A tremor slipped down Selene's spine—subtle, but enough. The memory she had buried beneath layers of duty and quiet strength clawed its way to the surface once more. Her brother's blood, the cold flagstones, Zerek's smile—no, not now.
She steadied herself and spoke gently, her voice low enough to be lost in the noise, yet firm. "It's alright, Soren. Just make sure she doesn't come out here. Remember, Aeris is only a cousin to the Royal family. She must not be seen by these men. Not tonight."
Soren nodded, solemn once more, his youthful face smoothing into the unreadable mask he wore so well. Selene glanced at him, thoughtfully, almost wistfully. What must it feel like to be on the receiving end of that fierce loyalty? That silent tenderness he gave only to Aeris? Selene had never been looked at that way. Not even once.
She shook the thought off like a snowfall from her shoulders. There was no time for wistful imaginings.
"Don't linger," she added softly. "You know how she gets when you disappear too long."
Another nod. No words. And then, like a shadow sliding into the forest, he vanished down the corridor.
Selene lingered a moment longer, watching the space where he'd been. He would be good for Aeris, if their father could ever stomach the thought. No man could match Soren's loyalty—not even Father himself. And yet, that was the problem. Aeris had Soren too tightly wound around her smallest whim, a wisp of a girl leading her silent wolf wherever she pleased.
Selene's mind returned to its usual rhythm—worry threading back in like an old song—until she realized something strange.
Silence.
The music had faded. No drunken shouting. No clatter of goblets. Even the dancers had disappeared.
Tucking her hands gracefully before her, she turned and moved through the hall with poise, but not delay. She reached her seat as a man—broad, dark-bearded, the smell of smoke and wine clinging to his furs—rose with a thud of his tankard.
"Brothers!" he bellowed, his voice thick and gravelled with drink. "We didn't come here just to guzzle wine and leer at fine women, did we?"
A few voices called out, rough and half-drunk. "No, we didn't!"
"Though I won't say the wine ain't a blessing!" he added with a crude chuckle, and that earned a roar of laughter and clinks of delicate goblets treated like mugs.
"Even so," the man went on, turning toward the high table with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, "Alpha King Torren, you've fed us well these past two days. Our bellies are full, our thirst sated, your halls generous with wine… and women. But we did not ride all this way for indulgence alone. We must do what we came for."
A rumble of assent followed. "That's right," several voices echoed, rough with approval, some breaking into cheers.
Selene's father rose then, tall and calm as a winter tree. His presence, though seasoned, still carried the commanding weight of a true Lykan Alpha. He did not rush to speak, letting silence settle first—an old warrior's trick to draw the ears of the room.
"My fellow Lykans," he said, his voice low but resonant, shaped by years of battle and rule, "you are welcome in my home for as long as the moon favors your stay. If the time has come for business, then so be it."
His gaze swept the length of the great hall before pausing at his daughters—each one perfectly composed, perfectly still, masks of calm concealing the storm beneath. Selene felt it first on her, the weight of his eyes, before they passed to Nyra, to Karlene, then to Veyla.
"I have five daughters," he announced, voice steady, "and one of them will wed with your prince—to forge the bond that will bring us peace eternal."
A breathless moment stretched—until a sharp scoff cut through it like flint on stone.
It did not come from the high table. It came from below, from the gathered men, thick with drink and pride.
Thorne, sweet stubborn fool, was already on his feet, jaw tight, his youth flaring like sparks from dry bark. "Who dares mock my father?" he snapped, voice too loud.
A man with a war-cut head—sides shaved clean to the skin, the rest of his hair braided thick and blond down his back—rose like a mountain. He bore the grin of a man amused, not threatened.
"I did," the man said. "What now, little prince? Will you draw steel and fight for your father's pride? Or are you just full of bark?"
His laughter came sharp and careless, a blade dressed in jest. Selene's hands curled tight around the carved wood of her chair, her nails biting into the polished grain.
Please, she thought, don't do something foolish, Thorne. Not tonight.
He had heart. But heart could not win against seasoned hands trained in blood. Not when all Thorne carried were words.
"Sit down, Karl."
The command did not need to rise in pitch. It slid through the din like a cold wind off the fjords—quiet, unhurried, yet it pulled stillness from the air like a predator entering the wood.
Zerek.
His voice was deep, the kind that rooted itself in bone. Selene felt it pass through the hall and land heavy on the skin. The effect was immediate. Karl, despite his bravado, hesitated—then with a low growl, sank back into his seat. Not because he wished to obey. But because he couldn't not.
It was the curse of being near Zerek.
He sat languidly, a woman draped across his lap like she belonged there, his expression unreadable but calm—serene, almost. But Selene knew better. That stillness wasn't peace. It was the stillness of a wolf before the lunge. The air around him warped with Alpha dominance, pressing down on everyone near like an invisible hand forcing heads to bow.
His black eyes lifted, finding the throne. Finding her. The tattoos coiled over his throat and chest, ink that almost seemed alive, moving with each breath, each word.
"Let us skip the formalities," he said, his Skaldur tongue thickening the vowels, sharpening the consonants. "I do not care what you think or do." He gestured carelessly to the others with a flick of his fingers. "This treaty—this game—is the tool of Skaldur's Alpha rite. Nothing more."
Then his gaze cut sharper, like the edge of a forge-honed blade.
"Let us speak," he said, "of the princess I will be taking home."
For a heartbeat, silence hung. Then the room cracked open with noise. Chairs scraped, feet pounded the stone, fists beat the tables in a thunder of barbaric celebration. The hall became a storm of hoarse voices and feral joy, as if war had already been won.