Chapter 4
Chapter Four
ALARIK
T he grand ballroom’s windows framed the cliffs of Nymaris, where sky and ocean blended together in deepening blues. Fires blazed at the Temple of Luneth farther down the slope, offerings of food and flowers set aflame in gratitude to the Moonfire Goddess.
Across from it, Solthar’s temple stood cold and unlit, the Sunborn God waiting for his tribute. No flames would burn until the princess chose a husband, though the offerings were already stacked on its terrace, ready to blaze at tomorrow’s announcement.
The magnificent view did little to ease Alarik’s concerns.
What should’ve been a brief stop after a diplomatic visit to Tremore had unravelled into something extensive.
One event bled into the next, and now they were the victors of a tournament he’d never cared to win. A tournament their father had declined.
Kaelen, of course, had embraced this detour as easily as he always did, sweeping through like wind on the edge of a storm. But for Alarik, competitions like these only stirred memories best left buried, and victory brought no satisfaction.
He’d considered skipping the ball, but a public slight against the Aethonian king wasn’t a risk worth taking. So he let himself be pulled along, as always, yielding to the path of least resistance.
He turned around to watch the scene behind him. The ballroom hummed with laughter, music, and the clink of goblets, yet the princess was nowhere to be seen.
Kaelen joined him, a flame to his coolness, dressed in evening finery and turning heads with every step.
A midnight blue silk jacket, embroidered with golden sunbursts and serpents, the emblem of Asadia’s ruling house, clung to his brother like a second skin—regal, effortless, a stark contrast to the travel-stained clothes they’d shed earlier.
His own attire was similar, only ruby-red and silver.
“The princess should arrive soon,” Kaelen murmured, his gaze lingering on the entrance.
Alarik caught the edge of anticipation in his brother’s voice. Kaelen didn’t fixate—not like this. He was usually all charm and careless glances, never giving anyone more attention than necessary.
That he was now watching the doors with something closer to hunger than curiosity told Alarik everything he needed to know: the princess had already left her mark—and Kaelen, without hesitation, was willing to follow where instinct would lead.
“Patience. The evening will unfold as it needs to,” he said, keeping his tone and gaze level.
He glanced toward the marble archways beyond the ballroom. These gatherings always followed the same rhythm—bright gowns, lingering stares, hollow conversations about alliances and heirs. The princess would arrive soon, no doubt in a carefully timed flourish, as tradition dictated.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Princess Reiyana appeared at the threshold, haloed by the last slivers of daylight.
A collective inhale swept through the hall, the previous levity dissolving into an awed hush.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate—camaraderie giving way to rivalry, the air thickening with unspoken challenges as Alpha instincts flared to life.
Alarik suppressed a smirk, resisting the urge to drag a hand down his face.
Corralling a cluster of dominant males around a single unclaimed Omega felt reckless, even audacious.
But it was the king’s will—a father granting his daughter the right to choose among the finest Alphas in the nine kingdoms.
As she passed, her scent stirred around him—honey and jasmine, laced with a whisper of musk.
Subtle, yet insidious. A quiet lure woven into the air, nudging at something primal.
He wasn’t the only one who noticed; the more seasoned Alphas in the room, the ones more sensitive to an Omega’s scent, shifted, reacting on instinct before remembering their place.
She had her Awakening late—twenty years old, if the whispers were true. It was certainly rare. Fleetingly, he wondered if she’d endured her first Heat yet, or if that was something her future Alpha would lay claim to.
Not that it was any of his concern.
He watched her move, untouched by the ripples she stirred.
Her focus remained fixed ahead, as if afraid to glance anywhere but the royal table where her family awaited.
A thick golden braid, intricately woven with pearls and ribbons, swayed along her back with each measured step.
Her gown was sapphire satin, a choice no doubt intended to echo the depths of her gaze.
The neckline might’ve erred on the side of decorum, but the sculpted cut couldn’t obscure her ripe allure—the elegant curve of her waist and the subtle promise of rounded hips, meant to captivate any Alpha’s gaze.
“What do you think about the princess?” Kaelen asked, too casually to be offhand.
