Chapter 3
ALEXANDER
The air in Limyere Palace’s great hall was thick with spiced wine and sweating wax and dozens of cloying perfumes.
It sat heavy in the lungs. As Alexander walked its length, the court’s stares felt like physical pressure.
Appraising, always appraising. He’d endured it for years now, and though it had gotten easier, he didn’t like it any better.
How he despised this game. Give him a sword, a patch of open ground, an opponent with steel in hand—not this cavernous hall where the weapons were smiles and whispers, the wounds invisible.
Darion Merrow walked beside him. Grim-faced, broad-shouldered, with shoulder-length hair the colour of soot, he was built for war.
He belonged on a battlefield, not among silk-clad courtiers and jewelled nobles, despite his valour during their latest war with Velbrun.
His presence alone was enough to make the more delicate members of the court shrink back, their instinct for self-preservation overriding their curiosity.
An added advantage, Alexander thought, a dark chuckle threading through his chest.
“See?” Darion muttered low enough for only Alexander to hear. “No rotten vegetables flying your way. A warm welcome.”
He almost snorted. How amusing it was, that even with the king’s summons, he still felt like a trespasser. The same whispers he’d heard for years buzzed around him.
Wulfbane, the traitor’s son.
Showing his face at court . . . Has he no shame?
He locked his jaw, the tension solidifying his focus, and drove himself forward. His world narrowed to the dais ahead, a fixed point in the swirling scrutiny. King Ferdinand sat there, a crowned silhouette. On his left, a flash of familiar auburn—his younger sister, Princess Adelise.
Alexander took the final step to the respectful distance and bowed. He kept the motion honed and faultless, a soldier’s reflex polished into a courtier’s tool, giving away nothing of the man within.
“My king.” Then he bowed to Princess Adelise. “Princess.”
His sovereign’s gaze swept over him, those grey eyes keen but, as usual, unreadable. He was a young man, only two years Alexander’s senior, but his authority was a cold, settled thing.
“Rise, Wulfbane.”
He straightened—spine tall, hands clasped at his back. The air in the hall thinned as the king announced, “Emperor HāiYán of X?en-Sarai has sent his answer. He has consented to the union between you and his Omega daughter, the Princess X?en JingYi.”
A current, sharp and alert, shot through Alexander’s veins. Two crowns. Two kingdoms had declared him fit as a husband to an Omega princess. The weight of the decree shifted in his chest, iron transmuting into purpose. A chance. Finally, a clear path to prove his worth, to build something lasting.
Around him, the court’s silence shattered into a cascade of whispers—shock, envy, scorn—a swarm of noise he willed himself to ignore. He pressed his fist to his chest and bowed.
“Your Majesty honours me. I accept this charge, and the alliance it forges.”
“Felicitations, Lord Wulfbane,” Princess Adelise’s voice rang out, bright and warm against the disdain-filled hall. “I hope you and Princess JingYi will be happy together. Do bring her to court often, once she settles in her new home.”
Her sincerity caught him off guard. He bowed again, lower. “You honour us, Your Highness.”
Ferdinand began to clap. The sound echoed off the marble, and only then did the rest of the court follow.
A smattering of palms, slow and obligatory, frigid as winter rain.
Alexander knew better than to expect more.
House Wulfbane had yet to claw its way back into favour.
And this match—however royal—wasn’t enough to erase the past.
He had a long road ahead of him.
A silver-bearded man in red and black, Tremore’s colours, stepped forward.
Alexander recognized him as the leader of the diplomatic envoy to X?en-Sarai, sent to broker the marriage alliance.
In his hands rested a black lacquered box.
The imperial seal of the southern kingdom—a salamander surrounded by flames—gleamed beside Tremore’s royal crest.
Alexander stood straighter.
The envoy said, “Accept this as a token from the emperor. Inside, you will find a painting of his daughter, the Princess X?en JingYi.”
Murmurs rippled through the court, but Alexander kept his face impassive.
X?en-Sarai was a kingdom of locked gates, its royal daughter kept away from prying eyes.
Unlike princesses of other noble houses, she didn’t visit foreign courts, didn’t even have her name spoken in public.
But he’d heard the whispers: A fabled Omega princess who had captured the fascination of merchants and diplomats alike, a woman whose beauty made courtiers silent, with grace taught from the cradle.
A woman who could captivate a room with one look, fit for a crown.
And she was to become . . . his wife.
The concept was so vast it felt abstract.
He accepted the proffered box, the wood smooth and cool under his fingers.
An instinctual ache to lift the lid, to see the face that matched the legend, tightened his grip.
He forced his hand to relax. The court’s eyes were on him, hungry and waiting, but he wouldn’t give them the first look.
He pressed the box close to his chest and looked up at the envoy leader. “Was the princess pleased with the match?”
