Chapter 57
ALEXANDER
By the time Alexander finished reporting to the king, the throne room hummed with the promise of a summary justice.
Bertrand knelt before the dais, hands bound.
His spine was straight, his face unreadable, but he no longer wore the mask of the man who had once moved through Blackwood-Veyrde like he owned it.
No smugness. No bravado, only the watchful stillness of a man who understood, at last, that he would no longer be the one asking questions.
Alexander watched from the sideline. The sight of Bertrand on his knees should’ve brought satisfaction. Instead, it pulled taut a wire of old, familiar anger. Here was the man who’d eaten at his father’s table, praised his generosity, and plotted his ruin in the same breath.
His gaze shifted to the dais. He supposed the king felt rather foolish now, seated on the high throne beneath the crystalline vaults of Niewberg’s court, surrounded by his assembled peers.
Ferdinand’s father had once prided himself on seeing through men, yet he had trusted Bertrand with coin, counsel, and control.
And this weasel, ever affable, ever obliging, had smiled as he skimmed from the tribute crystal.
It was a gross double error in judgement. And Alexander could not decide whether the shame stung more as a son, or as a king.
The Great Hall’s doors opened with a groan. A page’s voice rang out, steady and clear: “Princess Adelise. Princess JingYi of Xuên-Sarai.”
Footsteps shuffled. Heads swivelled. Murmurs swelled.
Alexander, too, turned. Framed in the arched entryway, Adelise stood regal in her bearing despite the cut on her temple.
JingYi stood beside her—pale, even more bruised, but unshaken.
This was his wife’s first Tremorian court appearance, but she stood with her chin lifted, as if daring the court to measure her by her blemish.
And gods, how radiant she looked, like someone forged in fire and brimstone.
She began the walk, her limp more pronounced than usual.
The great hall fell silent as she crossed the marble aisle, candlelight catching the silver threads of her gown.
And Alexander, watching her now, was struck by the memory of another walk.
On their wedding day in Parandor, her veiled form had moved toward him, hiding so much behind her silence.
He hadn’t understood her that day. Now, he saw her clearly. Not as a bride forced to the altar, but as a woman who had survived a betrayal, a dungeon, a war waged in the dark, and still chose to walk forward under the eyes of men who’d overlooked her.
Their gazes met, and he suddenly understood. This feeling wasn’t new; his awareness of it was. It was a truth he’d been carrying, circling and circling, finally recognized.
Her.
It had always been her.
And Gods help him, he wanted her—not just for her strength or resilience, but for the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes, the fact she kept walking when so many would’ve fallen and never risen again.
King Ferdinand nodded to welcome the princesses. But before he turned to Bertrand, his gaze settled on JingYi—a long, assessing look that carried the weight of an entire kingdom.
“Princess JingYi.” The king’s voice held a rare warmer beneath its formal edge. “Lord Wulfbane told me what happened during your captivity. You have protected my sister at the risk of your own safety and kept her alive.” He inclined his head. “The crown will not forget such service.”
JingYi curtsied. “Your Majesty honours me.”
Approval flickered in the king’s eyes. Pride so sharp it felt like pain spread through Alexander’s own chest. Now it is time, he thought, for the entire court to see her.
Then Ferdinand turned, and the warmth vanished like the sun behind clouds.
“Bertrand of House Fortier.” The name dropped like a stone into a deep well. “You are accused of embezzlement, obstruction of royal justice, conspiracy against crown and kin, and endangering the lives of not one but two royal-born Omegas.” His voice hardened to iron. “How do you answer?”
Bertrand scrambled forward, and reached out for the king’s feet, only to be pushed back by the royal guards. “I am loyal to Tremore, Your Majesty. I acted only to protect its interests.”
Alexander’s jaw tensed. Even now, the thieving rat thought he could spin it. How regal he looked, even bound, perfect image of a loyal nobleman unjustly accused. A pang tore at his chest. This same man had once watched him scrape his knees in the training yard, taught him how to use the abacus.
“It has been revealed,” the king said, “that you—Bertrand Fortier—arranged the illegal mining and sale of purple limyerite. That you’ve done so for decades, using a forged seal, siphoning coins for yourself. That when your Alpha lord, Teodor Wulfbane, discovered it, you framed him for your crimes.”
The court shifted. Alexander stood frozen.
