Chapter 32
Logan
The guard’s uniform chafes against my skin, the fabric rough and too tight across my shoulders.
I resist the urge to adjust it as we approach the palace gates, Maya between us, her hands bound loosely in front of her with restraints we have no intention of fully securing.
Ares walks on her other side, his massive frame barely contained by the stolen uniform, the fabric straining across his chest with each breath.
“Steady,” I murmur, my voice low enough that only they can hear. “Remember, we’re just doing our job. Nothing special. Nothing worth noticing.”
Maya gives an almost imperceptible nod, her posture perfect—the very image of Omega submission. Her head is bowed just enough to appear defeated without looking broken, her steps measured and graceful despite the circumstances.
My heart pounds against my ribs as we draw closer to the palace gates.
Home. The place I grew up, the halls I ran through as a child, the rooms where I learned to be a prince, an Alpha, a leader.
Now I approach as an imposter, a traitor, a thief in the night coming to steal back what my father has taken.
The outer checkpoint looms ahead—a fortified gatehouse with armed guards visible in the watchtowers. Standard procedure would have them verify our identity, check our credentials, confirm our prisoner transfer orders. All things we don’t have.
“Follow my lead,” I say, straightening my spine and adopting the arrogant bearing of palace security. “Don’t speak unless spoken to.”
“I know how to play prisoner,” Maya replies, her voice carrying just the right note of subdued bitterness. “I’ve had practice.”
The barb lands, as intended. I deserve it. But now isn’t the time to dwell on past mistakes. Now is the time to focus, to become someone else entirely—not Prince Logan Corellian, but Guardian Tanner, a nobody tasked with delivering a valuable prisoner to the king.
We stop at the checkpoint, the barrier lowered across the road in front of us. A guard approaches, his expression bored beneath the standard-issue balaclava that covers most of his face. I’m grateful for that small mercy—the facial coverings common to the guardians will help conceal our identities.
“State your business,” he demands, not bothering with formalities.
I step forward, pulling out the identification card I took from one of the guards. “Prisoner transfer from the eastern checkpoint,” I say, my voice gruff and impersonal. “The fugitive Maya Tantamount, captured attempting to return to the city.”
The guard’s eyes widen slightly as he looks at Maya, recognition dawning. “Prince Logan’s Omega? The one who escaped?”
“The very same,” I confirm, allowing a hint of smugness to color my tone. “Found her wandering the eastern road, dressed like she was heading to a royal ball. Surrendered without a fight.”
The guard studies Maya with undisguised interest, his gaze lingering on her in a way that makes my jaw clench. I force myself to remain impassive, to not react as he circles her, examining our prize like a piece of meat at market.
“Doesn’t look like much,” he comments, stopping in front of her. “Pretty enough, I suppose, but hardly worth all the fuss.”
Maya keeps her eyes downcast, but I can sense the fury radiating from her, carefully controlled beneath her submissive posture. If we survive this night, I’ll make sure this guard regrets his words.
“The king wants her,” Ares says, his deep voice rumbling with authority. “That’s all that matters.”
“Our commander ordered us to transfer directly into the king’s custody,” I tell him. “Can’t risk her going astray again.”
The guard hesitates a moment longer, then hands back the papers. “Alright. Proceed to the main gate.”
The barrier rises, and I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. First hurdle cleared. But the main gate will be more difficult—more guards, more scrutiny, more chances for our disguise to fail.
We move forward, the palace growing larger with each step. Even after years away fighting in the Outlands, even after my recent exile, the sight of it still stirs something in my blood. The ancestral home of the Corellian line, a monument to power and permanence. My birthright. My prison.
“You’re tense,” Maya murmurs, her lips barely moving. “They’ll notice.”
She’s right. I force my shoulders to relax, my stride to become more casual. Just another guardian doing his job. Nothing special. Nothing worth noticing.
The main gate approaches, its massive iron doors flanked by a dozen guards in royal livery. Unlike the outer checkpoint, these men are elite—handpicked for loyalty, trained to spot deception. If anyone will see through our disguise, it will be them.
“Remember to stay focused,” I say quietly. “I’ll get you through this.”
