Chapter 13
ALEXANDER
The great hall hadn’t held a feast in years, but tonight, beeswax tapers climbed the walls, honey-sweet and clean.
The new chimney drew well, pushing the draft from the cracks.
He breathed roast and thyme, garlic and fat.
Benches scraped. Cups knocked. Someone laughed—unguarded, from the belly—and the sound filled the ribs of the hall.
It wasn’t grandeur, but better: living voices, warm light.
The keep sounded like itself again, and the knot between his shoulders loosened.
At the head of the table, Alexander’s gaze strayed to the woman seated at his right.
Princess JingYi wore indigo silk layered over pale blue, a silver-threaded veil concealing all but the faintest impression of her face.
Candlelight caught on phoenix feathers stitched into the gauze, and for a heartbeat he thought he glimpsed the curve of her cheek, a flush just beneath.
She looked nothing like the wives or daughters of Tremorian nobility, yet she outshone them all—a radiance that made his chest cinch if he looked too long.
Lord and Lady Reave were the guests of honour tonight, having travelled to Parandor to break bread with them and attend tomorrow’s wedding. Lady Reave’s eyes glistened in the firelight as she placed a hand over her chest.
“My Conrad owes his life to your princess, Alexander,” she said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “To be struck down in the forest by a poisoned blade—goddess above. Thank Luneth that Princess JingYi was there.”
“Your son had strength in him. He did most of the work,” the princess said softly.
Lord Krystoff Reave gave a low, appreciative chuckle.
“Strength, aye, Conrad has that in spades, but stubbornness alone won’t draw poison from the blood.
What you did was no small thing, Highness.
You gave him a fighting chance.” The lord reached for his wife’s hand and squeezed. “We owe you a life debt.”
“There’s no debt between us,” the princess replied. “Conrad was in pain. I had the means to ease it. It was that simple.”
Alexander studied her—graceful, but never one to claim the centre of a room. Praise, he noted again, seemed to sit awkwardly on her shoulders, like a gown not tailored to her measurements.
Flanking their parents were Conrad’s elder brothers—the identical twins, Bastian and Bellamy, with their father’s brown hair and square jaws.
Three of the Reave’s four sons were Awakened Alphas, a divine favour that secured alliances and drew wary respect.
The eldest brother and heir, Aurell, stationed at Tremore’s eastern frontier under the King’s military council, was notably absent.
But in his place, the twins projected a relaxed, almost playful confidence.
They were polite, for the most part. Yet Alexander marked how their eyes lingered on his bride, and an unfamiliar, grating irritation burned low in his gut.
Bellamy raised his goblet in a measured salute, a rather charming smile on his lips. “Your Highness, we’ve heard the stories. Soldiers tend to embellish, of course, but after seeing our brother’s condition, those stories don’t do your skill justice.”
JingYi inclined her head and didn’t speak, though the veil stirred as if an exhale passed beneath it.
Bastian grinned, mischief flashing in his eyes. “Careful, Bell. Complimenting a woman that way might earn you a bruised jaw from her husband.”
Alexander forced a smile. “I trust your jaw would hold, Bellamy, but the bruise won’t gain you any admirer at the wedding tomorrow.”
A beat of silence passed. Then, Lord Reave gave a short laugh, clapping a hand on the table. “Solthar be praised, it’s good to hear a Wulfbane with some spirit again.”
Bellamy winked at him and dipped his head. “No offense meant, my lord. Your bride commands the room. One can’t help but notice.”
Alexander gave a clipped reply, “She commands far more than that.”
His hand curled slightly around the base of his wine goblet.
Harmless. Bellamy and Bastian were harmless boys.
Still, he’d prefer they kept their compliments, and their eyes, to themselves.
Especially Bastian, who couldn’t stop staring at his betrothed as if she were a riddle he wished to study at length.
Krystoff’s eyes met Alexander’s, and the older man’s expression softened. There was no mistaking the approval in his crinkled gaze.
“How enchanting she is, my boy,” he murmured, leaning in. “The king has bestowed a rare treasure upon you.”
His hand clasped Alexander’s shoulder in a familiar, fatherly gesture.
The praise was a blow to the sternum. For a disorienting second, the hall’s noise faded, and he was nine years old again, breathless and bloody after felling his first stag, seeing that same approving crinkle at the corner of Krystoff’s eyes.
It had been a long time since a father figure had looked at him with anything resembling pride.
