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Chapter Text

The air pulsed with cold tension, thick with unfamiliar pheromones as the enemy drew closer. Konrad, known as the Wolf King, stood tall at the edge of his territory, flanked by his most trusted soldiers. He waited with unwavering resolve for the one everyone feared. The one no one wished to meet. The one who had terrorized neighboring lands for years. The one driven by bloodlust and conquest. The one they called an Enigma.

Konrad flared his nostrils. A strange scent hit him, a scent of fire, of heat, something superior, something that belonged neither to an Alpha nor to an Omega.

So it’s him, Konrad thought, eyes locked on the figure leading the enemy army.

Ravok. The one who broke nature’s laws by existing as an Enigma. The Alpha of Alphas. The apex predator.

Ravok’s mercenaries advanced slowly, deliberately, exuding calm confidence. Some of them smirked and walked with casual arrogance. In contrast, unease had begun to slither through the Wolf King’s ranks. Even the most seasoned warriors shifted their weight and gripped their weapons tighter.

Konrad stared hard at Ravok, jaw tight, brow drawn. His heart pounded painfully against his ribs. His hackles rose under the grip of a primal warning. He swallowed, the taste of metal on his tongue. A cold shiver ran down his spine — a bad omen.

Something's wrong, his wolf growled inside him. This is beyond us. He’s not like anything we’ve ever known.

Konrad ignored it, barely managing not to flinch when Ravok and his army came to a sudden halt, just ten meters away. The man facing him wore a calm expression, but his eyes — those of a predator — were cold, calculating, merciless. He wore a black armor, thick but snug enough to show the strong frame beneath. His presence was overwhelming, impossible to look past. When he stretched his lips into a terrifying smile, everything shifted.

A wave of pheromones blasted through Konrad’s forces—an oppressive, molten scent of fire, blood, and dominance. A promise of death. Under this overwhelming aura, Konrad’s soldiers froze, shook, then dropped to their knees, grimacing in despair. Even his elite warriors — battle-hardened Alphas who’d survived the worst — buckled under Ravok’s sheer force. Powerless, they could do nothing but submit, as though some supernatural force pressed them into the earth.

Staggered by the unexpected turn, Konrad glanced at his closest advisor, Jean, who was on the ground as well, bent double, face twisted in pain, claws digging into the soil. His eyes were wide and refused to meet Konrad’s. Never before had he seen his men like this — crushed by fear alone. He had never seen such terror on the faces of his men.

And still, Konrad stood.

Ravok’s smile grew wider when he saw Konrad resist, refusing to bend beneath the weight of his stare. The scent in the air thickened, heavier now, impossible to ignore. Konrad’s wolf growled in protest, almost begging to yield, torn by the urge to kneel, its instincts screaming for surrender.

Resist.

“You must be Konrad,” Ravok said at last, his voice deep and sure. “What a warm welcome. I’m touched — really.” He glanced at the kneeling army behind him with a smirk.

Konrad let out a low growl, eyes locked on his opponent, unable to look away from the threat before him. For the first time in his life, an enemy made him feel like prey : bare, exposed, vulnerable. But he was an Alpha. A pack leader. Showing fear wasn’t an option, and surrender even less. He found brief comfort in the cold metal of the twin sabers strapped to his back. His lips, dry with tension, almost betrayed him as he spoke.

“Are you here to take my kingdom ?”

“What else would I be here for ?” Ravok said with mock innocence. “Nice lands, by the way,” he let out a low whistle. “I think I’m gonna enjoy it here.”

Without warning, Ravok began walking — slowly, deliberately —, crossing the space between them in a few strides until he was standing just inches from Konrad. The Alpha barely suppressed a shiver.

Don’t show your fear.

The Enigma’s face stopped just short of Konrad’s, his black eyes boring into the Alpha’s — piercing, unearthing. They didn’t just look at him, they saw through him like they could reach into his very soul. Konrad thought, for a split second, he saw slit pupils — snake-like. The sheer intensity of that gaze was unreal. In 28 years, he’d never faced anything like this. His inner wolf, panicked, begged him to surrender, to drop to his knees and bare his throat. But Konrad fought it.

Don’t show your fear.

He called every ounce of strength, tensing every muscle in his body to keep from falling. His legs quivered, but he held his ground. He returned Ravok’s stare, suppressing with fury the urge to submit. He pushed down the wild, primal instinct screaming at him to run. To flee from this superior predator. To survive.

Then, as if amused by Konrad’s defiance, Ravok gave a short laugh. He must have caught the scent of fear in Konrad’s sweat, despite the Alpha’s best efforts to mask it.

“Impressive,” he said with a chuckle. “Didn’t think an Alpha could still stand in front of me. Would be a shame to cut this short, wouldn’t it?”

In his calloused hand, he toyed with a dagger, its movements subtle but unmistakable to Konrad’s sharp eyes.

Don’t show your fear.

Ravok was feared across the continent. A warlord and conqueror. It was in his very nature as an Enigma to dominate, subjugate, seize, possess, and conquer. Conquest wasn’t just in his nature — it was his nature. As an Enigma, he didn’t just want to rule ; he was meant to. As a nomadic warrior, he had only one goal : to bring every kingdom he crossed to its knees. He moved from land to land, crushing resistance, taking what he wanted : land, people, power. His mere existence was an affront to Nature itself. His existence spat in the face of natural law.

Enigmas, so rare they were thought to be myths, didn’t respond to Alpha or Omega pheromones. They obeyed no one. They bent to no law. Their strength was unnatural. Their charisma, overwhelming.

They were anomalies in the system. Born to rule all others. The ultimate secondary gender. The Alpha of Alphas.

Konrad, on the other hand, was an Alpha of exceptional strength and unmatched wisdom for his young age. These qualities had earned him the leadership of the largest pack in the region, his territory stretching across vast lands. His people followed him with absolute trust, unwavering loyalty. His kingdom was so extensive, his reign so prosperous and peaceful, that he had earned the title of Wolf King. A title he hadn’t inherited. He’d fought for it, bled for it, earned it. That was why he knew, one day, a man like Ravok would come knocking, a man power-hungry and drawn to challenge.

But unlike most Alphas, Konrad possessed a rare clarity of judgment. He knew better than to let pride drag his people to the pyre. He saw the threat for what it was. Ravok and his barbarian horde weren’t just powerful, they were unstoppable. Konrad couldn’t afford pride. He couldn’t throw his people into a war they couldn’t win. He wouldn’t sacrifice them on the altar of honor. Deep down, he knew the truth no Alpha wanted to admit: no army on earth could stand against an Enigma.

So Konrad swallowed his wounded Alpha pride and accepted a bitter truth : to protect his pack, he had no choice but to make a pact with the enemy, to find a compromise.

He cast a last glance at Jean, his advisor, still kneeling, eyes glazed, caught in the silent, invisible grip of Enigma pheromones. Konrad looked away, unable to bear the sight. A cold dread crept under his skin as he thought of the dishonor he was about to endure by fraternizing with his enemy. Shame curled under his skin. But the safety of his people came first. Always.

Konrad straightened, proud despite the overwhelming urge to buckle under Ravok’s black, bottomless gaze. The Enigma was taller. That alone made it worse. Konrad had to tilt his head just to meet his eyes.

“The rumors were true,” Konrad said calmly, his voice far more assured than he truly felt. “You are an Enigma.”

He took a step forward. Close enough their noses almost touched. The Enigma’s predatory smile stretched even wider.

“No wolf from my pack will ever obey you,” Konrad growled. “Their loyalty is mine until their last breath. If you take my land by force, all you’ll have left is dust and silence. That’s not what you’re after, is it?”

Unfazed, Ravok tilted his head to the side and murmured, “Oh ? Then tell me. What are you offering?”

As he felt the Enigma’s breath brush his lips, something primal stirred within Konrad. Despite Ravok’s arrogance, Konrad knew this was not a man who spoke idly. He was listening, waiting for an offer that might satisfy him.

“Let’s make a deal,” Konrad said. “I’ll give you the northern lands  — rich, fertile territory. I’ll even send you a tribute : a hundred warriors to serve in your army.”

He hesitated only a moment before finishing:

“And you may select Omegas of your choosing. In return, you spare my pack and my soldiers.”

“Boring,” Ravok sneered with mocking disappointment. “When I could just take all of that by force ?”

Konrad held his gaze with unwavering resolve, his piercing eyes steady. If he wanted to persuade the Enigma, he had to show no weakness — not even a flicker.

“You could,” he replied evenly. “But at what cost, Ravok ? Your men are tired. Mine are fresh. My army is the strongest in the region. You’ll win, maybe, but you’ll burn everything in the process. Why risk it, when you could have it all… without a single drop of blood ?”

Ravok narrowed his eyes, studying Konrad as if searching for a flaw, something to exploit. But the Alpha stood firm.

“Isn’t that what you want ?” Konrad pressed. “Land. Soldiers. Omegas. Refuse this offer, and you lose just as much as I do.”

Ravok’s grin faded, his face suddenly unreadable.

“You think I’m offering this because I’m scared ?” Konrad said. “No. I’m offering it because I think ahead. You’ll gain more by securing your rule through an alliance than by burning everything to ash.”

A brief silence.

“A wise leader would take that deal.”

That line hit a nerve.

Annoyed by that final remark, Ravok stepped back and clicked his tongue.

“Tch,” the Enigma scoffed, clearly irritated. “And here I thought you were different. Turns out you’re just like every other Alpha — spouting empty words and pretty speeches. I’m a man of action, not talk.”

Konrad had played his card. And his gamble had failed. He watched, heart hammering, as Ravok turned his back and walked away. Then came the words that froze the blood in his veins :

“Release the dragon.”

Konrad’s eyes went wide. Panic rippled through his ranks. A dragon ? Impossible. Dragons were myths – fairy tales. Nothing more. They didn’t exist, and even if they did, they couldn’t be tamed . He had never seen one. They were fantasy. Weren’t they ?

And then the ground shook.

Screams of horror rang out as a dozen mercenaries hauled a colossal dragon forward, bound in thick steel chains. Konrad’s throat tightened. He couldn’t form a single word. His breathing turned ragged, chest rising and falling erratically. He hadn’t even noticed the beast’s presence among the enemy ranks. He hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t felt it. He’d been so focused on Ravok, he’d missed it completely.

You let yourself get distracted, his inner wolf scolded.

The dragon rose like a living mountain, its massive body covered in black scales glistening under the fading sunlight. Its wings — vast, leathery membranes — unfurled like two titanic shadows. Its neck, long and coiled, ended in a massive head crowned with horns and ridges. Its eyes — molten gold slits — gazed at Konrad with eerie intelligence, as if it knew who he was. Smoke curled from its nostrils. Claws, long as blades, scraped across the earth.

Konrad could accept the rumors about Ravok being an Enigma. But the stories about him commanding legendary beasts? That had always sounded like nonsense. Folktales. Madness. And yet, seeing it now, right there in the flesh, he couldn’t deny it anymore. Maybe it made a twisted kind of sense. An Enigma like Ravok — driven by conquest, addicted to trophies — was exactly the kind of creature who’d hunt the impossible and call it his own.

“My lord,” one of Ravok’s men said in a reverent hush, bowing deeply. “Wouldn’t you rather kill the Alpha yourself ?”

“No,” the Enigma snapped, not even sparing the man a glance. “I fight warriors. Not silver-tongued cowards playing politics.”

At his words, Ravok’s men began unshackling the heavy chains restraining the dragon. The beast let out a savage roar and shook itself violently, causing the Wolf King’s troops to recoil in instinctive fear. None of them had ever seen a beast like this. It was beyond reason. Beyond training. Beyond courage.

As the dragon stirred, Ravok turned and walked off, heading back toward a rough camp his men had begun erecting at the edge of Konrad’s land. He didn’t even look back when he gave the order :

“Have him kill the Alpha.”

Konrad’s soldiers screamed in horror and despair. But the Alpha didn’t blame them. Even though they were his most seasoned fighters, they were still human — and no human had ever faced anything like this. This wasn’t an enemy you could charge with a spear and hope to win. This was a nightmare made flesh.

Jean, the loyal advisor, got to his feet and stumbled toward Konrad, sword shaking in his grasp.

“Konrad,” he panted, his voice choked with fear. “Let us handle this. We —”

“Jean,” Konrad cut him off, his tone sharp. “Take the rest of my men. Fall back.”