Alarik picked up a goblet from a passing servant. “We don’t know anything about her.”
“True, but I prefer to think that works in her favour, not against it.”
He took a sip. “She is beautiful.”
“Undeniably so.”
“But beauty deceives.”
Kaelen’s gaze flicked to him, one brow lifting. “Does it always?”
Alarik’s eyes narrowed. There it was again. The certainty in his brother’s voice struck him as unusual. Kaelen embraced life with easy confidence, but he wasn’t prone to hasty conclusions, at least not about things that mattered—like an Omega bride .
“ You seem sure about her.” Alarik kept his tone neutral, taking another sip.
Kaelen looked at the princess once more over the rim of his cup, a quiet hope lurking beneath the usual glint of mischief. “No, but I’m open to the possibility she might be the one for us.”
Alarik’s eyes drifted to where the princess sat.
For us.
A flicker of something passed through him. A recognition, an unspoken understanding that, yes, she could be the one.
Yet, the familiar edge of wariness rose alongside it, one he couldn’t shake.
He looked away, exhaling slowly. “You think I’m being too cautious.”
“You’ve earned the right to be cautious,” Kaelen replied, his tone light but not glib. “Still, it doesn’t matter what I think. Her character is something you must discover for yourself.”
The musicians began tuning their instruments, filling the room with the first notes of a lively tune, a sign dancing was about to commence.
Kaelen’s words cut through the din. “Dance with her. Know her beyond the surface. Form your opinion on her true self, not looks, assumptions, or instincts. You won’t learn who she is by standing here, brooding.”
Alarik frowned, hesitant. “Must I?”
“Yes.” His brother’s expression remained serious, though amusement twinkled in those eyes. “Go.”
He glanced at the colourful crowd, the room a froth of excitement and competition, though no one approached the princess yet. From their seats at the head table, the king and queen’s eyes flickered toward him and Kaelen, anticipation clear in every sidelong glance.
He knew the evening wouldn’t officially begin until one of them stepped forward to claim the first dance with the princess—their privilege as champions. It was clear Kaelen had already decided he wouldn’t be the one to act first.
No, that honour was placed on Alarik’s lap.
Frustration stirred, a familiar pressure pushing against his ribs. Years of navigating expectations and disappointments had taught him to bury it deep, but contests always dragged it back to the surface—an old ache he’d never quite learned to silence.
He placed his goblet down, the cool metal lingering against his fingers before he released it, then wove through the throng.
Conversations faded beneath his heart’s rhythm.
Lantern’s glow softened the sharp edges of the room, their warm light casting fleeting shadows on polished stone and silk.
The closer he drew to the royal table, the denser the air seemed to become, charged with the quiet weight of watching eyes.
Their attention prodded him, but he kept his focus fixed on the princess.
When he finally stood before her, the grand feasting table felt less like a barrier and more like a line he shouldn’t cross.
But it was too late for second thoughts.
Alarik bowed, his voice dipping into the smooth cadence of diplomacy. “May I have the honour of this dance, Princess Reiyana?”
For a beat, she stared at him, her expression unreadable—until the sharp edge of it cut through. A shift in the air, a flicker of something cold.
Realization dawned: she wasn’t pleased by his invitation. If anything, her silence felt pointed, as though the mere sight of him unsettled her.
The queen, seated beside her, softly nudged her with an elbow.
“Prince Alarik,” the princess said at last, her voice low and smoky. A beat of silence stretched between them before she inclined her head.
Then, with a smile precise as a blade—polished to perfection but hollow of warmth—she continued, “To refuse would dishonour the victor and insult the illustrious display of Alpha prowess. Of course, I accept.”
Her words were a dance of their own, graceful but laced with a subtle bite.
She’d made it clear: she accepted out of duty, not desire.
Alarik inclined his head. He couldn’t take any offence, having asked her because this was tradition and nothing more.
They stepped onto the floor together, their movements tentative—less a celebration and more a careful negotiation. Alarik was acutely aware of his size, of how delicate her hand felt in his. Walking beside him, the top of her head barely brushed his chin.