Chapter 3
Chapter Three
REIYANA
T he day’s warmth curled against Reiya’s skin, heavy with the salt of the sea. Aethonia’s summer was always glorious, but today, the heat was oppressive.
The thick scent of Alphas hung in the air, heady and suffocating. Power and dominance tangled with something primal, tugging at her senses, pulling her deeper into the tournament’s preparations despite her resistance.
Her eyes swept over the crowd, slipping past the contenders filing into the arena. She searched for the one face that’d soothe her, but Castiel wasn’t among the spectators.
A knot tightened in her chest. Had his duties at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs kept him away? Or worse—had he chosen to not attend, unwilling to witness the pompous Alphas competing for her hand?
She touched the wing-shaped pendant. Earlier, just before she stepped onto the dais, her mother’s sharp eyes had landed on the crystal. A flicker of disapproval crossed her features—a slight pursing of lips so swift and subtle no one else would’ve noticed.
Thankfully, the queen hadn’t pressed the issue. A small mercy, though she suspected it had more to do with preserving appearances than yielding to her defiance.
The start of the archery event drew her eyes back to the tournament ground. The first arrow sliced through the air, a fleeting streak against the wide, cloudless sky. When it struck the wooden target’s dead centre, shouts and applause followed, erupting over the arena.
Lord Finn Callahan of Neovallan lowered his bow with a flourish, a grin stretching across his face. His gaze found Reiya, sliding over her as if she were already his.
A prickle of discomfort ran down her spine. She knew that look—Alpha possessiveness, pure entitlement.
Her stomach churned. What a boor. Before her Awakening, he’d barely glanced her way whenever they crossed paths at court. Now, his pursuit was relentless, as were his letters, gifts, and requests for private audiences.
The change was transparent—and revolting.
“Lord Callahan is in fine form today,” Lord Murro, one of her father’s advisors, declared. “The finest archer in all nine kingdoms. A fitting Alpha for our Omega princess.”
Agreement rippled through the courtiers seated together beneath the vast white canopy. Only she sat stiff-backed, fingers curling into the silken folds of her dress. Aethonia’s trade routes were invaluable, and Neovallan’s naval forces could safeguard them. Together, they could dominate the sea.
On paper, it was perfect.
As the chess piece, she resented it.
Her father’s voice drew her back. “Do you agree, daughter?” The question was light, but the hope beneath it was not. “Would it please you if Lord Callahan won the tournament?”
Reiya met his gaze. The naked expectation, the quiet plea beneath his calm exterior, struck her. Her father wanted this—for her, for Aethonia.
In a world where Alphas signified strength, a small kingdom with only one in its royal line risked being seen as weak—an easy target for annexation by a more powerful nation .
Her union with an Alpha was meant to correct that, bolster Aethonia’s standing through marriage.
Guilt twisted inside. She wished she could want this too, summon the same conviction her father held. Instead, all she felt was pressure .
Yet, how could she deny him when he looked at her like this, as though she was the answer to everything?
She forced an exhale and replied carefully, “I won’t deny Lord Callahan’s skill. But I wish for a husband with more to offer than archery.”
Murro leaned forward. “A match with Neovallan would be most advantageous, Princess. Think of the resources we could secure.”
As if she could ever forget the true purpose of this charade.
“I understand, my lord. But I’ve yet to see archery or trade routes win over a heart, or secure a future.”
A hush followed. Murro’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressed thin before he forced a polite smile. “May I humbly remind the princess that the heart is secondary to the kingdom’s needs?”
Reiya held his gaze, her voice smooth but edged with steel. “Then I wonder if a ruler who dismisses the heart might find themselves ruling over an empty throne. Loyalty, after all, is built on more than just strategy and alliances.”
Murmurs of approval stirred through the courtiers. Her gaze flicked to the advisor, catching the flicker of unease in his expression.
Good. Let him squirm.
The archery event continued. Reiya looked on but barely watched, until the herald announced a name sparking murmurs among the spectators: Lord Alexander Wulfbane of Tremore.
Her gaze snapped toward the arena entrance. The name was familiar, whispered in hushed tones among courtiers—a nobleman tied to scandal and redemption, a disgraced house’s heir slowly clawing his way back to power.
When Lord Wulfbane stepped into the arena, the crowd stilled.
Towering and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had nothing to prove, yet everything at stake.