“You’re not —?”

“I am,” Konrad said, already turning toward the beast. He motioned for his advisor to retreat. “I’ll handle the dragon. You protect the city.”

“Konrad—”

“Protect the city,” he repeated, and this time his Alpha voice rang like thunder. It wasn’t a request.

Jean flinched at the command and reluctantly obeyed, backing away with the remaining soldiers, all of them casting worried glances over their shoulders as they left their leader behind.

I must protect my people, even if it costs me my life , Konrad thought, his inner wolf growling in approval.

The last chain fell away from the dragon’s neck.

The wind stirred spirals of dust across the scarred plain. The setting sun bathed the sky in crimson, as if painting an omen in blood. Konrad stepped forward into the makeshift arena, alone.

He checked his weapons. Two pairs of twin daggers nestled at either hip in leather sheaths, positioned for a lightning-fast draw. Two sabers crisscrossed on his back, secured by tight shoulder straps, ready to be unsheathed without the blades catching.

From a distance, atop a small rise, the mercenary camp had begun to take shape. Ravok watched, appearing disinterested, almost bored. He looked as if he already knew how this story would end. His men stood in a loose ring around him, silent, tense. No one had ever survived a dragon. Not alone. Not without help. No one, except Ravok.

The Enigma’s face remained unreadable, his sharp gaze locked on Konrad like a predator studying a new specimen.

Then the dragon roared — and the sky seemed to tear in two.

Konrad braced himself as the dragon rushed toward him at a terrifying speed. His breathing stayed even, each heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his chest. He knew his Alpha pheromones were vibrating in the air, proud, pure, unyielding to fear .

No retreat.
No fear.
No hesitation.

In one seamless motion, Konrad unsheathed one of his daggers in a metallic whisper. He wasn’t here to survive — that wouldn’t be enough — he was here to win.

The first assault was brutal. The dragon charged, jaws wide, maw flaring open to unleash fire. Konrad dodged at the very last second, rolling aside with feline grace. The beast’s blazing breath grazed him, searing the air mere inches from his back.

Mid-motion, he hurled his dagger at the dragon’s head. The blade struck, lodging itself into the creature’s thick scaly hide, drawing a furious roar. Too shallow. Too much armor. Focus.

From high above, Ravok watched, raising a single eyebrow. Few would have dared such a bold attack right from the start. It wasn’t wise. Most would’ve died for less.

With a thunderclap of wings, the dragon rose, stirring a cyclone of dust. The battlefield became a sandstorm. Konrad narrowed his eyes, using the ash veil to shift positions. There was no point confronting the beast head-on. He had to wear it down, strike smart.

He mapped the vulnerabilities like a hunter — the soft tissue at the joints, the exposed throat, the wet glint of the eye.

Three weaknesses.

Think fast. Move faster.

As the dragon reared, Konrad slipped beneath its hulking frame. With one clean slash from a saber, he cut deep into a leg, striking between two scales. Dark blood spurted. The dragon roared and tried to stomp him.

Konrad rolled again, drawing a second dagger and jamming it into a rear leg joint. The monster staggered, its strength colossal, but its stance crumbling. Destabilize. Cripple. Every move Konrad made was calculated with surgical precision.

Then – Impact.

A tail like a battering ram slammed into him, hurling his body into a rock with a crack – likerly a broken rib. But Konrad pushed himself upright and rolled just in time to evade another torrent of scorching flame. He had always been one of the most agile Alphas he knew — and the fastest to heal.

He spat blood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze blazing. He had forgotten the exhilarating rush of facing such a powerful enemy. His inner wolf was alert, electrified.

On the cliff, Ravok’s gaze sharpened as he watched in silence. He had never seen an Alpha resist with such... magnificent rage. This man did not falter. He did not panic. He turned every motion into a strategy. Ravok’s cold interest gradually shifted into fascination. His own inner wolf stirred, intrigued, excited .

The dragon rose again, wings cutting the sky, intending to crush its opponent from above. Anticipating the move, Konrad launched himself upward with all the strength in his legs, grabbing the edge of one of its wings. Unsheathing the last two daggers, he used them as climbing hooks to scale the creature’s side as it lifted them both into the sky.

Reaching the neck, he twisted, aimed, then flung one of the knives : it sliced through the air and pierced the dragon’s eye. His aim was lethal, measured to the millimeter, clinical in its accuracy. Blood — thick, black, steaming — sprayed, drenching the beast’s head and Konrad’s.

The creature screamed in agony, thrashing wildly. In a panic, it threw its head back, jaws snapping in a futile attempt to seize the Alpha. Konrad drew both sabers. With a guttural cry, he slashed across the exposed throat, dodging a desperate, final snap of its teeth.

The dragon crashed to the ground in a howl that shook the earth itself. Its fall sent a towering plume of dust over the entire improvised arena.

Konrad landed smoothly, knees bent, blades dripping with thick, black blood. He rose slowly, his light-colored eyes instinctively locking onto Ravok’s, high above.

Silence fell.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

A silent challenge.

From his perch, Ravok felt a raw, primal wave stir beneath his skin. His inner wolf growled with approval. His scent —dense, unfiltered Enigma pheromones — grew heavier in the air.

The warlord didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, with something close to a feral glint in his eyes, he began to descend from the nomadic camp. With each step he took toward Konrad, the silence thickened. The mercenaries instinctively stepped aside, eyes lowered — a mix of reverence and fear. Even those closest to him gave way, as though his mere presence enforced obedience.

Every step landed with weight, each clang of armor loud and deliberate.
Ravok’s stare never left Konrad’s — a gaze that burned and froze all at once.

Konrad’s own soldiers remained at a distance, shaken, stunned — waiting.

Ravok stopped just in front of him, close enough for their scents to mix.

Once again, Konrad resisted the primal urge to kneel, to submit to the Enigma. His knees nearly gave out. His inner wolf begged him to give in.

Among the onlookers, not a single smile. Not a single cheer. Only Ravok’s voice rose, with cool arrogance :

“Remind me again... what were the terms of your little offer ?”

Chapter Text

The peaceful occupation had begun the moment the treaty was signed.
After accepting Konrad’s terms, Ravok set up his camp in the northern reaches of Konrad’s kingdom.

Konrad arrived on the second day, accompanied by Jean, his brother-in-arms Erik, and a team of physicians.

The mercenary camp sprawled across several acres in a kind of organized chaos. Makeshift tents, patched together with hides, torn canvas, and worn fabric, formed a dense and confusing maze.

Throughout the camp, wounded men moaned beneath blankets stained with dried blood. Some lay stretched out on improvised stretchers, while others leaned against wobbly tent poles, staring blankly into the distance. Healers bustled between them—none of them looking half as capable as Konrad’s medical team—their hands stained red, working with crude and primitive tools. The air was thick with the smell of old blood, crushed herbs, and smoke from half-extinguished fires.

Before proposing the treaty, Konrad had expected Ravok’s forces to be worn down—tired, injured, and deeply weakened by months of non-stop campaigns. Even if they had won a confrontation against his army, the cost would have been devastating, possibly spelling the end of their pack.

Ravok would’ve made a serious mistake turning down the deal. He and his men desperately needed a base within the Wolf King’s territory.

Erik, used to the comforts of Konrad’s castle, wrinkled his nose in disgust as he glanced at the muddy paths crisscrossing the tents.

“This is the most feared pack on the continent ? Living in these rundown shacks ?” he scoffed.

“They’re nomads,” Konrad replied calmly. “They’re used to traveling light. Ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

“Still... wouldn’t kill them to clean up a little.”

While Jean and his medical team began treating the injured mercenaries, Konrad continued inspecting the camp, with Erik still trailing behind, now theatrically covering his nose.

Farther on, restless horses pawed at the ground, tied to hastily planted stakes. Broken wagons, piled high with discarded weapons and armor, sat off to the side, waiting for repairs.

Konrad’s eyes were drawn to a command fire where damp wood crackled. Around it, Alpha and Beta officers from Ravok’s ranks spoke quietly, their faces hard, eyes locked on him. Thanks to his heightened Alpha senses, Konrad caught fragments of their murmured words :

“That’s the Alpha King.”
“The dragon slayer.”
“The chief spared him.”

He didn’t react. He just kept walking. More mercenaries whispered as he passed, watching him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Konrad ignored them, his indifference cold and resolute. Erik, on the other hand, bared his teeth at anyone who looked too long, as if daring them to insult his king.

Konrad was no stranger to attention. It had never rattled him. He walked with the same confidence as always — his steps firm, his posture straight, radiating the calm authority of an Alpha.

At the heart of the camp stood Ravok’s tent, towering above the others like a fortress of leather. Larger and taller than anything around it, its heavy flaps seemed to swallow the light. The air near it was thick, saturated with the acrid scent of leather and pheromones — a primal mark of dominance. No banner was needed : one glance was enough to know this was Enigma territory.

Nearby, a one-eyed mercenary was sharpening a knife. When Konrad and Erik approached, he stood. Broad-shouldered, built like a wall, he stepped forward with heavy feet, his scarred face set in a hard line, his lone eye scanning the newcomers. He looked like someone close to Ravok.

“Where’s your chief ?” Konrad asked sharply.

“Gone.”

“When will he be back?”

“Tonight.”

“Not before ?”

“No.”

Erik let out a growl at the man’s tone and clipped answers, but Konrad silenced him with a quick glance. Then he turned back to the mercenary.

“Your name ?”

The one-eyed man grimaced at the question, as if it were an insult. But he was standing in front of an Alpha more dominant than him, radiating suffocating pheromones that instinctively made him bow his head. Swallowing his pride, he tilted his head slightly in submission and answered through clenched teeth :

“Garron.”

Konrad felt his inner wolf relax a little. Erik gave a smug smile. His natural dominance hadn’t faded. It still burned inside him — sharp, unquestionable. That realization reassured him more than he wanted to admit. After his confrontation with Ravok, he’d feared that something inside him had broken. And yet, a chill of unease crept beneath his confidence. He knew that when Ravok returned, this fragile illusion of control would not hold. The warlord was something else — raw force, a predator who could make even the strongest Alphas bend with nothing but presence.

In his absence, Konrad could have asserted his dominance over the mercenaries, just to remind everyone who he was, to reestablish control.

But that would’ve been too easy. Cowardly, even. Unworthy of a true king. Unworthy of a real Alpha. Konrad had principles.

“Garron,” Konrad said more calmly, “deliver a message to your chief. Tell him to meet me in the throne room at sunrise. We need to settle the final details of our pact.”

Garron nodded stiffly, anger flickering behind his eyes. But Konrad knew the message would be delivered.

Without another word, the Alpha turned, mounted his bay stallion, and rode back toward the castle.

*****

Konrad’s castle was neither large nor lavish. It was simple, unadorned, without frills, much like the Wolf King himself : more warrior than aristocrat. The walls, built from rough grey stone, bore only a few faded banners. The throne room, more akin to a war chief’s hall than that of a ceremonial king, was austere and raw. Heavy dark beams held up the ceiling, from which hung weapons — trophies of past conquests. The throne, raised on a platform, was massive and devoid of any superfluous ornament.

And yet, despite the absence of splendor, Konrad sat there with calm authority, commanding the room. His counselors stood close by, speaking in hushed tones.

“These barbarians on our land make me uneasy,” one of them muttered.

“What if they decide to betray the pact?” another added.

“Your Majesty, we must act. Drive them out.”

Konrad sighed, visibly tired. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep over the past few nights.

“We don’t have a choice,” he said through gritted teeth. “Ravok’s strength is beyond comprehension. Our entire army bowed before his presence. We didn’t stand a chance.”

“He’s right,” Jean added. “His Enigma powers are an affront to Nature. Fighting him would’ve been suicide. We had already lost before the first blow.”

The advisors fell silent, their pride wounded, but unable to deny the truth : they would have been crushed by the Enigma and his mercenary pack.

“Never forget that our duty is to protect our pack, above all else,” Konrad continued. “Making a deal with Ravok was the best outcome. In fact, it’s a miracle he accepted.”

They all nodded, a flicker of admiration in their eyes. The feat Konrad had achieved the day before was still fresh in their minds. His victory over the dragon had been both glorious and legendary — a powerful reminder of the warrior he truly was. Even Ravok, who had likely never seen another man defeat a mythical creature, must have been impressed.