He had learned to build his life from the bones of ruin and accepted, long ago, that his efforts might not amount to anything.
But now, here, with Krystoff’s steady gaze and his radiant bride at his side, the well-worn ache finally eased.
Krystoff’s mirth cooled to worry. “Still . . . Omega traffickers? In our border woods? It’s been a while since we’ve had to deal with those vermin.”
Lady Reave’s mouth thinned. “They came for the princess, didn’t they?”
Alexander nodded. “We think so. It was an organized attack. We couldn’t capture anyone alive to question.”
As servants cleared plates, he kept his eyes on Krystoff. “Have your stewards reported any woman missing from the villages?”
“No. Why?”
Alexander flicked a glance to Lady Reave, wondering if the change of topic would be too morbid. “We pulled an unknown woman’s body from Draemir Lake. I’ve sent word to the magistrate.”
Silence settled. Lady Reave’s fingers whitened on her goblet. “Do you think it’s connected to the attack on the princess?”
“Two strikes this close? Doesn’t seem like a coincidence.” With a breath, he eased his tone. “But. . . it’s enough shadows for one night. Forgive me for darkening the table.”
It was Yrenna, ever the peace-weaver, who eventually cleared her throat and shifted the conversation. “It’s almost harvest season,” she said lightly. “Let us hope the goddess gifts us a calmer autumn than this summer.”
The mood brightened again as conversations turned toward the nearing equinox.
“It means the harvest ceremony is approaching,” Yrenna said, leaning toward the princess with the easy eagerness of someone sharing a beloved tradition. “I hope the weather holds. It’s always more festive under a clear sky.”
The princess tilted her head. “What is Blackwood-Veyrde’s custom for celebrating the harvest?”
His sister grinned. “It’s one of the few occasions where everyone in Blackwood-Veyrde gathers. There’s music, a feast, a climb up the high hill, and a bit of good-natured mayhem between the menfolk. You’ll see. It’s rather spirited.”
Yrenna sipped from her goblet, then added with fond amusement, “Traditionally, Lady Wulfbane leads the blessing. I’ve done it every year since Mother’s passing, but I think it’s time I pass on the honour.”
“To me?” The princess’s voice had gone hoarse.
“Well, you will be the Lady of the Keep,” Yrenna said cheerfully. “But don’t worry. There’s not much to memorize. And it’s all over before the stew cools.”
Alexander cast his bride a sidelong glance. He caught the way her spine stiffened just slightly, how her fingers went still in her lap like someone bracing for a blow.
He knew that tension. Knew what it meant to measure oneself against expectation. Was she wondering if the climb would be too much, or if the people would look at her and see what she lacked instead of what she could offer?
There was still time. Her leg would mend. She’d learn the rites. The tradition wasn’t complicated.
Without a word, he laid his hand over hers, hoping she’d find it reassuring.
“You’ll manage just fine,” he said under his breath.
Her fingers didn’t curl into his, but they didn’t pull away, either.
The doors to the great hall opened. At once, the murmur of conversation faded to a hush.
Bertrand Fortier entered with that same practiced poise he’d always worn—measured strides and tailored smile.
A manservant followed behind him. Alexander’s jaw clamped shut, the taste of his wine turning sour.
Every instinct fired, the same as when a scout reported an unseen archer in the tree line.
It took a conscious effort to keep his expression neutral.
Bertrand bowed to him, then to JingYi.
“Your Royal Highness. Bertrand Fortier, at your service. When I heard of your arrival, I could not resist coming to welcome you myself.” He straightened and looked at Alexander. “I hope I am not intruding?”
Alexander set down his goblet and gritted his teeth before answering, “We are at supper. But since you are here, you might as well sit.”
Bertrand’s smile didn’t falter. He inclined his head, accepting the seat offered at the far side of the table.
“You are gracious, my lord.” His gaze drifted, briefly but noticeably, to the veiled figure at Alexander’s right.
“I only regret that I did not arrive sooner to greet Her Highness properly.”
Alexander felt the pull of his instincts tighten. The Alpha in him wanted to step between them, to shield her from that calculating gaze. But he held his ground, his expression impassive.
His bride bowed her head politely. “You honour me with your welcome, Lord Fortier.”
Smooth as ever, Bertrand placed a hand over his chest. “The honour is mine. To make amends for my tardiness, allow me to present a small token of regard.”