The man’s arched brow told him the question was absurd, but the thought refused to disappear. He could accept duty, politics, and the will of kings, but he wouldn’t accept being foisted upon a woman who didn’t want him.
“The princess’s feelings are a jewel guarded within the inner court, my lord,” the envoy replied.
“It is not their custom to parade such treasures for public discussion. However, the Imperial Geomancers have endorsed the match. Princess JingYi was born in the Year of the Raven, and you in the Year of the Wolf. The four-year age difference between you is said to be a sign of harmony. A most auspicious pairing.”
Auspicious.
The match had been blessed by the stars, by the careful weaving of political necessity and divine foresight.
His shoulders finally relaxed.
It lasted only seconds, because King Ferdinand rose and motioned him to follow. “Walk with me.”
As he moved, Darion caught his eyes, something knowing flickering in that dark gaze. A reminder that the true discussion, the only one that mattered, might just be beginning.
They went to an antechamber where heavy tapestries muffled the world outside. There were tables and chairs, but Ferdinand didn’t sit.
“You understand this marriage’s importance, don’t you?” Ferdinand said, turning his head enough to look at him.
Alexander inclined his head.
“This alliance has been years in the making. Our kingdoms stand at opposite ends of Issoirea—Tremore in the north, X?en-Sarai in the south. There were attempts before but never have we come so close to a true bond.”
The king clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze turning inward. “When ShunLi served in this court as a youth, we would dream of bridging our kingdoms. That bridge is finally being built. One day, he will be emperor, and when that day comes, we must be the first kingdom he turns to.”
Alexander remembered ShunLi back then—not yet a revered crown prince but a serious, observant youth in their halls. That long-ago familiarity was the fragile root of this entire alliance, and its purpose was clear: Tremore’s forests and limyerite made them strong in war, but not in bread.
Grain had always come from beyond their borders, yet trade was never certain.
Terms changed, treaties rose and fell with every political tide.
Now, Tremore stood at the edge of something new: a marriage alliance to the emperor’s daughter.
A chance to shape the future of Issoirea’s only empire- and Tremore’s by securing long-term access to grain.
If he carried out his role well, Tremore would no longer depend on fickle trade routes.
The king added, “In two months, the princess will arrive in Niewberg. Be ready.”
Alexander straightened. “I will be.”
Ferdinand’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Good.” He studied Alexander for a long moment. “The limyerite we’ve delivered is a heavy price, but the return on investment is beyond value.”
He paused, letting that weight hang. “For you, the result will also be tangible. Succeed in this, and the attainder of your family’s name will be lifted. This marriage is your path to redemption.”
Alexander’s blood thrummed in his ears. Restoration—not only of wealth, but honour. This was the chance to finally secure the legacy.
He pressed a fist to his chest and bowed. “I will serve Tremore with all that I have, Your Majesty.”
King Ferdinand nodded. Humour flickered in his expression when he saw the box in Alexander’s hand. “I shall leave you alone, for you must be eager to lay eyes on your bride’s likeness.”
Alexander did not deny the observation. As the door closed behind the king, his hand gripped the box. Honour for a bride. A name for duty. It was a transaction he could finally understand.
He placed the box on the table. For a moment, he simply looked at it, this plain container holding a life-altering truth. Then, with a steadying breath, he lifted the lid.
Inside, on a bed of dark velvet, lay a scroll. The heavy parchment was bound with a cord of gold silk and sealed with a disk of jade green wax. The seal cracked with a soft, definitive sound, and he unrolled it.
His eyes devoured the scroll’s content. Her name, written both in her language and his.
Her official portrait, rendered in fine ink, stared back at him.
It was one thing to hear a title, and another to see the face and eyes of the woman who would be his.
The reality of it—sudden, intimate, and irrevocable—punched through him.
She was . . . beautiful.
The artist had rendered her with exquisite skill, sitting on a stool with her right side presented to the viewer, her left veiled in shadow.
His pulse quickened. His eyes traced the lines of her face—the high cheekbones, the serene curve of her full lips.
Her skin held the luminous paleness of untouched snow; her eyes, the deep darkness of still water.
Her jade and gold robes draped her with an unassuming elegance.
Not mere clothing, but an extension of a grace that seemed inherent.
Alexander expelled a sharp breath and shook his head, a soldier’s instinct to dislodge a distraction and refocus on the objective.
Painters were paid to flatter, to romanticize the subject and provide good impressions at a first glance. He should know better than to trust a portrait.
And yet.
Perfection stared back at him. Not just any woman, but a vision—grace, poise, and impeccable breeding all in one package. Everything his House needed.
His chest tightened with a sudden, terrifying hope. Long forgotten, it returned with the force of a battering ram.
Could she truly be this flawless?
For a suspended moment, against all defence, he let himself believe it.