“It was undoubtedly the wisest decision,” Jean said. “The cowardly choice would have been to charge into a hopeless battle and sacrifice our pack for pride.”

“Yeah, well, in the meantime we sacrificed our honor,” Erik muttered. “Great. Now we’ll look weak.”

“What honor, Erik ? You were the first to kneel when Ravok arrived.”

“What ? Say that again !”

“You heard me right.”

“Oh please — weren’t you the one practically licking the ground in front of him ?”

“Excuse me ?”

Irritated, Konrad silenced their bickering with a single wave of his hand. He turned to the tall windows where the sun was beginning to rise. Ravok would arrive soon. This wasn’t the time for childish quarrels.

He rose from his throne and spoke, his voice firm and resolute :

“Yes, I gave up my pride, but I did it to protect all of you. For an Alpha, there is no greater honor than defending his pack. Pride is meaningless if our people don’t survive. Now, if we want to reclaim our honor, we need to stand united, hold our heads high, and earn Ravok’s respect. The real challenge begins now. It is through our resilience, through our strength together, that I will prove that I am worthy to lead. Our pack will not break so easily.”

A low murmur of approval rippled through the room. Erik frowned, but even he was swayed by Konrad’s words. The Alpha’s voice carried the calm certainty of a leader who would not waver.

“For the first time in history, Ravok has agreed to sign a treaty. I brought the conqueror to the negotiating table, where others only met defeat.”

With slow, deliberate movements, Konrad unfastened the harness holding his twin sabers. He removed it from his shoulders and handed it silently to Erik, his brother-in-arms.

It was customary to disarm oneself when meeting with an ally.

“My pack is safe. I still wear the crown. And in return, I gave away nothing but a few worthless lands and a handful of men. If this alliance with Ravok isn’t a victory, then what is it?”

This time, the court was fully convinced. Konrad relaxed slightly, and added :

“Besides, Ravok is a nomad. He never intended to stay here. One day, he’ll move on to conquer other kingdoms, and our lands will return to us. All we have to do is wait.”

Jean straightened, pride swelling in his chest, while Erik gave Konrad an approving slap on the back, won over by his words. Together, they could survive anything.

But their moment of unity was cut short.

A dense wave of pheromones suddenly flooded the throne room — overwhelming, stifling — engulfing the space in an instant. The scent was unmistakable.

The Enigma had arrived.

At the far end of the hall stood the Wolf King’s court — peasants, servants, officers, and other key figures. The moment the scent hit them, they collapsed to the floor, heads bowed, submitting without a second thought.

This is the second time we’ve faced that scent, Konrad thought, jaw tight. We should be more prepared.

Ravok entered the room with measured, confident strides. He was flanked by a handful of men. Among them, Konrad immediately recognized the one-eyed Garron.

Before he could speak, groans erupted from every direction. Horror prickled beneath his skin as he watched his advisors drop to their knees, driven by pure survival instinct.
Jean, too, gave in, bowing his head and avoiding eye contact. Even Erik fell to one knee with a low growl, his legs buckling under the weight of the Enigma’s aura.

The entire hall was shrouded in a tangible heaviness, an unbearable tension.

As if oblivious to the devastating effect of his presence, Ravok made his way to the base of the dais, never once breaking eye contact with the Alpha. Despite standing one step lower, the two men were nearly the same height.

Konrad was certain he wasn’t imagining the second surge of pheromones that hit him like a crashing wave — even more intense than before.
He’s doing it on purpose.

The Alpha clenched his teeth, forcing his mind to remain cold and controlled. He didn’t move, resisting the primal urge to flee. His inner wolf thrashed in panic, like a caged beast that knew it was beaten.

Submit, submit, the wolf howled.

Every fiber of his being screamed at him to yield.

Sweat beaded on his brow, but he straightened his back, refusing to bow to instinct. His gaze hardened, daring to challenge the oppression.

Ravok let out a low, appreciative sound.

“Impressive,” he murmured, pupils dilated. “Truly remarkable.”

Konrad ignored him and said sharply :

“Perhaps it would be wiser to stop this little display of dominance. You seem to forget we’re here to cooperate.”

Ravok offered an amused smile, his tone casual :

“But of course. Where are my manners?”

He allowed the pheromones to dissipate, and at once the air felt breathable again.
Konrad’s entourage stirred, visibly relieved as if a crushing weight had been lifted. Erik rose quickly, his cheeks flushed with humiliation.

Konrad descended the dais slowly, his icy gaze fixed on Ravok, who stood motionless, tracking his every step with a fierce glint of interest in his eyes.

“Since we’ve agreed to honor the treaty,” Konrad continued, voice firm, “it’s time we fulfill another part of the agreement.”

Ravok raised an eyebrow, mischief flashing in his gaze.

“Oh ? Time for the offerings already ?” he asked with a mocking smile.

Konrad didn’t bite. He silenced his growling inner wolf, irritated by the provocation. He gestured toward a side door.

“Volunteers have been gathered. None of the Omegas were forced.”

“Really ? How surprising. Who would willingly join the enemy ?”

Konrad closed his eyes briefly, already weary of this exchange.

“They stepped forward out of duty to their pack… or curiosity.”

He regretted those words the instant they left his mouth.

It was true, many of the Omegas selected to be presented to Ravok had shown a keen interest in the Enigma. Stories about Enigmas were plentiful, and they never failed to stir fascination. To be near such power, to touch the myth, that was a temptation few could resist. It wasn’t surprising there had been so many eager volunteers.

“Curiosity, huh ?” Ravok echoed. “There’s no shame in being drawn to power, even for an Omega.”

Konrad felt a flicker of discomfort deep inside him. He said nothing, face unreadable.

“They’re waiting in the adjoining chamber,” he said at last. “You’re free to choose.”

“How charming,” Ravok purred. “And will you be overseeing the selection yourself, Alpha ?”

The question dripped with venom, intended to sting. Konrad held his gaze, unfazed.

“Of course,” he replied coldly.

“Perfect,” Ravok whispered, his smile widening dangerously. “Perhaps you’ll help me choose, then. It would be a shame not to have a taste of the best your pack has to offer.”

The glare Konrad shot him could have made a lesser man back down. But not Ravok ; he only seemed to revel in the tension between them. Konrad cast a glance at Erik, whose face was just as grim. A silent command passed between them: If Ravok tries anything, protect the Omegas with your life.

With a sharp turn, Konrad motioned for the guards to open the doors.

Bathed in the golden light of dawn, about twenty Omegas stood in neat rows. Some quivered with anticipation, while others wore calm, dignified expressions. All stood tall, heads bowed. They had been carefully prepared, dressed in light but elegant fabrics.

At Ravok’s entrance, they trembled with excitement. The scent of self-lubrication bloomed in the air. Konrad felt his instincts stir at the intoxicating perfume, but he remained composed, stoic, unshakable. Ravok appeared completely unfazed.

He approached slowly, inspecting the Omegas like a predator surveying prey.
Each time he lingered on one, the air filled with sweet, heady pheromones. He moved lazily through the rows, dragging out the moment with idle curiosity — almost boredom — yet his eyes kept drifting back to Konrad.

The tension was suffocating.

“Hurry up and choose. My people shouldn’t have to endure your whims much longer,” Konrad growled, desperate to end the torment.

“What’s the rush ? It’s been years since I had this much fun,” Ravok chuckled darkly.

Then he began asking cruel, pointed questions:
“Are you as loyal as your king ?”
“Have you ever fought in an arena ?”
“Swords ? Machetes  ? Axes, perhaps ?”
“What’s your pain threshold ? ”

Konrad winced at the sight of some Omegas shrinking under the scrutiny. He stepped forward.

“My Omegas are cherished, spoiled, even. They are not warriors,” he said with an icy edge.

“A pity,” Ravok sighed dramatically. “Any recommendations?”

“I don’t know your tastes.”

Each time Ravok considered someone, he seemed vaguely disappointed. Nothing seemed to satisfy him.

With a tired breath, he finally said :

“All male Omegas — step forward.”

The Omegas, initially confused, obeyed. The males stepped forward, standing tall with their arms resting at their sides. There were fewer of them — Omega males were naturally more rare than females.

Konrad raised an eyebrow, his inner wolf stirred, intrigued. Ravok seemed to have specific criteria.

The Enigma silently studied the row of men before stepping closer to one of them. He brushed his fingers along the cheek of a young, blonde Omega, then gripped his chin and examined both sides of his face. Finally, he turned toward Konrad, a mocking smile playing at his lips.

“That one’s not bad… but not as fierce as you.”

Konrad’s blood boiled. His wolf growled in anger. He knew Ravok was playing with him, trying to provoke him, draw out a reaction. But his patience was running thin. He clenched his fists, feeling his claws dig into his palms.

Ravok burst into laughter, his shoulders shaking with amusement.

“Oh, I can feel the anger radiating off you, Alpha,” he teased. “You’d do well to hide that jealousy better.”

“I don’t have all day. Make your choice.”

“There’s nothing here that suits me,” Ravok said, feigning disappointment.

Konrad pinched the bridge of his nose, on the verge of losing it.

“Then tell me what you’re looking for,” he demanded, his tone edged with impatience.

Ravok tilted his head as if deep in thought.

“Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscular. Steel-eyed. Can ride a horse. Handle a weapon. Read a map. Lead men. And…”

The list seemed endless. Konrad let out a deep sigh. The sun wasn’t even high in the sky, and he already felt like he might snap. For a brief moment, he considered signaling Erik to end the presentation and send everyone home — let Ravok find his Omega another day.

But then Ravok added, almost casually :

“…Can kill a dragon.”

The words hit Konrad like a blow to the stomach, freezing him in place when he realized Ravok was talking about him.

A cold wave of unease crawled under his skin, while an unfamiliar warmth spread through his veins — soft, seductive, out of place. Dangerous. He shoved the sensation down violently, locking it away deep inside him. Slowly, he raised his head and fixed Ravok with a hard stare.

“Is it in the nature of Enigmas to want what they can’t have ?” he asked cautiously.

Ravok’s smile turned predatory. That bastard was enjoying this, every second of it.

“Exactly,” Ravok murmured, his eyes never leaving Konrad’s.

The tension in the room was suffocating. Konrad felt like he was about to snap, to lose control completely. But then, as if nothing had happened, Ravok turned away and began inspecting another Omega. He made him spin, checking his hips, his face. Then, he grabbed him by the neck and inhaled his scent... all while keeping his eyes locked on Konrad.

“I’ll take this one,” he said softly, still holding Konrad’s gaze.

Konrad exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.

“Fine. He’s yours,” he said sharply.

Without another word, he left the room, Erik following closely behind. To hell with Ravok. His men would take care of the rest.

As they left the castle and made their way to the stables, Konrad heard Erik’s voice rise behind him.

“What an asshole ! How dare he disrespect you like that ? He gives me the creeps.”

But Konrad barely heard him. What consumed his mind now was the strange feeling inside him. That warmth. That pull. That tension. A stirring low in his gut.

He hadn’t missed it — that Omega Ravok had chosen... was about the same age as him. And had the same hair color. Small details, yes. But meaningful ones.

A shiver ran through him.

He was losing control.

Shit.

Chapter Text

After days of searching, Konrad finally got his hands on a book that mentioned the Enigmas. Every other source he’d consulted so far had only offered superficial information, filled with absurd or mystical explanations.

He opened the dusty volume to the relevant chapter and began to read.

Enigmas are exceptional beings, far beyond the standard Alpha/Beta/Omega classification.
They are so rare that only one is said to be born per century.

Their origin is ancient and remains shrouded in mystery. Some scholars believe Enigmas are direct descendants of the earliest bloodlines of primordial wolves, which might explain their near-complete detachment from the modern laws of power.

They embody an extreme form of instinctual dominance. Their mere presence is sometimes enough to disrupt the instincts of others, their scent triggering primal responses : flight, submission, or fascination.

So far, the content matched what Konrad had already observed. Nothing new.
His eyes moved to the next section: “Known Characteristics of Enigmas.”