He snapped his finger and his manservant stepped forward, presenting a lacquered box, the motion slow, deliberate—designed for every eye at the table to follow. The wood gleamed, inlaid with gilt lines that caught the candlelight like a boast.
“Inside you will find our finest limyerite crystal, cut and polished by our most skilled craftsmen,” Bertrand said. “May it bring light to your new home.”
The words were courteous, but Alexander heard the pointed edge beneath them. He watched JingYi’s shoulders stiffen beneath the silk. When she answered, her voice was cool—cooler than he’d ever heard it.
“Your generosity humbles me, Lord Fortier. But I am new to this land. Such a gift should not be mine alone. Blackwood-Veyrde is Lord Wulfbane’s domain. I would see it first in his hands.”
It took everything he had not to applaud. In Tremore, a jewel was private—close as a hand to a wrist—and Bertrand knew. But his bride was not fooled. Instead, she had slid Fortier’s snare neatly to his side, turning a private trap into a public offering for the domain.
His pride burned bright, but he didn’t reach for her. He wouldn’t turn her clean deflection into a spectacle. Fortier was angling for one of three things: a debt, a slight, or a stumble. He’d leave with none.
Alexander inclined his head. “Your courtesy is noted, Lord Fortier. We accept it on behalf of Blackwood-Veyrde.” He turned to a steward. “Receipt the stone to the ledger and earmark it as funding for the healer’s cottage.”
A small stir ran the length of the table. He let the murmur settle, then leaned a fraction toward JingYi. “If that suits you, Princess.”
Her fingers uncurled. “It does, my lord,” she said softly. “It’s a good beginning.”
He sat back and relished Bertrand’s forced laughter.
“A healer’s cottage? Have you finally managed to find a physician willing to relocate to Lornhelm?”
Alexander sipped his wine. “No need. Princess JingYi is the best healer we can hope for. Conrad of Reave lives because of her timely intervention.”
Bertrand’s brows lifted. “Goodness gracious! Truly, fortune favours you, my lord. Not every bride comes so well-trained.” He trained his eyes on the princess.
“Only . . . such duties are demanding. Would you have time to dabble as a healer when your days will be filled with other important matters?”
Alexander saw JingYi’s knuckles whiten around her goblet. “Isn’t healing people important?”
“Well, yes, but not your main priority as a newlywed Omega bride, surely?”
“You might be unfamiliar with the concept that healing is a form of leadership, then, Lord Fortier?” Krystoff asked, his tone cool. “Tending to the suffering of one’s subjects is governance, too.”
Bertrand chuckled easily. “True, true. But the princess is quite . . . special, isn’t she?
An Omega. Such menial work is perhaps best left to others.
” He sipped his wine before continuing. “After all, her highest duty is clear: to see this land blessed with strong heirs. Imagine, Lord Wulfbane. If your bride here gives birth to a Sunborn or a Moonfire, wouldn’t that be a great gift to His Majesty the King?
House Wulfbane’s troubles, and its past, will be scrubbed clean, won’t they? ”
A cold, killing rage settled in his veins. The insult was a masterstroke—reducing her to a broodmare, dismissing the healer who had saved his ward and turned her, along with their future offspring, into transactional gifts.
But a lord did not brawl at his own table. A warrior could choose his battlefield. He forced the fury down, letting it crystallize into something lethal.
When he spoke, his voice was a cold, sharp blade laid upon the hall’s silence. “Our strength will not come from heirs alone, but from healing what has long been neglected. My bride’s talents are not a diversion, Bertrand. They are the foundation on which we will build again.”
Bertrand’s smile thinned by a hair. “A noble venture. Though forgive me, Princess, village folk can be cautious. Foreign ways may unsettle them.”
Alexander cut cleanly across him. “They’ll trust the one who stood with them when it mattered.”
Krystoff gave a firm nod. “Too many lost for lack of one healer. If Her Highness leads the effort, others will follow.”
“Then we await its success.” Bertrand inclined his head, recovering smoothly. “To new beginnings.”
Goblets lifted around the table. Alexander didn’t join them. Instead, he leaned subtly toward JingYi, his voice pitched low. “Bertrand doesn’t know the people of Blackwood-Veyrde. They may be cautious at first, but they will welcome you.”
Her gaze lowered, fingers steadying on the rim of her goblet. “I will do all I can not to disappoint them.”
Recognition settled in him, solid as a sword finding its sheath.
She belonged here.