Maya’s eyes meet mine briefly, a flash of understanding passing between us. For all our differences, for all the hurt and anger that still simmers between us, we are united in this purpose. In this moment, we are truly allies, fighting for something larger than ourselves.
The captain of the gate guard steps forward as we approach, his hand resting casually on his weapon. “Halt,” he commands. “State your business.”
I repeat our cover story, presenting the forged documents with practiced confidence. The captain examines them more thoroughly than the checkpoint guard, his eyes narrowing as he reads.
“Maya Tantamount,” he says, looking up at her with increased interest. “The prince’s runaway. Interesting timing, her return.”
“Sir?” I keep my voice neutral, though alarm bells ring in my head.
“The king is hosting a revel tonight,” the captain explains. “High-ranking Alphas from all the provinces are in attendance. Your prisoner will make quite the spectacle.” He smiles, the expression lacking any warmth. “The king will be pleased.”
A revel. Of course. The timing couldn’t be worse—the palace filled with nobles, security heightened, all eyes on the throne room where we’ll need to present Maya. The odds of being recognized just increased exponentially.
“We were instructed to bring her directly to the king,” I say, maintaining my role. “Sergeant Keller was most insistent.”
The captain signals to the gate guards, who begin the process of opening the massive doors.
“You’ll be escorted to the throne room,” he says.
“The revel is in full swing, so be prepared to wait until the king acknowledges you. I’m sure a hefty reward will come your way for being the lucky bastards that brought her in. ”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, inclining my head in deference to his rank, glad he can’t see my bared teeth. “We appreciate your understanding.”
As the gates swing open, revealing the grand courtyard beyond, I feel Maya tense beside me. This is it—the point of no return. Once we step through those gates, there’s no turning back. We either succeed in our mission or die trying.
“Ready?” I murmur, the question meant for both my companions.
“Born ready,” Ares replies, his voice a low rumble.
Maya says nothing, but she straightens her spine, lifts her chin slightly. The gesture is subtle, but I recognize it for what it is—determination, resolve, a silent declaration that she will not be broken by what comes next.
We move forward as one, crossing the threshold into the palace grounds. Two guards fall into step behind us, our escort to the throne room. I keep my gaze forward, my posture relaxed but alert, the perfect picture of a guardian doing his duty.
The courtyard is familiar yet strange, like a place visited in dreams. The same elegant fountains, the same meticulously maintained gardens, the same marble statues of Corellian ancestors watching our progress with blind stone eyes.
But the atmosphere has changed—tenser, darker, the air itself seeming to vibrate with suppressed violence.
Or perhaps it’s always been this way, and I simply never noticed until I returned as an enemy rather than a son.
We enter the palace through the grand entrance, the soaring ceilings and polished floors exactly as I remember.
Servants scurry about, preparing for the revel, carrying trays of food and drink toward the throne room.
None spare us more than a glance—guardians with prisoners are a common enough sight in these halls.
Our escort leads us through a series of corridors, taking a route I know well—the most direct path to the throne room from the main entrance.
As we walk, I catalog escape routes, note the positions of guards, identify potential weapons.
Old habits, ingrained through years of military training and paranoia.
“The revel sounds lively,” Ares comments as the distant sound of music and laughter grows louder.
One of our escorts snorts. “The king’s been in a generous mood lately. Promising new Omegas to any Alpha who pledges loyalty. The nobility are falling over themselves to curry favor.”
New Omegas. The fertility clinics. My stomach turns at the implication, at the casual way the guard mentions what amounts to slavery and forced breeding. This is what we’re fighting against: not just my father’s tyranny, but the entire system that treats Omegas as commodities to be traded.
Maya’s step falters slightly, the only indication that she’s heard and understood. I resist the urge to reach for her, to offer comfort or reassurance. We’re still playing our roles, still guardians and prisoner, not allies or pack.
We approach the overly large doors of the throne room, the sounds of revelry now clear and distinct—music from the royal orchestra, laughter, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of dozens of conversations overlapping.
Two guards stand at attention outside, their posture perfect, their expressions blank beneath their balaclavas.
“Prisoner for the king,” our escort announces. “The fugitive Maya Tantamount, captured attempting to return to the city.”