— Their pheromones are extraordinarily strong. No wolf, not even a seasoned Alpha, can resist them without submitting.
— Enigmas themselves are unaffected by the pheromones of others. They’re even immune to Omega heats.
— Their strength, sense of smell, hearing, touch, taste… All their senses are heightened, far beyond those of an average wolf.
— They are usually nomadic by nature, unable to stay tied to one place for long.
— Every documented Enigma has been male.
— Enigmas rarely, if ever, experience ruts.
— Like Alphas, they have a knot at the base of their penis. However, since they don’t go into rut, the knot never swells.
— In rare cases, it has been observed that in the presence of an Enigma, an Alpha or even a Beta may secrete a liquid similar to Omega lubrication—a phenomenon still unexplained and deeply taboo.

Konrad grimaced at the last line, revolted. He hadn’t even known such a thing was possible.
He kept reading, nearing the end of the chapter.

— When an Enigma chooses a mate, it is such a rare event that no one knows whether their bite has any binding effect.

That was it.
There was no other verified information about Enigmas.

Konrad closed the book with a sigh. In any case, he had every intention of avoiding the Enigma as much as possible. All he wanted was for Ravok to leave his territory.

*****

It had been ten days since Ravok’s troops had settled on Konrad’s land. Since the day of the Omega selection, Konrad hadn’t crossed paths with the Enigma again. Still, he knew that every morning Ravok rode off alone into the surrounding forests, out of sight and away from the camp.

Sometimes Konrad spotted him from afar — riding his horse near the rivers or across the plains, his silhouette slowly disappearing beyond the borders of Konrad’s lands. He would return at night, sometimes quite late, with mysterious trophies Konrad didn’t care to question — or with game from the hunt.

On occasion, Konrad was genuinely impressed by the size of the prey he brought back. Once, an enormous stag had been tied to the back of his horse. Another time, it was a wild boar so massive that even Konrad might have hesitated to hunt it. Those beasts were fierce and had given him plenty of trouble in the past.

Another thing caught Konrad’s attention: Ravok’s unusual way of riding. His mare had no saddle, no bridle, no bit. He rode bareback, with nothing but a rope around her neck, guiding her with his voice and legs — no spurs needed. It was like they were one creature, moving in perfect sync.

Konrad had to admit, he envied that bond.

As he rode toward Ravok’s encampment for only the second time since the occupation began, Konrad cast an amused glance at his own stallion — fully equipped with every piece of tack imaginable : a martingale, a breastplate, short reins, and a hard metal bit.

Beside him, Erik kept pace at a steady trot, his spurs gleaming in the sun. Jean was riding on the bench seat of a cart, next to the coachman.

“Last day on the job for our medics !” Erik called out cheerfully.

To help seal the alliance — and as a so-called friendly gesture — Konrad had offered the services of his healers to treat Ravok’s mercenaries. Today was their last day in the field, and Konrad had come in person to retrieve them. It was also a convenient excuse to check on Ravok’s camp and get a feel for the atmosphere there.

“How’s the Omega Ravok was given ?” Konrad asked Jean.

“No news, really,” Jean replied after a moment. “But I’ve had reliable reports that he’s asked for several more since then. Maybe six... or seven?”

“Tch,” Erik scoffed with a smirk.

At the edge of the encampment, they dismounted and tied up their horses. Jean and the coachman began unloading sacks filled with bread and supplies.

Suddenly, a rustle followed by a loud whinny startled them. Konrad spun around, only to find himself face-to-face with a loose horse.

“Scared the hell out of me !” Erik exclaimed, clutching his chest.

Konrad recognized the horse immediately : it was Ravok’s mare, the one he rode every day. In the daylight, her coat shimmered with a pale golden hue, somewhere between sun-kissed sand and fine silk. Her pinkish nostrils flared as she sniffed at Konrad curiously. Her mane, a soft ivory that bordered on white, fell in silky strands along her neck. Her blue eyes studied the strangers with an almost uncanny intelligence.

There was something otherworldly about her, something regal and graceful that made her seem out of place in the brutal world around them. She was beautiful, far too beautiful to be a common beast of burden. Konrad couldn’t help but wonder, if dragons were real, maybe magical horses weren’t so far-fetched either ?

“A champagne-gold coat ? She’s stunning. I’ve only ever seen horses like that in paintings,” Jean whispered, clearly in awe.

“Is she wild ? What are we waiting for — let’s bring her to the stables !” Erik shouted, already grabbing a lasso.

Indeed, the mare wore no halter, no blanket, bore no branding or crest on her coat, and her hooves were unshod. She wasn’t tied down and roamed freely, able to wander off and never return if she chose to. For Konrad, Erik, and Jean, it was an absurd sight. Where they came from, horses were always branded, shoed, and kept in stalls or enclosed fields. Letting one wander unsupervised was unthinkable — they were far too valuable to risk losing or having stolen.

Konrad laughed and gave Erik a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“Idiot,” he chuckled. “That’s Ravok’s mare.”

Erik’s eyes went wide. He quickly dropped the lasso back onto his saddle horn.

“Knew it was too good to be true,” he muttered, sulking.

Konrad stepped forward, palm open. The mare, curious, leaned in and sniffed the Alpha’s hand. He touched her muzzle tentatively, then gently stroked her forehead, her forelock, and finally her mane. Her coat was just as soft as it was luminous. She closed her eyes, clearly enjoying the Wolf King’s touch. Intrigued, Erik took a step forward, hoping to pet her too—but the mare huffed loudly, tossed her head, and turned away. She lifted her head with stately grace and walked off toward the hill overlooking the camp.

Erik looked personally offended while Konrad laughed smugly. His laughter faltered, however, when he felt something shift behind him. The weight of eyes.

He turned slowly. Behind the tents, through flaps of canvas and leather rooftops, shadows had gathered. Some mercenaries had been watching from the start. Others had stopped what they were doing. A few had moved closer. But all of them were staring — silent, guarded, and full of contempt.

Whispers floated through the camp, caught by the Alpha’s sharp ears.

“He touched her. He really laid hands on her.”

“What’s he thinking, getting that close ? Is he trying to die ?”

“She let him. Did you see that ?”

Another voice, more biting :
“Maybe she smelled weakness. Animals can sense that, after all.”

Jean tightened his grip on the sack of supplies he was carrying. Erik’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. Konrad, however, remained silent and still. Unbothered. He could only assume one thing — it must be forbidden to touch Ravok’s horse. Just like, perhaps, everything else he owned. Maybe this was another strange trait of the Enigmas.

Without a word, he stepped into the mercenary camp, his men following close behind. They moved through rows of tents, cutting through the thick tension like blades through cloth. The air here was heavier, steeped in iron, smoke, and the scent of old blood. Every footfall landed into a silence pulsing with hostility and judgment, the energy of a pack ready to rip into trespassers. Ravok’s men didn’t move, but their gazes spoke volumes.

Jean stayed alert, Erik’s fingers curled tighter around his weapon. Konrad walked on, straight-backed, head high. No snarling — yet.

The coach driver, Jean, and Erik unloaded the rations under a low tent where the physicians were stationed. The healers, visibly uncomfortable in the Alpha’s presence, still offered their thanks warmly. They looked exhausted after days spent tending to Ravok’s wounded. They tore into the bread, recounting the gruesome injuries they’d treated, and the small miracles they’d achieved with the rare medicinal herbs found only in the Wolf King’s domain.

Konrad only half-listened.

His attention had shifted.

The tent.

Tall, reinforced, erected in the heart of the camp. Its sides were made of dark hides and thick leather, standing like a throne on dirt-stained ground. There was a gravity to it, a presence that tugged at the instincts of his wolf. Whoever was inside called to him.

Konrad stepped toward it. Just as he reached the edge of its shadow, movement stirred within. A rustle — then a figure stepped out.

Ravok.

Laid-back, bare-chested beneath an open jacket, it was a rare sight, a sharp break from the hardened warrior image he usually carried. Konrad’s eyes lingered for a moment on his body : scarred, muscled, marked by countless battles. Ravok radiated a raw, masculine beauty, wild and untamed. A beast made flesh.

The air held still. No waves of pheromones. No invisible pressure. Ravok wasn’t projecting anything. It was deliberate. His eyes swept the scene.

This time, neither Erik nor Jean bowed. They stood tall, jaws clenched, muscles tight. For the first time, they were able to keep their composure in the Enigma’s presence. Konrad met Ravok’s gaze and, in that suspended moment, there was no war, no truce — only something older. Primal. Animal.

“I heard you met Seraya,” Ravok said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Konrad raised an eyebrow. Seraya ? That must be the mare’s name. Was it truly forbidden to touch her ? He dipped his head slightly, cautious.

“I didn’t force her.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Ravok’s lips.

“Of course not. That would’ve been impossible.”

The silence that followed was strangely light.

“Come,” Ravok said, turning back toward the tent. “Let’s talk.”

Konrad glanced at Erik and Jean. No words passed between them, but they understood. They stayed behind as Konrad stepped into the shadowed depths of the Enigma’s tent.

*****

The inside of the tent was massive. It smelled of tanned leather, fire, and the dust of long-traveled roads. There was a faint, lingering scent in the air, almost gone, but the Alpha's heightened senses caught it. Old pheromones. Sex.
A brazier crackled at the center, casting flickering light across the space. No useless decorations. Just rolled-up maps — Konrad thought he recognized one of his own territory, a bit too detailed for his liking — and weapons hung on the walls. A heavy war axe rested against a chest.

Ravok shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. He poured a cup of water and handed it to Konrad, who took it without gratitude or hostility. He drank.

“All the papers are signed. Apparently, we're allies now,” the warlord said, tone neutral, like he was stating something he didn’t quite believe.

“So it seems,” Konrad echoed, just as flat.

“Let’s be clear about what that means. I'm not your vassal. I didn’t swear fealty.”

“And I didn’t ask you to,” the Alpha replied calmly, taking another sip.

Silence. The fire popped. Outside, the distant clatter of hooves and harnesses could just barely be heard.

Ravok spoke again, slower this time, like the words were difficult to say.

“My men and my pack are staying here a while. The road can wait.”

Unexpected, for nomads. They weren’t known for putting down roots.

“Birthing season,” Konrad guessed under his breath.

Now that he thought about it, the signs had been there. The camp layout had changed. The activity patterns weren’t those of a group preparing to leave. The camp was huge, and Konrad had suspected that somewhere, tucked out of sight from outsiders, there was a space for women, children, Omegas, elders, the infirm.

It was birthing season — a cycle as old as war itself. For nomadic peoples like Ravok’s, this marked the time to settle. Protect the newborns, support the future parents. Even the fiercest warriors and outlaws bowed to that law of nature. The Enigma was no exception.

“None of your men are to cross into my territory,” Ravok added. “It would be unfortunate to remind them of their place.”

“I don’t usually keep them on a leash,” Konrad replied. “But I can mark the boundaries.”

The Enigma gave a short nod. The two men watched each other, maskless. Two predators in the same den. The pact had been made — at least on paper — but the air didn’t ease. If anything, the tension thickened, vibrating beneath the surface.

Konrad raised the cup to his lips again. Then, he added:

“Your men will need to keep their distance too. Respect goes both ways — or it doesn’t exist.”

Ravok smirked.

“Laying down terms already, Alpha ? In my own tent ?”

He sounded amused, like a dog was barking at him and he didn’t believe it would ever bite.

“Equality,” Konrad said coldly, “is the only foundation for a real alliance. You respect me, I respect you.”

“Sure. Whatever,” Ravok dismissed with a flick of his hand.

Konrad let out a low growl, involuntary. He could feel the pressure building. It was clear Ravok wasn’t used to showing respect to anyone. Deep inside, Konrad’s wolf stirred. He wasn’t alone : Ravok’s energy had shifted too. Dominance. Territory. Challenge. It was hard for any Alpha — let alone an Enigma — to stay calm discussing something so primal.

Ravok sighed and drank another sip of water. His gaze lingered under his lashes, studying Konrad’s every breath, every flicker of motion. Then he changed the subject.

“Your Omegas,” he said, casual, almost contemplative. “They’re... well-mannered.”

He added, a bit sharper, “Maybe too well-mannered.”

Konrad raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that ?”

“I mean they could use a bit more bite,” Ravok replied. “They’re boring. Fake. Always smiling. Too nice. An Omega who drops his eyes at the first glare, who crumbles when you push him — what’s the fun in that ?”

Konrad tensed. Comments like that were never innocent.

“If they’re not to your liking, we can send others.”

