Chapter 4
ALEXANDER
The road to Parandor Castle in Blackwood-Veyrde wound through a valley ablaze with autumn’s fire.
Trees lined the paths, their leaves a riot of crimson and gold.
The stream running parallel to the road caught the late-afternoon light, glinting silver between the reeds.
Its gentle murmur mingled with the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves.
Alexander inhaled the crisp, woodsmoke-tinged air.
In his youth, he’d spent years away—first travelling around the Nine Kingdoms to participate in tourneys, then on battlefields, then at court—but Parandor had always been home.
Now, as his ancestral keep’s silhouette rose into view, framed by the rolling expanse of Blackwood-Veyrde’s forests, he felt that truth settle into his bones.
The castle stood on a hill, its towers reaching skyward, dark stone walls carved by centuries of wind and rain.
It was not a place built for comfort, but endurance.
Designed to withstand sieges, shelter warriors, and outlast kings.
Yet, even from afar, its age was impossible to miss.
The once-proud ramparts bore creeping moss, their edges softened by the elements.
The black banners of House Wulfbane, once flying high and proud, now hung limp and sun-bleached, their wolf crest barely visible.
The sight never failed to prick his chest.
During his father’s reign, the castle had been filled with men training for defence, with retainers bustling to prepare for winter, with a sense of purpose running deeper than mere duty.
Now, there were fewer men. The garrison had dwindled.
The keep, though still standing strong, carried the ghost of its former self.
Yet, beneath the decay, it was still Parandor.
The land was still rich; the nearby streams still ran clear.
This time of year, it was bloated with fish swimming upstream to lay eggs.
The forests were full of game, and the bones of the castle—its walls, its foundation, its history—remained steadfast.
It could be restored.
It would be restored.
Darion reined in beside him, exhaling as he surveyed the castle. “Might be a pile of old stones,” he muttered, “but it’s home, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
They rode forward in silence until Darion spoke again, “You haven’t said a thing about the woman.”
Alexander remained silent.
“I get wanting your House’s honour back.
Wulfbane was a name that used to make men stand straight.
” Darion’s voice dropped to a gruff rasp.
“But sniffing after the court’s favour? Those perfumed jackals would sell their own grandmothers for a gilded bone.
Your soldiers, your farmers—the ones with dirt and steel in their hands—they know what you’re made of.
Why bother spitting polish on that pile of fools? ”
Darion had never placed much stock in lineage, in the weight of history binding men like chains. Why should he? Born beyond Tremore’s borders, in one of the war-riddled northern kingdoms outside Issoirea, he’d fought for coin and survival, never for bloodline.
They met when they fought together against Velbrun. Darion, a mercenary, had been among those sent to bolster the Tremorian defence. Alexander had been the commander of that garrison. Somewhere in the chaos, the tide had turned. When the dust settled, Darion had chosen to remain.
He never spoke much about why. Perhaps he’d seen something in Alexander worth following.
Or he’d simply grown tired of fighting for men who never looked twice at the lives they spent.
Either way, he had followed. Over time, through wars and hardship, their bond had strengthened—thicker than the water in the womb, truer than fealty.
But Darion had never cared for names carved into stones or the ghosts of ancestors demanding restitution. Alexander was different.
He needed to prove failure didn’t mean a death sentence.
That a name once disgraced could rise again.
That the past need not define the future.
“It’s not just my honour at stake,” Alexander said. “House Wulfbane is more than me. More than my father’s treachery.” His younger sister’s face came to mind. “The king has given me a chance to restore what was lost. I will not squander it.”
Darion rubbed a hand down his face. “Even at the cost of your freedom?”
“Political marriage is a tradition older than monarchy. My circumstances are hardly unique.”
His companion was silent for a long moment before he sighed. “What does she look like?”
Alexander hesitated. “Pleasant.”
Darion snorted. “Not a hag, then?”
No, far from it, if ink and brushstrokes could be believed. Even now, the pull to unfurl the scroll and meet her painted gaze once more was strong. But that indulgence would have to wait, reserved for when he was alone in his study.
They continued toward the castle, the road winding past the village of Lornhelm nestled in the valley below Parandor.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, the scent of peat and autumn wood mixing with the crisp evening air.
