But it was too late for second thoughts.
Alarik bowed, his voice dipping into the smooth cadence of diplomacy. “May I have the honour of this dance, Princess Reiyana?”
For a beat, she stared at him, her expression unreadable—until the sharp edge of it cut through. A shift in the air, a flicker of something cold.
Realization dawned: she wasn’t pleased by his invitation. If anything, her silence felt pointed, as though the mere sight of him unsettled her.
The queen, seated beside her, softly nudged her with an elbow.
“Prince Alarik,” the princess said at last, her voice low and smoky. A beat of silence stretched between them before she inclined her head.
Then, with a smile precise as a blade—polished to perfection but hollow of warmth—she continued, “To refuse would dishonour the victor and insult the illustrious display of Alpha prowess. Of course, I accept.”
Her words were a dance of their own, graceful but laced with a subtle bite.
She’d made it clear: she accepted out of duty, not desire.
Alarik inclined his head. He couldn’t take any offence, having asked her because this was tradition and nothing more.
They stepped onto the floor together, their movements tentative—less a celebration and more a careful negotiation. Alarik was acutelyaware of his size, of how delicate her hand felt in his. Walking beside him, the top of her head barely brushed his chin.
As their dance began, he found himself trying to read her—not through speech, but through the fleeting glances, the precision of her movements, the way she carried herself as though every gesture was a shield. Women seemed to command this complex language so easily, weaving meaning between what remained unspoken. He wondered if he could glimpse even a fraction of who she was beneath the formality, beyond the roles they both had to play tonight.
What had Kaelen said earlier?‘Form your opinion on her true self.’
The thought landed uncomfortably. Had he always been this guarded? Was there a time when he believed a smile was just a smile, not a prelude to manipulation or guile?
Looking at her, he knew he wasn’t the only one with discomfort. The princess moved with poise, but beneath the grace lay a tension he recognized all too well—a guardedness born of walking a blade’s edge. Each step she took was cautious, as if she were wary of slipping too far into ease, into vulnerability.
And yet, something struck him immediately: the silence between themwasn’tuncomfortable. Neither hastened to fill it. In a room thrumming with murmurs and sidelong glances, their quiet felt like its own kind of accord. There was no simpering, no coquettish smiles or veiled attempts to charm him. Instead, her focus was singular, intent on the dance as if she were determined to master its every movement.
When their eyes finally met, something flickered there—something deeper, layered and difficult to place. He felt other guests’ stares, but he kept his attention on her, studying the elegance with which she navigated the space, each step as effortless as moonlight filtering through the branches.
Their eyes met again during a turn.
“I see Asadian princes excel at more than just wielding weapons,” she said, her voice laced with an amused lilt. “Are all your skills so well-practiced?”
Alarik was no stranger to such comments. Built like a warrior—broad-shouldered and solid—his frame often led others to underestimate him in matters of finesse. As a boy, his instructors had doubtedhim too, muttering he was ‘too heavy-footed’ for anything beyond the battlefield.
But they’d been proven wrong.
His father had ensured his sons were more than their strength. Alphas, he’d said, must command with more than brute force. A leader’s presence should fill a room long before his shadow does.
Still, the way the princess phrased it—as if she imagined him stumbling, perhaps even dragging her down with him—almost made him chuckle. A faint smile betrayed him, and he masked it with a short cough.
“If you think this is well-practiced, just wait until you dance with Kaelen. He turns every step into something worth remembering.”
The princess arched a brow. “Oh?”
Alarik guided her through the fluid turns of the dance. “In Asadia, our dances aren’t just steps and turns. They demand strength and grace—lifts, twirls, movements that mirror our land: sweeping like the dunes, abrupt like the cliffs.”
A wry grin tugged at his lips. “Kaelen enjoys showing off. He’ll seize any excuse to toss someone into the air.”
The faintest smile curved her lips, but her eyes remained distant, as if not entirely present in the exchange.
“Asadia,” she murmured, the syllables soft against the hum of the crowd. The name of his homeland seemed to be the lynchpin tethering her to this dance, this moment between them. Wistfulness flickered across her face, gentling her expression.
“It’s a place I’ve only seen through songs and stories. An ocean and a desert stand between our kingdoms, Prince Alarik, and your father declined the tournament invitation. Why have you come?”