“No,” Ravok continued. “Your court’s Omegas are too polished. Too trained. Spoiled. Well-fed. Perfumed. Dressed in ribbons and silk, speaking in that syrupy voice. Haven’t you ever wanted to break one ? Just to see if there’s anything real underneath ?”

Konrad’s jaw clenched. Don’t react, his wolf warned. But the Alpha in him screamed to protect his Omegas, to tear this predator apart for the insult. To reassert dominance. Still, he didn’t move. He masked the scent of his anger completely.

Ravok leaned in slightly. Not aggressive — but just close enough to breach Konrad’s personal space. Konrad’s fingers tightened around the cup.

“My Omegas,” Ravok said with a grin, “have fire. They snarl when pushed. They fight back. They’re alive. Not like those pampered little courtiers of yours.”

“If you’re so proud of your Omegas,” Konrad replied coolly, “then leave mine alone. Don’t shame them.”

“The only shame,” Ravok said mockingly, “was sending me that last delegation. They barely got off their horses before asking for cushions and hot baths.”

His tone was almost playful, but the words were knives. Konrad knew Ravok wasn’t just insulting a few courtiers — he was mocking his court, his customs, his leadership. An insult to the Alpha himself.

But Konrad’s self-control was legendary. He wouldn’t snap over empty words. That’s what Ravok wanted. He was circling, waiting for Konrad to lose it.

“Guess we don’t have the same needs,” Konrad growled, voice glacial.

“No. Clearly not. My Omegas can survive storms, droughts, whatever nature throws at them. They can take it. They can even draw blood, if they have to.”

He set his cup down on a nearby shelf. Konrad did the same.

“Yours... smile. And pour tea.”

“What did you want from them ?” Konrad snapped at last, his voice hardening. “To slit your throat in your sleep ?”

Ravok laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh. It was dry. Humorless.

“I wanted one who didn’t tremble when I looked at them.”

The stare between them sharpened. No more masks. No more posturing. The tension spiked, sharp as a blade. Two beasts in a firelit cage, blood-scent thick in the air.

Konrad leaned in — barely — and met Ravok’s gaze dead-on. His voice was low, steady, but it cut like steel.

“Sounds like you’re the problem. Maybe you just don’t know how to handle an Omega.”

Silence. A heartbeat.   

Ravok’s face froze, just for a moment. Something flickered in his eyes. That hadn’t been a jab at his pack. It was a jab at him. A strike aimed at the man himself. His power. His dominance. His pride.

The air went dead. Heavy. Charged.

Ravok didn’t blink.

One breath.

Then he moved — fast, feline, violent.

His voice cut through the space like a blade through flesh.

“Submit.”

He hadn’t raised his voice. It wasn’t even loud. But the command struck Konrad like lightning. It wasn’t just a word — it was a call. Ancient. Instinctual. He had used his Enigma voice. A voice above Alphas. A voice that brooked no argument. Sovereign. Absolute.

Konrad felt it hit him, slam into his very core, and the ground nearly dropped out from under him. He staggered — just for a moment. Not from weakness, but shock. His wolf flinched, thrown off balance.

He saw Ravok’s eyes widen, go wild. Inside them wasn’t rage or lust : just that primal urge to dominate, to bend others to his will.

But Konrad didn’t bend.

He held his ground. Jaw tight, muscles straining and trembling. He locked eyes with Ravok and refused to look away.

A defiant, unflinching no.

Ravok growled at the disobedience, at the nerve. His authority had been challenged. In one sudden, violent move, he lunged. His hand clamped around Konrad’s nape with calculated strength, claws digging into the scent glands along his neck — territorial, threatening, silent. He tried to force him down, face-first, crush him into the ground, pin him.

“Submit,” he growled again, this time lower, darker, laced with that primal force that had once made entire kingdoms tremble in fear.

The air vibrated with pheromones. Konrad gasped in pain, feeling his inner wolf stumble and falter. But he wouldn’t bow. The iron grip burned like an insult, but he knew Ravok wasn’t trying to humiliate him. He was reasserting the hierarchy, reminding him of his place the most primitive way possible.

But this wasn’t the first time Konrad had faced an Enigma. He was ready this time.

He didn’t yield.

A roar ripped from Konrad’s throat. In a sudden surge, he braced himself and slammed his shoulder into Ravok’s chest, shoving him back with raw force. Their bodies collided like beasts. Ravok barked out a laugh, surprised—and thrilled. He retaliated immediately. Fists flew, fast and brutal. Konrad dodged the first blows, then blocked the rest with calculated precision. He countered hard, knocking Ravok’s arm aside with a sharp twist and driving his fist into the Enigma’s gut. A dull thud. Ravok exhaled sharply, half-grunt, half-growl.

Their torsos crashed again, claws clashing, teeth snapping. Konrad twisted, aiming to throw Ravok to the floor, but the Enigma planted his feet and used his weight to counter, grabbing Konrad by the collar and slamming him against one of the tent poles. The fabric shook with the force. Konrad snarled and retaliated with a vicious headbutt. Ravok’s response was immediate — an uppercut that cracked against Konrad’s jaw, the sound loud and ugly, like bone giving way.

White-hot pain exploded through him, but Konrad held on, fury radiating off him. Pinned like a cornered animal, he pushed off the post with a guttural cry and launched both legs forward with all his might. His boots slammed into Ravok’s chest.

But Ravok caught one foot mid-air, stopping him cold. Their eyes locked. Fury. Challenge. Fire.

Konrad twisted, using the other leg for leverage. He hooked it behind Ravok’s knee and wrenched hard, throwing the Enigma off balance.

They both hit the ground with a crash of limbs and raw aggression. Tangled. Writhing. Like wolves fighting for territory. Every breath was a growl. Every movement, a clash of dominance. Sweat mixed with adrenaline and the sharp scent of rage.

Ravok pinned him for a second, hands locking down Konrad’s wrists. His breath came hot and fast. His eyes were blazing.

“You can do better than that, Alpha,” he panted. “Show me.”

Konrad didn’t hesitate. With a rough snarl, he twisted one wrist loose, drawing a grimace from Ravok. He pulled his knees up, wedged them between their bodies, and bucked hard. Ravok tipped backward.

Konrad rolled and rose halfway. Ravok was already moving too, ready to strike. His fist came fast — Konrad ducked just in time, the blow grazing past. He countered with sharp, precise hits : one to the side, another to the throat, then a fake to the face masking a brutal knee to the ribs.

Ravok staggered, growling, but didn’t fall. He was taller, heavier, broader. Konrad, though, was quicker. Sharper. He circled, eyes blazing, hunting for an opening.

He found one. Half a second of hesitation. That’s all it took.

As Ravok moved his arm, Konrad ducked low, swept his leg, and struck upward — edge of his hand to the jaw, then a hard punch straight to the nose. A wet crack. A burst of red.

Blood sprayed from Ravok’s nostrils, hot and bright. He blinked, staring down at the drops hitting the ground. Then he looked back up at Konrad, surprised. Then something else. Something older. Wilder. On the edge of pleasure and instinct. His wolf purred, delighted.

He raised a hand, touched his own nose. His fingers came back red. He looked at them for a beat, fascinated. Then a low laugh rolled from his chest. Not mocking. Almost... pleased.

“You keep surprising me,” he murmured.

He stepped toward Konrad — but didn’t strike again. He didn’t need to. He tilted his head, lips curling into a sharp, hungry smile. A strange tension slid between them. Ravok’s gaze didn’t burn with humiliation. It burned with something else : recognition. Suddenly, Konrad wasn’t just a challenger. He was a worthy rival.

“You hide it well, Konrad,” Ravok said, voice low. “Under all those titles and polished manners. Why waste that fire playing noble ?”

“I’m not playing noble,” Konrad snapped, still breathless. “I’m a pack leader.”

Ravok circled him, more curious predator than threat now. He saw something in Konrad. Something worth staying for. The Alpha stayed on edge, tracking his every step. His muscles ached, bruises already forming beneath his skin. He just hoped his face wasn’t too wrecked.

Ravok’s eyes lingered on the red marks blooming across Konrad’s body.

 “You enjoy that role of a king rotting under tradition way too much.”

His tone was quiet, almost to himself. Konrad didn’t wait.

“That’s not an option,” he said flatly. “I have duties. A pack. A kingdom.”

Ravok shrugged, unfazed. More patient than disappointed. Outside, footsteps stirred. Voices rising. Someone was approaching the tent.

“We’ll see how long you stand tall out there,” the Enigma said, turning away. “Get ready, Alpha. The real game is just starting.”

And then he was gone.

Konrad stood alone. Fists clenched. Breathing ragged. Skin damp with adrenaline.

His heart was pounding.

Way too fast.

And it had nothing to do with the fight.

Chapter Text

The heavy tent flap suddenly whipped open. Ravok stepped out first, his face unreadable despite a thin trickle of blood running from his nose. His pace was calm, but the scent of battle still clung to him. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than Garron jumped up beside him.

“Chief !” the one-eyed man shouted. “What the —”

He stopped dead when he saw the blood on Ravok’s nose. His face went pale.

“Son of a bitch,” Garron spat. “Who the hell laid a hand on you ?”

Two more mercenaries stepped up behind him, both bristling with outrage — a stocky guy with a wild mustache and a tall, lanky woman with long blonde braids. Instinct kicked in ; they both drew their swords without thinking. Garron, knife in hand, locked eyes with Konrad as the Alpha stepped out of the tent. The Wolf King’s face was scratched up and swollen, though the bruising along his jaw was already beginning to fade beneath his skin. His gaze met the mercenaries’, calm and unflinching.

“Was he the one who hit you ?” Garron growled, aiming his blade toward the Alpha.

“Put that away, Garron,” Ravok said evenly, laying blood-smeared fingers on the knife. “It was just a scuffle. Nothing serious.”

That’s when the short, bear-built man bust forward, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Nothing serious ?! He made our chief bleed ! I say we knock his damn teeth out !”

“Oh hell yeah,” barked the tall woman. “He’s dead. I’m gonna skin that bastard.”

“Not while he’s still breathing,” The short stocky man snapped. “He’s mine.”

“You ?” she shot back. “Don’t make me laugh. I’ve got this.”

“Back off, string bean, I was here first !”

“And what’s a battle dwarf like you gonna do, bite his ankles ?”

Ravok let out a long, tired sigh, clearly done with their nonsense.

“Guo. Oya. Enough. There was no betrayal. Just... a friendly exchange.”

 “Friendly ?” Garron squinted. “You’re bleeding, Chief.”

“I brought it on myself,” Ravok shrugged. “I’ve been through worse. So has he.”

At that moment, Jean and Erik came running up, weapons drawn as they caught the tension in the air.

“What’s going on here ?” Erik asked, eyes flicking from Konrad to Ravok and then to the three mercenaries on alert.

Jean let out a sharp breath, barely catching the gasp in his throat when he saw Konrad’s swollen jaw and wrinkled clothes. His shoulders tensed as he raised his sword, aiming it squarely at the Enigma’s men. Konrad didn’t need a mind link to read his advisor’s thoughts : What kind of mess have you landed us in now ?

A noisy crowd started gathering around them. Low, guttural growls rippled through the tension — like predators circling, sizing each other up. Jean and Erik stared down Garron and the two mercenaries at his side, Guo and Oya, eyes hard as blades.

“Everything’s fine,” Ravok said bluntly. “Just some old pack instincts flaring up.”

But Garron wasn’t letting it go. He took a heavy step toward Konrad, voice like a distant rumble.

“It’s not ‘fine’ when an outsider draws the Chief’s blood. Where we come from, that’s an offense. And we don’t let offenses slide.”

“He’s right,” Oya added, arms crossed. “You’re not really telling us we’re letting this go, are you ?”

“Damn straight,” the stocky man barked, his voice low and gravelly. “Blood gets paid back with blood.”

The chant started low, but quickly picked up steam. From the ranks of the Enigma, mercenaries began shouting in sync, fury barely hidden beneath the words :

“Blood for blood ! Blood for blood !”

Konrad stood his ground, eyes steady, unreadable.

“No strike was dishonorable,” the Alpha said, voice clear above the noise. “And as you can see, Ravok returned every hit. We’re even.”

