At the time, Kaelen hadn’t thought much of it. An Omega’s Awakening was always a significant affair—especially in a royal household—but such things rarely held his attention. It had sounded like the kind of palace rumour that came and went.
But here, among those who spoke her name with such admiration, he found himself wondering: what kind of a princess was she?
By the time they reached the arena’s entrance, the cheers had swelled, bouncing off stone and sky. A squire stopped them at the gate, gaze sweeping over them with barely concealed skepticism. His attention caught on their plain linen shirts, the leather tunics worn soft from travel, their dirty boots. Kaelen could almost hear the judgement forming behind those tightly-pressed lips.
He rested his hand easily on his hip, fingers idly brushing his scimitar’s hilt. The squire might posture, but he’d insist a tournament wasn’t a pageant for finery. It was a test of grit. He had every intention of leaving his mark, whether or not his boots were polished.
Flashing his most affable smile, he said, “We’re here to enter the tournament.”
The squire wrinkled his nose. “The tournament is for knights and nobles, not travellers looking to play at swords.”
“Who says we aren’t nobles?”
The man’s brow lifted, gaze dragging slowly over their attire before lingering on Kaelen’s boots—the leather warped and crusted white from the seawater that had drenched them during an ill-timed rogue wave on their crossing. He’d laughed with the deckhands, but now, under the squire’s scrutiny, the marks stood out like a brand of unworthiness.
“I’ve seen fishmongers better dressed,” the squire sneered.
Beside him, Alarik tensed and adjusted the bow slung across his back. Kaelen could almostfeelhis brother biting his tongue.
He spread his arms. “Appearances can be deceiving. Surely, you’ve heard that before?”
The squire snorted. “Aye, but there’s deception, and there’s delusion. You need more than charm and tattered boots to fool me.”
Kaelen’s smile sharpened. “You speak true. Knights and nobles bear sigils of their houses to prove their blood. Tell me—” he leaned in just enough to force the squire to retreat a step—“would you like to see mine?”
The man’s face remained stony, but Kaelen caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
“By all means,” came the cool reply, accompanied by a wave to bid them move quickly. “Let’s see this ‘proof.’”
He made a show of tugging at the worn leather gauntlet strapped over his left arm. His movements were unhurried, the soft creak of leather breaking the charged silence. The squire’s confidence held—until Kaelen shoved his sleeve back, exposing the intricate tattoo etched into the inside of his forearm.
The ink shimmered with an iridescent light, a contrast against his sun-kissed skin. The design radiated brilliance, golden rays fanning outward from a glowing centre like a sunburst forged in flame. Each ray curled with precision, wrapping toward his wrist, the ink moving in rainbow colours as though alive.
The man’s smirk faltered, widened gaze fixed on the mark. Kaelen didn’t need to hear the words—the reaction spoke volumes. Only ahandful of these tattoos existed across the Nine Issoirean Kingdoms, only a handful passed the trial and emerged with them. Sons born of the rarest Alpha and Omega pairings, chosen by Solthar, the Sunborn God himself.
Fewer than ten, if his father’s tally was correct.
He tugged the sleeve back down with casual ease, redressing as if the display had been nothing of consequence. The squire still gaped, tongue limp inside his mouth. Kaelen had seen this look enough times, and the reverence that always followed.
Beside him, Alarik remained silent, arms folded across his broad chest. But when the admittance took too long, his brother’s gaze narrowed.
One sharp look was all it took to make the man fumble for words.
“W-Who should I announce?”
“Kaelendrin and Alarik.” His voice remained light, almost conversational. Then, with a wry smile, he added, “Princes of Asadia. We’re not precisely famed for our fashion, but perhaps you’ve heard of us anyway?”
The squire’s further shock twisted his face into something almost comical, though perhaps understandable. They rarely travelled in royal garb, favouring the anonymity of plain clothes—and no retinues either.
Too much fuss, too little freedom.
And freedom was half the fun.
“I . . . I’ll inform one of the royal advisors to grant you entry,” the squire stammered, his previous confidence evaporating under their gaze.
“By all means,” he said, folding his arms as he rested against the nearest stone wall. “We wouldn’t want to cause a stir without the proper courtesies.”
Alarik leaned closer, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve just given him a story he’ll be spinning at the tavern tonight. I doubt he’ll keep this to himself.”
