Chapter 2 #2
“By all means,” came the cool reply, accompanied by a wave to bid them move quickly. “Let’s see this ‘proof.’”
He made a show of tugging at the worn leather gauntlet strapped over his left arm.
His movements were unhurried, the soft creak of leather breaking the charged silence.
The squire’s confidence held—until Kaelen shoved his sleeve back, exposing the intricate tattoo etched into the inside of his forearm.
The ink shimmered with an iridescent light, a contrast against his sun-kissed skin.
The design radiated brilliance, golden rays fanning outward from a glowing centre like a sunburst forged in flame.
Each ray curled with precision, wrapping toward his wrist, the ink moving in rainbow colours as though alive.
The man’s smirk faltered, widened gaze fixed on the mark.
Kaelen didn’t need to hear the words—the reaction spoke volumes.
Only a handful of these tattoos existed across the Nine Issoirean Kingdoms, only a handful passed the trial and emerged with them.
Sons born of the rarest Alpha and Omega pairings, chosen by Solthar, the Sunborn God himself.
Fewer than ten, if his father’s tally was correct.
He tugged the sleeve back down with casual ease, redressing as if the display had been nothing of consequence. The squire still gaped, tongue limp inside his mouth. Kaelen had seen this look enough times, and the reverence that always followed.
Beside him, Alarik remained silent, arms folded across his broad chest. But when the admittance took too long, his brother’s gaze narrowed.
One sharp look was all it took to make the man fumble for words.
“W-Who should I announce?”
“Kaelendrin and Alarik.” His voice remained light, almost conversational. Then, with a wry smile, he added, “Princes of Asadia. We’re not precisely famed for our fashion, but perhaps you’ve heard of us anyway?”
The squire’s further shock twisted his face into something almost comical, though perhaps understandable. They rarely travelled in royal garb, favouring the anonymity of plain clothes—and no retinues either.
Too much fuss, too little freedom.
And freedom was half the fun.
“I . . . I’ll inform one of the royal advisors to grant you entry,” the squire stammered, his previous confidence evaporating under their gaze.
“By all means,” he said, folding his arms as he rested against the nearest stone wall. “We wouldn’t want to cause a stir without the proper courtesies.”
Alarik leaned closer, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve just given him a story he’ll be spinning at the tavern tonight. I doubt he’ll keep this to himself.”
Kaelen chuckled. “Good. I like to think I’ve brightened someone’s night. Nothing wrong with a tale or two to keep the drinks flowing.” He cast a sly glance at his brother and winked. “If I can’t win hearts with deeds alone, I may as well leave them guessing with a bit of mystery.”
Alarik snorted, shaking his head. “Flashing that tattoo isn’t precisely subtle. If mystery is the goal, you’ve made it a little harder for yourself.”
It wasn’t long before the squire returned with a court official who gave them a seal of approval and let them pass.
With his arm around Alarik’s shoulder, Kaelen crossed the threshold into the sunlit tournament grounds.
He lifted his gaze to the sky, where the Aethonian sun greeted them with an intensity rivalling Asadia’s relentless blaze.
But here, the ocean’s kiss cooled his skin with every breeze, each gust laced with the briny promise of the sea.
They’d made it just in time for the first event of the day to begin—archery.
The arena stretched before him, bathed in the sun, long shadows pooling beneath the stands where spectators gathered in raucous anticipation.
The scent of freshly trampled grass mingled with the musk of horses and sun-warmed iron.
Overhead, banners snapped and fluttered—noble houses flaunting their colours like plumage in the midday light.
His gaze swept over the crowd: Mostly Betas blending into the background, with the occasional Alphas standing apart, shoulders squared and postures taut, as if the arena itself demanded they prove their worth.
It was a look he recognized all too well—the hunger to stand out, to be seen, the need ingrained in his kind.
He let the spectators fade, his attention sliding toward the archery range ahead, where sleek bows stood in neat rows, polished and waiting.
Unlike Alarik, he didn’t have his own bow; a scimitar being his weapon of choice. His hand was just brushing the grip of one, wrapped in deep indigo leather, when his focus was snagged elsewhere.
He followed his instinct, turning around, his gaze catching on a figure atop the dais.
She wasn’t the most elaborately dressed among the courtiers, nor did she posture like those accustomed to admiration.
Yet, something about her stillness hooked him.
She held herself apart—not with the practiced indifference of nobles who wielded aloofness like a blade, but as if she were observing the world from a distance, untouched by it.
Her gaze swept over the crowd, cool and detached, passing over him without a second glance.
A breeze stirred the air, carrying the faintest trace of jasmine and warm honey. Subtle, yet unmistakable. His body tensed.
Omega.
His fingers flexed against the bow, eyes narrowing as the realization settled.
She was Princess Reiyana.
His eyes traced the shape of her—the pale blue gown whispering with each shift of the wind, the coronet of golden braids gleaming beneath the sun, the wing-shaped crystal resting at her throat. She was poised, refined, untouchable. Yet, it wasn’t the finery that made him look twice.
It was her restraint.
She didn’t preen like other Omega nobles he’d known, or revel in the spectacle held solely for her. If anything, she seemed to shrink within herself, as though she wanted to disappear, be anywhere but here.
Before he could place why that unsettled him, the herald’s voice cut through the arena, summoning contenders to the archery line.
One last glance toward the dais found her eyes lowered to her lap, as if he never existed. Still, the moment lingered, threading itself into his thoughts like a half-finished melody.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he turned away, the faintest trace of a smile curving his lips.
He hadn’t expected much from the event—just entertainment, a passing diversion.
And yet, something about her stayed with him, quiet and unshakable, like a note still waiting to be played. A tale still unfolding.
And hadn’t he always loved a good tale?