His pale blonde hair, tied back loosely, gleamed under the sun, and his ice-blue eyes—cold, unreadable—focused nowhere but on the targets.
He was strikingly masculine without the need for embellishment— no gleaming armour, no unnecessary flair, just raw presence.
Unlike Callahan, who thrived on spectacle, Wulfbane didn’t perform to the audience.
He simply drew, loosed, and struck true—again and again, as if it were nothing more than routine.
It wasn’t difficult to picture him in the pine forests of Tremore, bow in hand, stalking a stag through the morning mist. Not shooting for sport or spectacle, but survival—felling the beast with a single shot, hauling it back to his fief, dividing the catch among the village families to endure Tremore’s brutal winters.
A wistful sigh drifted to her ears, followed by a chorus of feminine giggles from the ladies seated behind her. Lord Wulfbane, it seemed, had caught their attention—and she couldn’t quite blame them.
“The Wolf of Tremore certainly knows his way around bows and arrows,” her father commented, drawing appreciative chuckles from the nobles.
Murro was quick to respond. “It is generous of Your Majesty to invite him to partake in this noble gathering.”
“Come now, Murro. Rumours are like the wind—impossible to grasp and often misleading. Until we know the truth, it’s only fair to judge a man by his actions, not whispers in the dark.”
Her father’s words drew nods of approval. Murro’s mouth tightened briefly before he bowed his head in acquiescence. Her father’s generosity, as always, was difficult to argue against.
Before the match could finish, a messenger hurried into the arena, his boots kicking up dust as he approached Lord Wulfbane. The sealed letter in his hand bore the royal crest of Tremore, its dark red wax catching the sunlight.
Reiya’s pulse ticked faster as Wulfbane read the letter, his expression tightening. Something shifted in his stance—a carefully restrained urgency. He turned to the herald, speaking briefly before making his way toward the royal dais.
Bowing stiffly, he addressed her parents with calm precision. “Your Majesties, my king has urgent need of me. I must withdraw from the tournament.”
The courtiers broke out in whispers, but her father nodded solemnly .
“Of course, Lord Wulfbane. Duty must always come first.”
The queen’s voice was gentler. “We hope you’re able to join us for the feast tonight. Let us send you off with a full belly, at least.”
Lord Wulfbane inclined his head. “If time allows, Your Majesty.”
When his gaze landed on Reiya, she tensed. His piercing blue eyes passed over her—not with Callahan’s arrogance or an Alpha’s possessiveness, but with something cooler, assessing. It was not admiration—it was strategy .
He strode out of the arena without a backward glance, leaving behind only murmurs and speculation.
Murro leaned toward her. “Despite Lord Wulfbane’s reputation, a match with Tremore could be highly advantageous, Princess. Their mines are obnoxiously rich with limyerite. With Tremore’s wealth, Aethonia’s position would be elevated far beyond its current standing.”
Reiya stiffened at the mention of limyerite, her fingers curling in her lap.
The rare crystal was the pride of the nine kingdoms—coveted for adornments, weapons, even healing.
She’d heard in X?en-Sarai, it was honed into slender needles and used to pierce the hidden rivers of the body, pulling illness and misfortune into the stone itself.
Tremore’s reserves were legendary, its crystals larger and purer than those found elsewhere. To Murro, or any politician, a union with Tremore wasn’t just advantageous—it was a direct tether to the lifeblood of power in Issoirea.
She resisted the urge to press a hand to her temple.
The alliance between the nine kingdoms was supposed to be for mutual peace and prosperity, but in truth, it was tenuous, bound by centuries of shifting power.
Though each kingdom governed itself independently, their fates were entwined by pacts, rivalries, and the ever-present struggle for dominance over land, wealth, and influence.
As though sensing her hesitation, Murro pressed on. “With Tremore’s limyerite under our banners, we could be one of the wealthiest among the kingdoms. A union of prosperity, Princess—a decision for the ages.”
Her jaw tightened, pulse quickening as expectations bore down once more. Neovallan’s naval fleets. Tremore’s limyerite. Treaties, alliances—her future reduced to resources, strategies, calculations .
Did anyone care about the woman beneath the title? Did anyone care she didn’t want to be traded like a gemstone, no matter how rare?
“Lord Wulfbane’s departure was abrupt.” She shifted the conversation, hoping to end Murro’s pressure. “I wonder what could have drawn him away so suddenly.”