A wave of angry roars rippled through the crowd. Some mercenaries were already shifting on their feet, restless, while others spat at the Wolf King’s boots. Erik bared his teeth and snarled, daring them to come closer if they wanted to find out how fast his blade could run them through. Jean, meanwhile, was scanning the scene with a calm expression that didn’t quite match the rising panic in his chest. They were outnumbered — badly. Just him, Konrad, Erik, the driver, and a handful of medics who’d never held a weapon. No way they’d win if this turned bloody. They would never have the upper hand. If they were going to get out of this, they’d have to play by the mercenaries’ rules — whatever the cost.

Ravok looked to Konrad and gave a slow nod.

“He’s telling the truth. We’re even... by your customs, Alpha.”

Konrad narrowed his eyes.

“To set the record straight,” Ravok said, voice steady, “I say we settle this the old way. Our way, this time.”

“The blood rite ?” Garron asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “With that outsider Alpha ?”

“That guy’s not one of us,” growled Guo, the squat, bear-built mercenary. “Why the hell should he get our pack’s rites ?”

“This outsider Alpha,” Ravok echoed Garron’s words, “made a pact with me. He’s no member of our pack.”

Then he turned to Konrad, locking eyes with him — sharp, dark, and burning.

“But if you want to walk among us, you need to take the trial. The blood rite is a vow, a way to show you honor our laws, our traditions.”

Konrad frowned, trying to grasp the full meaning.

“What exactly does it involve ?”

Ravok drew in a deep breath, his voice dropping into something low and almost ceremonial.

“When conflict arises within the pack — when blood is spilled, or honor stained — we do not act on impulse. No one dies over a fit of temper.”

He looked around deliberately, making sure Konrad and his men understood the weight of what was being said.

“The one who caused the harm must answer for it. A punishment is delivered — through a blow, or a wound — proportional to the offense. But the victim alone decides where the strike lands, and how.”

He gave a few cold, matter-of-fact examples.

“A man who cheats on his partner might lose his manhood with one clean cut. A thief ? A finger, maybe a hand. A man who harms a child or someone weaker ? His throat is cut open.”

He paused. His gaze hardened.

“There’s always a meaning to the wound. It’s never random. It leaves a mark. A reminder of what was done.”

Then he turned to Konrad, steady and calm.

“By custom, an outsider would face death for even the slightest transgression. But on rare occasions, when someone is deemed worthy, we offer them a chance.”

The Wolf King nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. He recalled the old books he’d studied, ancient tomes filled with obscure traditions. Some of them had spoken of rites like this one, rituals soaked in blood, yes, but more than just punishment. They were theater. A spectacle. A way to bind the pack together. A release valve for them. A moment when everyone gathered to watch, to howl, to witness pain, to drink in the blood and scream at the violence. That’s what kept the balance. That’s what cooled the rage, turned fury into order. Brutal, yes — but it bound them together. Gave structure to the chaos.

Konrad clenched his jaw. He understood the stakes. This wasn’t just about pain. It was a test. A way to earn their respect.

“I am not forcing your hand,” Ravok said. “You are free to leave, should you wish.”

His eyes were like ice. His voice, a blade.

“But if you walk out… don’t come back. You don’t belong here if you can’t stand this test. You’ll be nothing to us.”

The weight of his words sank into Konrad like stones in his gut. This wasn’t a challenge — it was a reckoning. A final line between being part of their world, or being cast out.

It wasn’t reasonable. It wasn’t fair. But Konrad couldn’t walk away. Not as an Alpha. Not as a king. He drew a deep breath, fists clenched at his sides, and nodded.

“I accept,” he said, his voice clear and resolute.

Erik swore under his breath, jaw tight. “Goddamn it, Konrad. You’re knee-deep in shit now.”

Jean, clearly rattled, laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure ? Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into ?”

Konrad didn’t blink.

“This isn’t the first time someone’s greeted me with their fists,” he said calmly. “And it won’t be the last.”

Guo and Oya exchanged a look — half thrill, half barely contained glee lighting up their faces.

“Come on, let’s see what you’ve got, outsider !” Oya laughed, fingers playing with her blonde braids.

“Rite day’s my favorite,” Guo chuckled, cracking his knuckles like he was settling in for a show.

Garron, less amused, furrowed his brow. The decision had come fast — too fast, maybe. Ravok, however, allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile. This was the response he had hoped for from the Alpha.

“Good,” he said calmly, but with steel in his voice. “Bring me the black sap of Morndra.”

The crowd stirred. Nervous, scattered laughter broke out among the mercenaries. Garron squinted, puzzled.

“The Morndra ?” Erik echoed, confused but wary.

Jean, standing close to Konrad, met his eyes with a heavy, knowing glance. The Wolf King felt his chest tighten. The Morndra wasn’t just a plant. It was the stuff of old war stories — a dark weed said to grow only on cursed ground, like abandoned battlefields, where the soil had been soaked in blood and never healed.

Its sap, drawn from those battle-scarred fields, was a slow, merciless poison. It didn’t kill. It lingered. It stopped wounds from closing. It dulled the body’s power to mend. Even those with unnatural healing would find their strength slowed to a crawl.

A cut made with Morndra in the wound would fester, agonize, and never quite vanish. The scar it left behind was black — etched deep into the skin like a curse.

Ravok turned away briefly, then fixed Konrad with a cold, appraising look.

"I’ve been watching the way you heal," he said in a low, almost sly voice. "You recover unusually fast. That fight with the dragon, when you cracked your ribs… The very next day, you were back on horseback like nothing had happened."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“And now, your jaw’s already starting to mend.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming.

“So tell me — where’s the challenge in that, if your wounds just vanish by dusk ?”

His tone remained almost casual, but in his gaze flickered something darker. Not just calculation. Anticipation. As if he were savoring the idea of the pain to come.

Without another word, the Enigma slowly drew his favorite dagger — the same one always resting at his hip. Sunlight glinted off the blade with a cold, silvery sheen. A mercenary approached, holding out a glass bowl filled with thick, black liquid. He gave a slight bow as he presented it.

“My lord,” he said respectfully, “the Morndra sap, as requested.”

Ravok didn’t glance at the man. He dipped the blade into the viscous liquid with deliberate care, coating the metal in a slick, ominous black — like a promise of pain.

Konrad swallowed hard, though he kept his expression composed. He concealed any hint of apprehension. No one could hear the quickening of his heartbeat, nor see the doubts running through his mind. Even his pheromones betrayed nothing.

“You can still back out,” Ravok said, almost mockingly. “There’s still time.”

Ignoring the taunt, Konrad asked, voice steady, “Where do you intend to deliver the punishment ?”

It was a tacit confirmation. He had no intention of backing down. Ravok stared at him for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. He took his time, as though weighing the weight of his decision. Then, feigning humor, he said :

“I’m tempted to silence that insolent tongue of yours. To remind that bold mouth of its place.”

His laugh turned bitter as he recalled Konrad’s earlier jab about his failure to handle an Omega. For far less, he would’ve cut out a man’s tongue without hesitation.

"But that sharp tongue, as impudent as it is, somehow suits you."

Ravok’s gaze hardened, all pretense of humor vanishing.

"It will be the palm of your left hand," he said finally.

Konrad flinched — barely. He was left-handed. Losing that hand, even partially, meant more than pain ; it meant losing his ability to write, to hold reins steady, to wield a saber… All vital gestures, tied to both survival and identity. It was a cruel, vicious, calculated choice.

“That’s the hand that struck me,” Ravok went on. “The hand of offense. The one that bloodied my nose.”

Jean’s eyes widened in alarm. He grabbed Konrad by the shoulders.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said urgently. “You don’t owe Ravok or his pack anything. Say no. Let’s walk away and forget this ever happened.”

Erik had backed off by then, fists clenched tight, jaw locked in fury. He was muttering curses under his breath, seething.

The Wolf King shot his advisor a disapproving glance.

“This is not such a heavy price,” he said with cool assurance. “He could have taken the whole hand, instead of merely slicing the palm.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jean muttered, voice hoarse. “Konrad... don’t make this worse. He’s baiting you. He wants to humiliate you.”

The Alpha met his gaze — not angry, but with that firm, controlled edge Jean had always hated to hear from him. The voice of a king, not a friend.

“That’s precisely why I must not retreat,” Konrad replied. “If I back down now, he won’t need to humiliate me. I’ll have done it myself. True disgrace lies in turning away at the final moment.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Jean exhaled sharply. “Is that all Alphas ever think about ? Honor ?”

Konrad’s voice dropped lower, heavier.

“This is about balance. If I want this alliance to hold — if I want my word to carry weight with his people — I have to show them I’m not weak. I have to prove I’m not a coward. An equal.”

“You’re being reckless…”

“This is the cost of maintaining power.”

In the background, Erik let out another stream of colorful curses.

Jean stepped back, exhaling a long, defeated breath. He no longer tried to stop his king.

“You and your damned noble speeches,” he muttered, defeated. “I’m done.”

Konrad stepped forward. Around them, the crowd had tightened, now packed and restless. Mercenaries, some leaning against tent flaps, others perched on crates or resting on their weapons, formed a wide circle that framed the scene like an arena. They were buzzing with anticipation, their eyes flicking between curiosity, excitement, and a kind of silent respect. Whispers passed between them — bets on how deep the cut would go, how the outsider would handle the pain.

Guo and Oya stood near Garron, speaking in low tones, their eyes gleaming with a mix of awe and excitement. The tension hung over the gathering like a storm about to break — heavy, electric.

Ravok approached with slow, deliberate steps, the dagger still in his right hand. The blade, coated in the black sap of Morndra, had turned a thick, oily color, as if the poison itself were alive and breathing.

He extended his hand, unhurried. His eyes met Konrad’s, and he paused briefly. His voice, low and rough, carried an unusual gentleness that clashed with the brutality of the rite.

“Are you certain this is what you want?”

Konrad gave a single nod, his eyes steady, face unreadable.

“Do it.”

Silence followed.

Then the Enigma took hold of Konrad’s left hand with clinical precision, not a word or glance wasted. His grip was firm, controlled, like a surgeon preparing an incision.

Konrad didn’t resist. His wolf within stirred uneasily, confused and afraid, not understanding why it wasn’t allowed to defend against the threat.

He opened his hand in Ravok’s grasp, palm turned upward, exposed, vulnerable. He felt the Enigma’s fingers clamp around his wrist, locking it in place like a vice. This was it.

Trigger Warning : Graphic gore ahead. Please proceed with caution.

The dagger descended slowly, guided with cold intent. Ravok didn’t strike right away — he positioned the tip at the base of the thumb, where the flesh was thicker. He angled it with care — slightly diagonal, avoiding major tendons but deep enough to let the sap seep in.

Then, he cut.

The blade pierced Konrad’s palm. Blood burst forth, hot and thick, splattering across Ravok’s hand. The steel sank deeper until it met resistance — a bundle of muscle — then slid just beside it, expertly avoiding permanent damage. Every motion was calculated to the millimeter.

Konrad’s body jerked on instinct. Pain tore through him like a lightning bolt, racing up his arm. The palm was a nest of nerves, and each one screamed as the venomous edge slid through flesh. But he did not scream.

His jaw clenched. He ground his teeth so hard his gums turned white. His breath caught for an instant, replaced by a frozen silence, while his gaze remained locked straight ahead, frozen in a mask of forced impassiveness. His eyes welled up — but no tears fell. He could not let anything show. He could not yield. He would not give them the satisfaction.

Around them, the crowd had tightened. It was made up exclusively of mercenaries, warriors, butchers — men and women who had seen too much, lived through too much, and now sought only one thing : the blood and suffering of others. They did not flinch. They did not look away. Some smiled. Others chuckled, whispering to one another, placing bets on when the outsider Alpha would scream.

But Konrad gave them nothing.

The blade completed its path to the edge of the palm, slicing a bright red line across the flesh. The black sap of Morndra began its work instantly, mixing with the blood — a new kind of pain bloomed, deeper and more insidious, pulsing through the wound like barbed thorns driving inward. A slow, venomous burn, steady and unrelenting.

Ravok withdrew the dagger with deliberate slowness, a dark trickle sliding down the blade. He released the hand, now stained red and black. Some of the skin had peeled back, raw and exposed, and a sharp metallic scent rose from the wound.

Konrad was still on his feet. His facial muscles twitched against his will, and his hand trembled slightly, spasmodic, but he refused to cry out. He let the pain wash through him, silent and stoic. Not a word. Not a sound.

