Eryk
This betrothal is a political necessity. A chain forged of ink and empty promises that I am forced to wear. My father’s kindness was a disease that nearly rotted this pack from the inside out. Rivals saw it not as strength, but as a crack in the foundation. They exploited it, and we nearly bled to death on this very stone.
I will not make the same mistake.
And now they have sent me the living embodiment of that weakness. This Princess Eveline. She is everything I despise. A fragile doll made of glass and whispers, designed to be protected, to be a burden.
I watched her stumble from her carriage. I saw the pathetic, practiced way she nearly fell in the great hall. Her entire being is an apology. A simpering, useless piece on a board I am being forced to play.
I feel nothing for her but a cold, weary obligation.
I am walking toward the east wing when the sound of shattering porcelain echoes down the corridor. A young servant has dropped a tray just as the princess is passing by.
She gasps. A perfect, startled sound. Her hands fly to her mouth in a pantomime of shock.
But for a single, jarring moment, I see something else. Her eyes. They are not wide with fright. They are sharp. Calculating. In that instant of chaos, her body did not recoil. It coiled. A predator’s stillness before the strike.
Then it is gone. Vanished as if it were never there. Her shoulders slump, her eyes fill with a fabricated terror, and she looks like she might faint from the noise. I dismiss it. A trick of the flickering torchlight. A projection of my own paranoia.
But the image sticks in my mind, a splinter under the skin.
Later, Marcellus arrives. He reeks of the southern court, of perfume and deceit. He sweeps into my study, his silver and blue silks an affront to the grim stone and steel of my fortress.
“Alpha Eryk,” he says, his smile as thin as a razor’s edge. “I trust the princess is settling in?”
“She is here,” I reply, my voice flat. We do not offer him a seat.
“Excellent. Then we may finalize the contract.” He unrolls a scroll with a flourish, the parchment covered in the elaborate script of his king.
I read the terms. They are as expected. An exchange of lands for a life. A truce bought with a weak link. I sign my name, the scratch of the quill the only sound in the room.
“It is done,” I say, rolling the scroll back up. “You may take your leave.”
He bows, the picture of diplomacy. “Of course, Alpha. I only wish to have a final word with the princess before the welcome feast. To ensure she understands her duties.”
I nod, a curt dismissal. He slithers from the room. I remain at my desk, but the splinter in my mind begins to ache. I follow, my steps silent on the stone floors. I find them in a small antechamber.
Marcellus has her cornered. Her back is to a cold stone wall.
“You have done adequately so far,” Marcellus says, his voice a low hiss of contempt. “But do not get comfortable. Remember your place.”
“I… I will, my lord,” she stammers, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“The welcome feast is tomorrow night. The entire court will be watching. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and you will not only fail, you will doom the real princess.” He takes a step closer, looming over her. He sneers.
“Do you understand me, street rat?”
The words hang in the air between them. Street rat.
I watch her. I see it again. It is not a trick of the light this time. For a fraction of a second, her jaw tightens into a line of pure granite. Her meek, downcast eyes flash with something that is not fear. It is lethal. It is a promise of violence held back by the thinnest of threads.
Her hand, hidden in the folds of her silken dress, clenches into a fist so tight the knuckles must be white.
Then, the mask slams back into place. The tension drains from her body. Her shoulders hunch. Her eyes become wide, watery pools of fear.
“Yes, my lord,” she whispers, her voice trembling perfectly. “I… I understand. I will not fail.”
Marcellus looks satisfied. He gives a condescending pat to her cheek and sweeps away, leaving her alone, trembling by the wall.
I stay in the shadows, unmoving. The discrepancy is too great. The performance is too perfect. The cowering princess he treats like dirt, and the fighter’s fury I saw in her eyes. The title of royalty, and the insult of a street rat.
It is a lie. The entire thing is a lie.
I do not know what game she is playing. But I will find out.
The welcome feast tomorrow will not be a celebration. It will be a hunt. I will watch her every move. Every breath. Every single, clumsy, calculated stumble.
And I will tear her secret from her.