A few villagers who’d known him since boyhood paused to bow and wave, some calling his name in familiar voices.
But, like Parandor, Lornhelm was a mere skeleton of what it’d once been. Over the years, whole families departed—driven away by uncertainty, by the taint of his father’s disgrace, by the steady decline of his House. Those who remained did so out of stubbornness or faith.
Alexander steered Duskwane across the stone bridge arching over the moat, the ironclad portcullis looming ahead. The men shouted to lift the gate. His fingers gradually loosened around his reins.
Home. He was home.
They guided their horses into the outer courtyard where a stable hand rushed to take the mounts. Servants moved briskly between tasks. His people watched him as he passed, their gazes respectful, though curious. Whispers followed, speculations no doubt already spreading among them.
They knew why he’d gone to Niewberg. His return meant only one thing: his future had been decided.
A flash of movement caught his eye. From the direction of the training ground, Conrad dashed toward them, his usual quick-footed energy barely contained. Dirt streaked his shirtsleeves and breeches, likely from tripping over mud during sparring.
“My lord.” The boy’s grin was easy, brown eyes darting toward Darion, as if trying to silently glean the result of their journey. “You’ve returned early.”
Alexander barely slowed his stride. “The marriage proposal has been accepted.” He made sure his voice carried through the courtyard, landing on every soldier, steward, and stable hand within hearing distance.
A joyful whoop rippled through the small crowd. Conrad’s shoulders drooped, jaw slack. “You mean . . . an Omega princess—a real one—agreed to marry you?”
Alexander cast him a pointed look. “Why do you seem so surprised, pup?”
Conrad reddened, soiled hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, if you remember what happened last time . . .”
Alexander’s jaw clenched. This past summer, he had sailed for Aethonia to compete for the hand of their Omega princess—only to be recalled by his king mid-tournament.
A different alliance, a colder bargain. Word since was Princess Reiyana had wed his distant cousin, Prince Kaelendrin of Asadia, and Alarik—Kaelen’s half-brother—as well.
No regret tugged at Alexander. That match was theirs. This one was his.
Before Conrad answered, another figure emerged.
Tedric, sword still in hand, sauntered over.
Medium height and slender, with auburn waves tumbling over his brow, he looked more a courtier than a soldier.
A Beta, yes, but no one should underestimate his swordsmanship, the confidence of a man who’d bested most of Parandor’s Alpha soldiers.
“You should’ve seen it,” Tedric called out. “I had the runt flat on his back three times before the bell rang.”
He reached Conrad in two long strides and mussed the boy’s mop of chestnut hair, streaked with gold from hours spent training under the sun. “I’d say that’s progress.”
Conrad ducked away, scowling. “Just you watch, Tedric Deymar. One of these days, you’ll be the one kissing the ground.”
“You have the pride of a rooster,” Tedric countered smoothly, his grin widening. “But there’s hope, runt. Even roosters learn, eventually.”
The exchange drew laughter from the nearby men, though Alexander saw the stiff set of Conrad’s shoulders as he fell back a pace. The boy tolerated Darion’s scolding, sometimes even sought it, but Tedric’s jesting rubbed him raw.
Still, Tedric had proven his worth chasing down Alexander’s own sister after her horse bolted wild on the forest road a few months ago.
A wanderer from beyond the Nine Kingdoms, he’d accepted shelter and a position without hesitation.
In Parandor, where hands were always scarce, he’d become indispensable.
Alexander’s gaze swept the yard. Most of his men had been born under Blackwood-Veyrde’s pines, but his ranks held others from distant coasts and plains, a patchwork of unified loyalties. Now, they were simply his men. He knew their worth and would bleed for any one of them.
He shifted his attention to Conrad, who was watching him with that teasing light no amount of scowling could dim. A quick-witted boy of fifteen, not yet Awakened as an Alpha but overflowing with confidence, nonetheless. Far too carefree for a world that would one day demand much from him.
But Alexander couldn’t fault the boy for it. He’d once been the same—young and reckless, believing himself untouchable until death and disgrace carved the boy from his bones, leaving only the man.
“An Imperial Omega,” Conrad pressed, grinning, “all the way from X?en-Sarai. That’s something.”
Tedric bent into a courtly bow. “It certainly is. Felicitations, my lord.”