Erik and Jean rushed to his side, both pale and shaking, urging him to sit down, to press on the wound.

A murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd. Some hissed, annoyed. Others laughed nervously. They had been waiting for a scream, a groan, a moan — anything. But this silence robbed them of their show and ruined their wagers. They began to disperse, muttering, unimpressed.

But Ravok was smiling. Not a warm smile. A brief, satisfied, almost predatory grin. Something flickered in his black eyes, hard to name. It wasn’t contempt, nor superiority. Konrad thought he glimpsed a spark of respect. And coming from Ravok, that bordered on reverence.

Then, without a word, Ravok knelt down.

The Enigma took the wounded hand again, this time gently, almost carefully. He turned it slightly, examining he blackened gash with a surgeon’s eye.

A startled murmur swept through the crowd. No one had expected him to touch Konrad again, let alone with such care.

“It’s bleeding well,” Ravok said quietly, studying the depth of the wound. “But not enough to lose the hand.”

His fingers, cold and rough, bloodstained, lingered at the base of the thumb.

“I missed a motor nerve by a few millimeters. You’ll have no lasting damage.”

End of graphic content. Thank you for reading carefully.

He stood briefly, scanning the crowd, then called toward Garron, who stood at the edge of the circle :

“Bring me rhizome balm, and a pinch of Morndra charcoal powder. No more than that.”

Another ripple of astonishment ran through the mercenaries, though more subdued this time. Morndra charcoal mixed with ginger-root balm acted as an antidote. Mixing Morndra charcoal with ginger rhizome balm acted as an antidote. Yet Morndra sap was meant to harm. Using an antidote after administering such a rare toxin was counterintuitive, illogical. It made no sense. And yet Ravok did it, offering no explanation, no justification.

Konrad, still on his knees, watched in confusion. Was there a message behind the gesture ? Why had the Enigma chosen this poison only to administer its antidote afterward ? Why had the cut been measured to the millimeter to avoid any permanent damage ?  Every detail had been deliberate. Planned.

His inner wolf couldn’t help but take a certain pleasure in Ravok’s skill and precision.
It was confused now, unsure whether Ravok was an enemy or an ally. Whether he meant harm, or good.

Ravok knelt again beside him. His voice was low, barely audible — meant for the Alpha alone.

“Your strength of will is admirable. Maiming you would be a waste.”

Then, in an even lower breath, with that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth :

“And… I’ve always had a soft spot for those who can take it without begging.”

Konrad, stunned, didn’t even have time to react before Ravok applied the mixture of powder and balm directly onto the wound. The Alpha clenched his teeth, his hand radiating with an indescribable pain — though after a few seconds, it began to subside.

The crowd was frozen. Never in the history of blood rites had the punisher treated the punished. This unprecedented act left everyone speechless.

At Konrad’s side stood Erik and Jean, visibly shaken, followed by a few royal medics. Ravok shot them a cold glance as he wrapped a clean cloth around the Alpha’s hand.

"Clean the wound with clear water, no rubbing," Ravok ordered in a clipped tone. "Apply the antidote mixture I’m giving you to limit the effects of the sap. Change the bandages regularly, but let the wound breathe. Otherwise, it could get infected."

The healers nodded promptly, bowing their heads, not daring to meet Ravok’s gaze. Even Erik and Jean looked away, leaning on Konrad for support.

Then, Ravok stood up and wiped his bloodied fingers on a cloth that was handed to him.

At the same time, Erik and Jean helped Konrad to rise, supporting his weight despite the dull pain still shooting through his palm. Konrad showed nothing, gritting his teeth, his features tense but impassive.

Nearby, the pack’s medics quickly gathered their personal belongings, the medicines, and the vial containing the Morndra charcoal, fully aware of the importance of this substance for their king’s survival.

Ravok turned to his men and spoke in a strong, clear voice that instantly commanded silence.

“From now on, Konrad and I are even. No blood debt ties us anymore.”

He paused, scanning the crowd with a look that brooked no argument.

“Konrad is now an ally, a friend. He has the right to enter our lands and must be treated with the same respect I receive. He’s the only man from his kingdom granted this status.”

A low murmur ran through the mercenaries. Some still held suspicion in their eyes — years of habit don’t fade that easily. Yet, everyone deeply respected Ravok, and they knew his word was law. Gradually, the mood shifted. Acceptance began to spread through the ranks.

The mercenaries slowly parted to make way for Konrad and his men, forming a clearing. But this time, the cold, distant looks usually reserved for strangers were gone.

Some stood with arms crossed, silently studying Konrad, a raised eyebrow or a smirk playing at their lips. The contempt was gone. In its place : curiosity, respect. Maybe even a hint of admiration.

Garron, towering and muscular, gave him a subtle nod, almost respectful. Guo, still grumpy, looked away, ashamed of having judged him so quickly. And though some clenched their jaws as the foreign Alpha passed by, they all lowered their eyes or stayed silent. Ravok’s order had been clear. Konrad had proven he deserved his place.

Jean cast worried glances at his friend, watching every step, steadying him by the shoulders, while Erik said nothing but stayed close, ready to jump in at the first sign of trouble. The medics brought up the rear, alert for any sign of weakness in their king.

Konrad moved forward with a set jaw, his left hand wrapped carefully in blood-stained cloth. Every step sent a pulse of pain through his palm, but he held firm — hard gaze, straight back.

As they neared the edge of the camp, at the last row of tents, voices rose in the distance, accompanied by hurried footsteps. A man appeared from a far-off tent, wearing a heavy cloak, his hands stained with dried blood. He looked like he was bursting with good news. Konrad narrowed his eyes. A healer. Or more likely, a midwife.

“Lord Ravok !” he called out, breathless, his eyes shining with emotion. “She’s born. She’s the first one of the season. The little one cried out just a few minutes ago. She’s breathing strong, lively, a healthy baby girl ! And the mother... the mother is doing well. She’s alive. The father is keeping watch by their side.”

A rumble of happy cheers spread through the camp like a wave of relief and genuine joy. The mercenaries, initially stunned, erupted in unison. Some raised their fists, others laughed or slapped each other on the back. A young man broke into a run toward the new parents’ tent. Already, plans were being made for a celebratory drink, music instruments were being fetched, and a portion of the dried game was being carved up.

Even the toughest among them wore softened expressions. Because a birth — a successful birth — in such a harsh, barren world was almost a miracle.

Ravok showed nothing more than a brief nod.

“Offer the parents our congratulations,” he said. “And grant them the rest they deserve.”

Konrad had heard everything. He cast one last look back toward the heart of the camp, toward the tent where the news had come from. A baby girl, healthy and strong, and a mother who had survived childbirth. In a world where fertility was a constant battle, where every pregnancy was a gamble, and infant mortality ran high, it was a rare and precious victory.

It felt strange to see the mercenaries’ weathered, hard, often blank faces suddenly come alive with genuine joy, breaking into real smiles. It was odd to watch them running through the camp, singing with good spirits, while others busied themselves lighting fires to prepare a feast.

For a moment, it was like a different pack. Less brutal, less wild. Less savage. They had made room for something else: pride, hope, the desire to believe there was still something worth building, worth protecting.

“Konrad !” Jean called from the front of the wagon. “Get in, I’ll take care of your horse.”

Konrad turned his gaze away from the tents alive with cheers. There was a strange warmth hanging in the air, almost out of place after so much tension.

He nodded and climbed into the wagon, his hand still sticky with pain and venom.

The road stretched ahead. Under the wheels, the mud swallowed the last traces of the ordeal as they moved farther from Ravok’s camp.

The calm was only temporary. The real storm, Konrad knew, had yet to come.

*****

Ten of thousands of years ago, humanity nearly vanished, struck by a wave of mass infertility. Births became so rare that extinction loomed. In a desperate attempt to survive, some human groups turned to the primordial wolves — ancient, powerful creatures still not fully understood.

From this unlikely union came the first wolf-blooded humans : humanoid beings who retained pack instincts and a heightened sensitivity to pheromones. Their unique biology became the key to humanity’s survival.

Over the centuries, that genetic legacy began to fade. Today, around 80% of humans are what we call Betas. Their wolf blood is faint, almost dormant. They don’t experience ruts or heats, they barely respond to pheromones, and most have no trace of the instincts once passed down. Some still struggle with fertility — but nothing compared to the brink of extinction their ancestors once faced.

Yet every so often, a child is born carrying active recessive genes from those ancient bloodlines — traits that only manifest if inherited from both parents. These children are born either Alpha or Omega.

Alphas make up roughly 10% of the population. Most are male, as the Alpha gene is carried on the Y chromosome, though rare mutations can bring it out in females. They’re known for their physical strength, heightened pheromone sensitivity, and a deep, almost primal connection to their instincts. Three to four times a year, they enter rut : a period of intense, almost feral fertility. In most societies, Alphas hold positions of power, leadership, or combat.

Omegas, also around 10% of the population, are most often female. The Omega gene is typically carried on the X chromosome. They’re typically smaller in stature but more agile, adaptable. Twice a year, Omegas experience heat : short windows of heightened fertility. Male Omegas, though rarer, are born with a functioning uterus. However, due to their anatomy, natural childbirth is rare and usually requires a complex and risky surgical procedure. Many Omegas work as healers, herbalists, smiths, teachers, or merchants.

Alphas and Omegas share what’s known as an “inner wolf”, a deep, animal-like awareness that lives within them. It’s hard to explain, but they feel it. It’s a remnant of their lineage from the primordial wolves, a connection the Betas have long since lost.

And so, the rhythm of birth still follows those ancient biological patterns. That evening, deep in Ravok’s camp, a newborn’s first cry rang out — and with it came the official start of birthing season.

Chapter Text

Four weeks had passed since the Blood Rite. Four weeks, and the wound Ravok had carved into Konrad’s left palm still refused to heal. Just a shallow cut — one that should’ve closed up in a matter of days under normal circumstances. But the blade had been soaked in Morndra’s black sap, a slow, insidious poison that infected the flesh and stalled everything the body tried to repair.

In those first days, his hand had stayed swollen, skin stretched tight around a raw, jagged black scar. The pain sometimes woke him in the middle of the night, sharp and pulsing, forcing him upright in the dark — breath uneven, jaw clenched — unable to find a position that didn’t pull at the wound.

The healers insisted on constant care : disinfecting the cut, applying layers of anti-venom salves, replacing bandages morning and night. Konrad allowed it — for a while. The first two weeks, he sat through it. After that, he refused. The treatments felt invasive, excessive, exhausting. He had no patience for the rigid schedule of a medical protocol. He only accepted help when it didn’t interfere with his duties — otherwise, he dismissed it, claiming any further effort would be pointless.

Konrad, wise and composed as a 28-year-old Alpha could be, remained stubborn and proud to the core. He was not a man easily persuaded especially when it came to his own body. Weakness wasn’t something he allowed, not even behind closed doors. He saw the pain as a reminder, something that kept him grounded. It served to keep him sharp, to remind him of the narrow line he walked since forging a pact with Ravok. He’d made his choice. Now he had to live with it.

Erik, his lifelong brother-in-arms, didn’t see it that way. He hadn’t stopped pushing back since the day of the Rite. He called it a public disgrace, and made sure Konrad heard about it regularly. Almost daily. Sometimes behind closed doors. Sometimes not. Always blunt. Always loud.

“I don’t get you anymore,” Erik would snap. “You let that Enigma bastard carve into your flesh. You knelt to his will before his entire pack. Like it wasn’t already bad enough letting him step foot on our land.”

Konrad always answered the same way : it was for the sake of the pack. To prevent needless bloodshed. To lock in the alliance and secure Ravok’s support. Political decisions — ones Erik either couldn’t understand, or refused to. His brother-in-arms didn’t care about diplomacy. All he saw was the scar on Konrad’s hand. The act. The submission.

And Konrad, for all his poise, could not entirely dismiss the sting of truth in Erik’s words.

That was the worst of it. That’s what made it so unbearable.

After a lifetime together, Erik had learned to see past the cold, unshakable mask Konrad wore. He saw through it all.

