understanding. He was hers, completely. [ *Countdown to erasure: 4…* ] He reached the dais, long fingers brushing the gilded armrest. The crowd went dead silent, expecting the heavens to split, or Zariyah to spontaneously ignite. From his crumpled heap at the base of the stairs, the deposed ruler let out a pathetic whimper. Tariq sat down, radiating effortless majesty. His form seemed to expand, filling the space until the carved gold appeared crafted exclusively for his divine stature. [ *Countdown to erasure: 3…* ] And then, the countdown stopped. Just like that. The intrusive, mocking voice of Alpha-Zariyah was replaced by a different, flatter tone. [ *Countdown Halted. Mission: Make Target Tariq the undisputed ruler of Jahan-e-Safa. Status: ACCOMPLISHED.* ] Zariyah exhaled sharply, tension draining from her shoulders before she reasserted her customary sneer. “Took you long enough, you finicky piece of junk,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the empty air where the system messages appeared. “Now, where’s my tea? And my silk? I deserve at least three days’ worth for this absolute farce.” [ *Alpha-Zariyah recording: ‘Wha… no! This isn’t… you cheated! You can’t… ARGH! FINE! Have your stupid tea. And your silk. Just… get out of my sight!* ] The recording abruptly cut off, replaced by the satisfying *ding* of a mission reward. [ *Rewards: Ancient Spell Codex 'Chronos Weave', 1 day supply of Qamar-Dew Silk, 1 day supply of Khalila Spiced Tea.* ] Zariyah’s smirk widened. Victory tasted sweeter than spiced tea. She turned, ready to issue commands, perhaps even a gentle (for her) word of congratulation to Tariq. But as she did, a strong hand encircled her wrist. Before she could process the movement, Tariq pulled. Zariyah, caught off guard, stumbled forward. She landed, not on the cold marble, but directly onto Tariq’s lap, nestled against his now powerful, vibrant form. His arm, startlingly possessive, wrapped around her waist, holding her firm against him. Her sharp glare fractured into rare, unmistakable shock. Air stalled in her throat as the murmuring crowd went dead silent once more. “My Patron.” Tariq’s voice, deep and resonant, filled the stillness. His dark violet gaze met hers, burning with fierce, unwavering devotion. “You placed me on this seat of power. So it is only fitting that you should sit by my side. No, *on* my side. Always. You are my light, my rage, my guidance. My eternal Patron. My Queen.” Zariyah stared at him, utterly speechless. Her usually quick retort died on her tongue. The sheer audacity! The unshakeable confidence in his declaration! And the… the warmth of his embrace, the solid presence of his body against hers. It was an entirely new sensation, one she hadn't anticipated, and certainly one she refused to acknowledge. Her cheeks, to her immense irritation, felt suspiciously warm. Across the arena, Pavan, who had been meticulously polishing a freshly manifested, impossibly shiny 'Medal of Unflappable Bravery' with a tiny feather, nearly dropped it. He squawked, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. Zariyah, recovering her composure with a supreme effort, pushed against Tariq’s chest, though not with enough force to actually dislodge herself. “Queen?” she scoffed, though her voice lacked its usual bite. “Hardly. I’m your Patron, boy. Don’t get ideas above your station. I merely ensured you had the proper furnishings for your, ah, ‘undisputed rule’.” She settled back, a possessive, haughty smirk firmly back in place. “Now, about that tea. I believe I have a universe or two left to conquer, and I find a well-steeped brew vastly improves the efficacy of aggressive mentorship.” She looked out at the kneeling masses, then to Tariq, a silent promise in her eyes. This was just the beginning. Alpha-Zariyah could choke on her rage. Zariyah, the violently proud transmigrator, had her god, her tea, and her silk. The multiverse would never be the same. Tariq, her terrifyingly devoted, god-tier genius, merely tightened his arm around her. His gaze, now sweeping across the now-conquered realm, held a silent, dark amusement. He knew, as did she, that wherever she chose to lead, he would follow, ready to shatter worlds at her whim.

The Patron's Throne