A wistful sigh drifted to her ears, followed by a chorus of feminine giggles from the ladies seated behind her. Lord Wulfbane, it seemed, had caught their attention—and she couldn’t quite blame them.
“The Wolf of Tremore certainly knows his way around bows and arrows,” her father commented, drawing appreciative chuckles from the nobles.
Murro was quick to respond. “It is generous of Your Majesty to invite him to partake in this noble gathering.”
“Come now, Murro. Rumours are like the wind—impossible to grasp and often misleading. Until we know the truth, it’s only fair to judge a man by his actions, not whispers in the dark.”
Her father’s words drew nods of approval. Murro’s mouth tightened briefly before he bowed his head in acquiescence. Her father’s generosity, as always, was difficult to argue against.
Before the match could finish, a messenger hurried into the arena, his boots kicking up dust as he approached Lord Wulfbane. The sealed letter in his hand bore the royal crest of Tremore, its dark red wax catching the sunlight.
Reiya’s pulse ticked faster as Wulfbane read the letter, his expression tightening. Something shifted in his stance—a carefully restrained urgency. He turned to the herald, speaking briefly before making his way toward the royal dais.
Bowing stiffly, he addressed her parents with calm precision. “Your Majesties, my king has urgent need of me. I must withdraw from the tournament.”
The courtiers broke out in whispers, but her father nodded solemnly.
“Of course, Lord Wulfbane. Duty must always come first.”
The queen’s voice was gentler. “We hope you’re able to join us for the feast tonight. Let us send you off with a full belly, at least.”
Lord Wulfbane inclined his head. “If time allows, Your Majesty.”
When his gaze landed on Reiya, she tensed. His piercing blue eyes passed over her—not with Callahan’s arrogance or an Alpha’s possessiveness, but with something cooler, assessing. It was not admiration—it wasstrategy.
He strode out of the arena without a backward glance, leaving behind only murmurs and speculation.
Murro leaned toward her. “Despite Lord Wulfbane’s reputation, a match with Tremore could be highly advantageous, Princess. Their mines are obnoxiously rich with limyerite. With Tremore’s wealth, Aethonia’s position would be elevated far beyond its current standing.”
Reiya stiffened at the mention of limyerite, her fingers curling in her lap. The rare crystal was the pride of the nine kingdoms—coveted for adornments, weapons, even healing. She’d heard in Xûen-Sarai, it was honed into slender needles and used to pierce the hidden rivers of the body, pulling illness and misfortune into the stone itself.
Tremore’s reserves were legendary, its crystals larger and purer than those found elsewhere. To Murro, or any politician, a union with Tremore wasn’t just advantageous—it was a direct tether to the lifeblood of power in Issoirea.
She resisted the urge to press a hand to her temple. The alliance between the nine kingdoms was supposed to be for mutual peace and prosperity, but in truth, it was tenuous, bound by centuries of shifting power. Though each kingdom governed itself independently, their fates were entwined by pacts, rivalries, and the ever-present struggle for dominance over land, wealth, and influence.
As though sensing her hesitation, Murro pressed on. “With Tremore’s limyerite under our banners, we could be one of the wealthiest among the kingdoms. A union of prosperity, Princess—a decision for the ages.”
Her jaw tightened, pulse quickening as expectations bore down once more. Neovallan’s naval fleets. Tremore’s limyerite. Treaties, alliances—her future reduced to resources, strategies, calculations.
Did anyone care about the woman beneath the title? Did anyone care she didn’t want to be traded like a gemstone, no matter how rare?
“Lord Wulfbane’s departure was abrupt.” She shifted the conversation, hoping to end Murro’s pressure. “I wonder what could have drawn him away so suddenly.”
Murro’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he let the diversion stand. “Urgent matters often accompany those of high status, Your Highness. It is simply the nature of leadership.”
Reiya dipped her head in polite acknowledgment, though a flicker of annoyance stirred beneath her ribs. His words, for all their careful deference, carried the faintest whiff of condescension—a reminder she wasn’t counted among those who made decisions, only those who obeyed them.
No matter how many council meetings she’d attended, no matter how many ideas she’d offered—suggestions on rain catchments for the dry season, seawater distillation methods for the outer provinces—her voice had never been more than a background noise. A courtesy. A reminder that an Omega princess was expected to adorn, not lead.
The tournament continued. Another hush rolled through the arena, drawing her gaze toward the two new figures stepping into the grounds.
The first caught her attention immediately. Golden-haired and athletic, sunlight traced the unruly waves of his short hair. The strands were just shy of reaching his collar, lending him careless charm. He moved with the easy grace of someone accustomed to being watched, his steps fluid, as effortless as a blade slipping from its sheath. His eyes flicked over the crowd—sharp, searching, like the tip of a rapier poised to strike.
At his side, the second Alpha loomed—taller, broader, his presence quieter yet no less commanding. His bountiful raven hair was partially gathered into a precise top knot, while the rest cascaded to his shoulders and framed his sharp, angular features. His eyes cut through the crowd with the weight of a broadsword held securely in practiced hands.
If the first Alpha was built to pierce, the second was meant tocleave. Where the first was golden and bright, the second was shadow and steel.
Yet, there was no mistaking the bond between them—two weapons forged from the same metal, tempered by the same fire, each honed for battle in its own way.
