She touched the wing-shaped pendant. Earlier, just before she stepped onto the dais, her mother’s sharp eyes had landed on the crystal. A flicker of disapproval crossed her features—a slight pursing of lips so swift and subtle no one else would’ve noticed.
Thankfully, the queen hadn’t pressed the issue.A small mercy, though she suspected it had more to do with preserving appearances than yielding to her defiance.
The start of the archery event drew her eyes back to the tournament ground. The first arrow sliced through the air, a fleeting streak against the wide, cloudless sky. When it struck the wooden target’s dead centre, shouts and applause followed, erupting over the arena.
Lord Finn Callahan of Neovallan lowered his bow with a flourish, a grin stretching across his face. His gaze found Reiya, sliding over her as if she were already his.
A prickle of discomfort ran down her spine. She knew that look—Alpha possessiveness, pure entitlement.
Her stomach churned. What a boor. Before her Awakening, he’d barely glanced her way whenever they crossed paths at court. Now, his pursuit was relentless, as were his letters, gifts, and requests for private audiences.
The change was transparent—and revolting.
“Lord Callahan is in fine form today,” Lord Murro, one of her father’s advisors, declared. “The finest archer in all nine kingdoms. A fitting Alpha for our Omega princess.”
Agreement rippled through the courtiers seated together beneath the vast white canopy. Only she sat stiff-backed, fingers curling into the silken folds of her dress. Aethonia’s trade routes were invaluable, and Neovallan’s naval forces could safeguard them. Together, they could dominate the sea.
On paper, it was perfect.
As the chess piece, she resented it.
Her father’s voice drew her back. “Do you agree, daughter?” The question was light, but the hope beneath it was not. “Would it please you if Lord Callahan won the tournament?”
Reiya met his gaze. The naked expectation, the quiet plea beneath his calm exterior, struck her. Her father wanted this—for her, for Aethonia.
In a world where Alphas signified strength, a small kingdom with only one in its royal line risked being seen as weak—an easy target for annexation by a more powerful nation.
Her union with an Alpha was meant to correct that, bolster Aethonia’s standing through marriage.
Guilt twisted inside. She wished she could want this too, summon the same conviction her father held. Instead, all she felt waspressure.
Yet, how could she deny him when he looked at her like this, as though she was the answer to everything?
She forced an exhale and replied carefully, “I won’t deny Lord Callahan’s skill. But I wish for a husband with more to offer than archery.”
Murro leaned forward. “A match with Neovallan would be most advantageous, Princess. Think of the resources we could secure.”
As if she could ever forget the true purpose of this charade.
“I understand, my lord. But I’ve yet to see archery or trade routes win over a heart, or secure a future.”
A hush followed. Murro’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressed thin before he forced a polite smile. “May I humbly remind the princess that the heart is secondary to the kingdom’s needs?”
Reiya held his gaze, her voice smooth but edged with steel. “Then I wonder if a ruler who dismisses the heart might find themselves ruling over an empty throne. Loyalty, after all, is built on more than just strategy and alliances.”
Murmurs of approval stirred through the courtiers. Her gaze flicked to the advisor, catching the flicker of unease in his expression.
Good. Let him squirm.
The archery event continued. Reiya looked on but barely watched, until the herald announced a name sparking murmurs among the spectators: Lord Alexander Wulfbane of Tremore.
Her gaze snapped toward the arena entrance. The name was familiar, whispered in hushed tones among courtiers—a nobleman tied to scandal and redemption, a disgraced house’s heir slowly clawing his way back to power.
When Lord Wulfbane stepped into the arena, the crowd stilled. Towering and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had nothing to prove, yet everything at stake. His pale blonde hair, tied back loosely, gleamed under the sun, and his ice-blue eyes—cold, unreadable—focused nowhere but on the targets.
He was strikingly masculine without the need for embellishment—no gleaming armour, no unnecessary flair, just raw presence. Unlike Callahan, who thrived on spectacle, Wulfbane didn’t perform to the audience. He simply drew, loosed, and struck true—again and again, as if it were nothing more than routine.
It wasn’t difficult to picture him in the pine forests of Tremore, bow in hand, stalking a stag through the morning mist. Not shooting for sport or spectacle, but survival—felling the beast with a single shot, hauling it back to his fief, dividing the catch among the village families to endure Tremore’s brutal winters.