He had suspected. For years, he had suspected. But Parandor needed new roofs. Yrenna needed a future. And the truth . . . He had been terrified of the truth. Would anyone believe it? Would it change anything? Or would the accusation leave him with less than he started?
So, he had folded any suspicions away and locked it behind his teeth. Survival first. Justice could wait.
Now, the time had finally come.
Bertrand lifted his chin. “I deny all of it. The matter has been investigated and closed for over twenty years. That Alpha was a criminal, and he’s dead. You would take the word of a traitor over mine?”
“Not just his word,” Alexander said, stepping forward. “Mine too.”
Bertrand’s eyes slid to him. Calm. Patronizing. That familiar, poisonous look he’d worn since Teodor’s death.
“You lied about my father and had him executed, made his widow and children wear that shame for two decades. And all the while, it was you.” His voice rang in the stillness. “It was always you. When he confronted you, you fed him to the fire to save yourself.”
Bertrand’s voice turned indulgent. “Lies. All lies! Your father was reckless. He was an Alpha who desired force and riches above reason. He should’ve been stopped long before. If only he didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” Alexander gritted through clenched teeth. “Married the woman you wanted when she wouldn’t have you?”
Bertrand’s composure wavered, a flicker too slow to be missed. “You don’t understand, boy. Your father was a brute. An Alpha drunk on his own rut. He demanded things from your mother no gentlewoman should endure.”
A hush fell over the court. Alexander felt the words ripple through him, a cold hand grabbing his chest.
“She was too refined for him,” Bertrand continued, his eyes beseeching.
“I heard the pain she never voiced. You were too young to understand, but she was always tired. She didn’t want more children.
Did you know she miscarried three times after your sister was born?
She flinched whenever he touched her. That isn’t love. That’s ownership.”
Alexander’s heart thudded hard against his ribs.
A thousand images rushed forward: his mother laughing as she sewed; her hands resting on his father’s arm at supper; the smell of the perfume she loved—attar of roses, which his father could only get during trips to the east. And yet, beneath that: her headaches, her silences.
The mornings when she stayed in bed late.
The way she stared too long at the fire some nights, lips drawn.
“Stop,” Alexander hissed.
But Bertrand pressed on, mouth curling. “I would have treated her with the gentleness and respect a noble Beta deserves, not like a beast marking his territory.”
“Stop.” His voice cracked like a whip.
Something that looked a lot like madness gleamed in Bertrand’s eyes. “You think she chose him? She was a Beta—smart, sweet, loyal—and he used her up!”
Alexander stepped forward and grabbed Bertrand’s collar, lifting him off the ground. “She was my mother. If she ever wanted to leave, she would have. But she stayed.”
“She had to stay. Your father would have killed her.”
“She grieved his passing. For years. She never came out of mourning.”
“Of course she mourned. That is what good Beta wives are trained to do—weep for the hand that cages them.”
“No,” he roared. “She loved him! Maybe it wasn’t always easy, or perfect. But she did!”
Bertrand’s laugh was small and sharp, like glass underfoot.
“Ask the seamstress how often she replaced torn laces. ‘Caught on a hook,’ she always said. Ask the apothecary who sent healing salves to her rooms, always after your father’s Rut.
Ask her maid of the sounds she made when your father visited her bed. ”
Alexander’s vision went red. He wanted to throttle Bertrand, end him here. But before he could, a cool voice cut through the haze.
“Enough.”
The king’s single word was not a shout, but it silenced the hall. He looked from Alexander’s white-knuckled fist to Bertrand’s feverish face.
“Release him, Lord Wulfbane,” Ferdinand said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “The guard will hold him. You will have your answers, but this is not a tavern brawl.”
Alexander’s chest heaved. For a long second, he held on, the urge to shake the truth from Bertrand warring with the king’s command. With a final, contemptuous shove, he let go. Bertrand staggered back into the grip of the guards.
He turned when JingYi spoke, her voice carrying cleanly through the low murmurs—cool and even. “What passes between a husband and wife belongs to them. We see only fragments—a touch, a glance—and from those scraps we stitch our own stories.”
Bertrand turned toward her, the mask slipping, jaw working.
“But a woman’s smile is not an invitation. Her silence is not consent. Her courtesy is not a plea for help.” She let the hush hold then continued, steady as a blade, “You may have watched Lady Wulfbane, Lord Fortier, but you did not know her.”