Soren
My friends and I are already tipsy from all the wine and food we have indulged in.
As I am about to take another sip from my cup, I hear a familiar, commanding voice that never fails to make my pulse quicken.
"Hello, ladies," Tarian calls, striding towards us.
I turn to see him, my heart doing that familiar skip. He has traded his formal golden knight uniform for more comfortable attire: a cream-colored shirt that clings enough to hint at the muscle beneath, loose black trousers, and a dark cloak.
"Love," he says, his words dropping to that tender cadence he keeps only for me.
Before I can even set down my wine cup, he sweeps me into his strong arms with an ease that still amazes me. As he kisses me, I draw a deep breath, catching the rich, woodsy scent of his alpha pheromones mixed with leather and something that is his alone.
The girls around us giggle and make exaggerated swooning sounds, but their teasing feels distant, muffled.
All I can focus on is Tarian—the warmth radiating from his broad chest, the protective strength in his arms, and the way he makes me feel treasured and safe, even when my own doubts about our future threaten to overwhelm me.
When he finally sets me down, I am breathless, my cheeks flushed with more than wine. Tarian studies me with those piercing ocean-blue eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul. "I missed you," he murmurs, his thumb brushing along my jawline.
"I missed you, too," I reply, surprised by how true it is. We have only been apart since morning, but his presence fills some hollow space I had not realized was aching.
"Alright, alright, enough with the pheromone show, you two. You're making us all dizzy over here," Brioni jokes, fanning herself dramatically.
Even as a beta, she can detect the scent markers, though they do not affect her the way they do alphas and omegas. "Some of us are trying to maintain our coolness."
Tarian chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I wish you could escape to the annex palace tonight," he murmurs low, his breath warm against my ear and sending delicious shivers down my spine.
"You know I can't. It's tradition," I say, though part of me wants nothing more than to forget royal protocols. "After tomorrow, we'll have all the time in the world."
Tarian takes my hand with surprising gentleness for someone so powerful, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles that makes my breath catch.
"I noticed additional knights and guards around the palace this morning when I arrived. More than usual for wedding preparations. Is there something Papa didn't mention to me?" I ask.
Something flickers across Tarian's expression, so quick I almost miss it. "Arvelon arrived today. The Queen, Prince Kael, and his retinue."
"Oh, that's… earlier than expected. Lyra, umm, she just got a message that they were on their way."
Lyra, who has been nursing her wine in silence and observing our interaction, all at once goes rigid. Her cup trembles in her hands, and I catch the intense, distressed spike of her alpha pheromones cutting through the garden's floral perfume. She averts her gaze fast, but not before I see genuine fear flash across her features.
Tarian's reaction to her distress is immediate and telling. His jaw tightens, and his hand finds the pommel of his sword. But there is something else there, a wariness that makes my chest constrict with unease.
"Don't worry," I say, though the words feel hollow even to me. "I can defend myself and protect everyone here if needed. Papa made sure of that."
The girls exchange glances before breaking into gentle laughter. Despite my smaller stature—I barely reach Tarian's shoulder—Papa has indeed trained me well in both sword and strategy.
He has held onto hope that someday, even without the goddess's blessing, I might have a child who will receive Solaris's favor. The knowledge of divine weapons can pass through bloodlines, as Papa has learned from his own father.
Tarian's expression softens as he looks at me, some of that tension easing. "I know you can, love. You're stronger than you realize." He leans down to kiss me again, longer this time, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my heart ache. When he pulls back, his forehead rests for a moment against mine. "I need to go. There are… preparations to oversee. Be ready for tomorrow."
"Of course. The girls will stay with me tonight for the traditional vigil."
"Good." He straightens, that formal mask sliding back into place as he addresses my friends. "Then I'll take my leave. Milady Brioni, Milady Rialla." He bows to them with courtly precision.
As he turns to go, Lyra all at once stands, her movement abrupt and jerky. "Tarian, wait. I'll walk you out. I need to speak with Mother about… arrangements."
My brow furrows with concern. "You're not staying with us tonight? It's tradition—the bride's family should be present for the vigil."
"I'm sorry, brother," she says, and there is something brittle in her smile as she gives me a quick, almost desperate hug. "There are… things I need to discuss. About tomorrow's ceremonies."
As she moves to follow Tarian, I see the way her hands tremble, how she keeps glancing toward the palace as if expecting something terrible to emerge from its shadows.
It is understandable, I suppose. Learning that your future husband has arrived early, knowing you will have to face him tomorrow, would shake anyone, especially when that future husband comes from a kingdom steeped in fear and dark legends.
Still, watching them walk away together leaves me with an odd, unsettled feeling. Like something important just slipped through my fingers, and I don't know what it is yet.
"Well, that was intense," Rialla murmurs, though her usual cheerfulness seems forced.
I am about to respond when a young servant, clearly nervous about interrupting noble conversation, approaches to clear our abandoned dishes.
His hands shake as he stacks the plates, and the inevitable happens—cups and saucers go clattering to the stone pathway with a crash that makes us all jump.
The poor boy is overcome with terror, his face draining of color as he stares at the broken porcelain. "Oh gods, I'm so sorry, Your Majesty, Miladies, I—"
"It's quite alright," I hasten to say, but notice how Rialla has gone very still, her amber eyes fixed on the servant with an intensity that seems disproportionate to the minor accident.
"Are you hurt?" Rialla asks the boy, her usual warm tone strained. "No cuts from the fragments?"
"N-no, Milady, I'm fine, just clumsy," he stammers, dropping to his knees to gather the broken pieces.
There is something in Rialla's expression I cannot quite decipher. When she realizes I am watching her, she forces a smile that does not reach her eyes.
"We're all a bit tipsy tonight," she tells the servant. "Too much celebration wine. Please don't worry about it."
I sit back down as the boy finishes cleaning.
"Thank you, Milady, Your Majesty," he says with a hurried bow before scurrying away.