But lately, his criticism had turned to suspicion. Every move Ravok made, every gesture from his men, was met with scrutiny. Erik questioned their presence, their welcome, the silence Konrad maintained in the face of spreading rumors. Each time a mercenary was glimpsed in the woods or near a village, Erik treated it as betrayal. He’d begun shadowing them, following their tracks — watching, tracking, hunting.

Konrad no longer knew whether to call it unwavering loyalty… or sheer paranoïa.

He kept telling himself Erik would eventually let it go.

In those four weeks, Konrad had faced far more mundane concerns. The kind no one ever glorified. Ruling was never meant to be heroic. They hadn’t lied about the weight of the crown, but they’d certainly failed to mention just how tedious it could be.

Days blurred together. He spent hours settling disputes between clans : vague river boundaries, missing cattle, arranged marriages gone wrong. He signed supply decrees, reviewed grain quotas across the eastern storehouses, approved infrastructure reports ahead of the first snows. He sat through logistics briefings from his stewards, responded to diplomatic letters from other sovereign packs — many of which were now fixated on Ravok’s new political standing.

He received guildmasters, local priests, garrison leaders. It was always the same : a flood of demands, mundane concerns, complaints. Sometimes, he forced himself to listen. Other times, it all washed over him. He signed, nodded, pretended to care. He was exhausted.

What weighed on him more than solitude was the quiet disapproval of his own pack — those who no longer understood his choices.

Most nights, Konrad poured over military reports. He combed through border patrol logs, inventory records, recruit training figures. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. That any sign of weakness might tear a hole in the walls he’d built.

He never said it aloud, but he feared an attack. Not necessarily from Ravok. But from somewhere else. A rival pack. A splinter faction. Someone waiting for the right moment to strike. He knew what the other kings were thinking : that he’d yielded. And in this world, an Alpha who yields… doesn’t stay standing for long.

But what choice had there been ? Should he have sacrificed his people over pride ? Was he supposed to face the Enigma in a war everyone knew he couldn’t win ? It wouldn’t have mattered what the Wolf King chose. The people would always find a reason to doubt him, to dig at the cracks in any decision, to chip away at his authority until all that remained was the weight of his own crown.

*****

That morning, the public hearing was set to begin at the tenth hour. Konrad didn’t feel at ease. His gaze kept drifting to the deep, blackened scar carved into the palm of his left hand. The pain had dulled, but the discomfort lingered. Still, he moved through the stone corridors of his keep with measured, practiced confidence.

The council hall was already full. The guards had allowed in a group of peasants from the northern territories — tough, humble folk who had served the pack loyally for generations. Their faces were drawn, their expressions closed. One of them, a man in his fifties, stepped forward and bowed slightly.

"My king," he began. "I come from the northern hamlet. I speak for those who work your fields, who fell your timber, who feed your soldiers."

He paused, then continued, his voice tightening :

"For more than a month, Ravok's men have been walking our forests as if they owned them. They take our game. They block the roads we use. We’re afraid. We don’t know what they want. They’re armed. We’ve seen them training at the edge of our villages. We don’t understand why your guards greet them, why they let them pass. They wear no insignia. They don’t bear your colors."

An older woman stepped forward beside him.

"We are frightened, Sire," she said quietly. "Afraid of what you’ve let in. What will become of us, living beside these barbarians?"

A hushed murmur moved through the chamber — not loud, but unmistakably tense. Disapproval hung in the air, restrained but palpable. The villagers' faces were tired. Worn. Offended.

Konrad stood still. He looked at them one by one, unflinching. His injured left hand rested quietly against his thigh. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and resolute.

"I hear your anger," he said. "It is valid. And I do not question your loyalty. But this kingdom still stands because we’ve managed to avoid needless war. Ravok is not a friend of the heart. He is a strategic choice. And if he sleeps under our roofs, it is so that he does not return one day to break down our gates with a thousand soldiers behind him."

He paused.

"This is temporary. Ravok and his nomad pack will remain only through the birthing season. Until then, as long as I rule, this land remains ours. But let me be clear : there is no unity without compromise. No peace without risk."

The farmer clenched his jaw. He didn’t dare argue—but his eyes said enough: he wasn’t convinced.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty… we are willing to endure hunger, cold, and hardship. But not fear. And not the shame of watching strangers walk our land while you refuse to call them either enemies or allies.”

Konrad’s response came sharp and measured. “I hear your concern. Now return to your people, and tell them this : I will not let harm come to you. All that is asked of you, for now, is patience. Bear the nomads’ presence a little longer, however unpleasant it may be.”

A heavy silence followed. Then, with a simple flick of his hand, the Wolf King dismissed the delegation from the northern hamlets. He watched them leave one by one, their steps slow and heavy, their faces drawn in quiet disappointment.

He knew what they were thinking.

Even his inner wolf could feel it, restless, uneasy.

He might have just begun to lose something he once believed unshakable : the trust of his people.

That night, alone in his chambers, Konrad reapplied the antidote to his wounded palm. The scar still wept. The skin around it remained dark. But the gash looked better than it had in weeks. It had reached a point where he no longer knew if it was on the verge of healing, or on the edge of festering.

Like everything else.

And for the first time in a long while, he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

*****

It was a sunny afternoon, bathed in amber light and the gentle warmth of spring.
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the war room swung open, letting in a sharp gust of fresh air. Konrad looked up from the report he’d only half been reading. Erik, perched at an angle against the table, froze.

A slim figure stood in the doorway, hands folded neatly, her dark eyes bright with quiet energy.

“I came just like we planned,” she announced. “Cassandre wrote to me.”

Her voice was soft but steady. She walked in with measured steps, her long chestnut braid draped over one shoulder. The travel-dusted linen tunic she wore stood in contrast to Erik’s partial armor and Konrad’s more formal attire.

“Lily-Ari,” Erik exhaled, straightening up. “You shouldn't have come all the way here alone. You should’ve told me. Or at least brought Mother with you. What do you think she’d say if she found out ?”

“I didn’t come alone. A royal coach passed through the southern trail — they dropped me off at the capital gates. Do you really think I can’t travel by myself at twenty-three ?”

“You’re an Omega,” Erik replied, his voice sharper than he’d intended. “You don’t get to enjoy the same freedoms as everyone else. Especially not right now.”

Konrad watched the exchange in silence, arms folded across his chest. He knew that tone well : it was Erik in full big-brother mode : smothering, overly protective, even when he meant well.

“Let her breathe, Erik,” he said at last. “She made it here in one piece. Shouldn’t you be glad she came ?”

“That’s not the point,” Erik snapped, clearly frustrated. “She has no idea what her position means.”

“I do,” Lily-Ari cut in. “More than you think. I also know my limits. And my rights.”

She turned to Konrad, looking for a hint of support. He answered with a faint but sincere smile. With her calm spirit and quiet resilience, Lily-Ari reminded him of his younger self. He had always treated her more like a foster sister than a subject. That bond had formed without words.

“You can stay at the castle for a few days,” Konrad offered. “The west wing room is still unoccupied, you’ll have more peace there. Cassandre should arrive tomorrow, assuming her carts don’t get stuck in the central marshes again.”

Erik rubbed his face, already exasperated at the idea. He pointed a finger at his sister.

“She doesn’t belong here,” he muttered. “She’s better off away from all this.”

“I’m still in the room, just so you know,” Lily-Ari snapped back. “And I’ll live wherever I damn well please. If you’ve got something to say, take it up with Mother.”

Konrad stepped toward her and briefly rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Let him grumble,” he said quietly. “He does it with everyone. Even me, sometimes.”

“Especially you,” she replied, with a smile.

A brief silence followed — light, almost familiar. Erik sighed again, turning back to the map sprawled across the table, as if trying to distance himself from the moment.

“And Jean?” Lily-Ari asked. “Is he here?”

“With the recruits,” Konrad said. “Training with the younger guards. He’ll stop by tonight. He’s quite fond of you, you know.”

“I like him too, but not like that,” she laughed. “Betas aren’t really my type.”

Erik let out a reluctant chuckle. Konrad allowed himself a wider smile. Lily-Ari turned her gaze to the tall window where golden threads of early evening light had begun to spill across the floor.

“I can’t wait to see Cassandre again. It’s been forever.”

“You’ll see for yourself,” Konrad replied. “She’s made quite a fortune with her trade routes. Built a name for herself across the continent. But deep down, she hasn’t changed.”

“I still don’t like you spending time with someone like her,” Erik muttered toward his sister. “She’s a bad influence.”

“No one asked you, Erik,” the Alpha interrupted as he gently steered Lily-Ari toward the exit.

He called over a nearby guard and instructed him to escort her to the west wing.

“Unless you'd rather I summon another Omega servant to show you the way ?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine, thank you, Konrad,” Lily-Ari said with a smile.

Erik looked like he was about to protest again, but fell silent the moment Konrad gave him a cold, warning look. Lily-Ari gave a small wave before following the guard out into the corridor.

*****

The next morning, the heavy castle gates swung open to admit Cassandre’s convoy. At first came the steady clatter of shod hooves on cobblestones, followed by the creak of iron-rimmed wagon wheels as they passed through the great gate leading to the drawbridge. The guards posted at the entrance immediately lowered their halberds in respect, and one hurried off to notify the steward :

“Lady Cassandre has arrived!”

The castle’s inner courtyard soon filled with the chaotic bustle of a procession that reeked of wealth. Eight wagons in all, drawn by well-fed horses, covered with thick tarps to shield their precious cargo : fine silks from the East, handwoven tapestries from southern workshops, sacks of spices heavy with clove, cinnamon, and black pepper, blocks of musk-scented soap, bottles of wine packed in straw crates. High-quality blacksmith tools, rare pigments, imported inks — all items that, in a remote kingdom, gained immediate value.

Cassandre, a Beta in her forties, was no ordinary merchant. She was a feared businesswoman across the continent, famed for her knack in spotting trends long before anyone else. She had started with modest caravans, buying pelts and reselling them three kingdoms away. Twenty years later, she managed a distribution network larger than some guilds’. She knew the roads, the lords, the customs, and most importantly : the people. When she wasn’t trading, she was listening. She had turned gossip into a powerful political tool.

The convoy was escorted by a dozen personal guards, armed with crossbows and clad in leather. One steward recorded the inventory of goods, while another managed the castle’s incoming stock. The horses were of fine breed, groomed to perfection, their bridles adorned with discreet silver filigree. It was like welcoming a princely envoy.

A man opened the door of the main carriage. Cassandre appeared. She wore a charcoal velvet dress of unmistakable quality, embroidered along the sleeves. Her fiery red hair was pulled into a tight bun, revealing dangling earrings of raw amber. Around her neck hung a delicate silver chain. She carried herself with commanding presence and undeniable charisma. She greeted those present with a warm smile, though her sharp gaze betrayed keen intelligence and unwavering confidence.

Konrad, standing at the top of the steps, descended to welcome her personally. He wore a dark wool coat embroidered with the royal pack’s coat of arms, his posture impeccable and upright despite the dull ache in his left hand, still hidden beneath a leather glove. To his left stood Erik, formally dressed but with a military bearing, his expression closed, hands clasped behind his back. Jean, nearby, wore ceremonial attire in neutral tones. Lily-Ari stood a little farther off, dressed in a simple but well-tailored beige gown, attentive and silent.

The castle’s diplomats, a few scribes, and the captains of the guards stood back in neat formation, lending the scene an almost ceremonial air.

Konrad descended the steps, crossed the courtyard without a word, and with a gesture both polite and deliberate, extended his arm for Cassandre to take as she stepped down. The woman took his hand, flashing a nearly provocative smile.

“King Konrad, ever the gentleman.”

Konrad bowed his head with a small diplomatic smile.

“Lady Cassandre, your arrival is always a pleasure.”

“You’re still surrounded by good company. Let me see...”

She nodded toward the steps.

“Erik, Jean... And this charming young lady must be... Lily-Ari ?”

Lily-Ari stepped forward, slightly intimidated but holding her ground.

“It’s been a while since we last saw each other.”

Cassandre approached and wrapped her in a brief embrace.

“You were barely knee-high the last time I saw you. You’ve changed a lot. I think you take after your mother more than Erik — lucky you.”

A smile spread across Lily-Ari’s lips, and Erik sighed loudly.

“No family comments, Cassandre.”

“Oh, come on, Erik. Relax.”

Jean chuckled quietly as Konrad invited the Beta to follow him.

“You’re welcome here,” he said. “Thank you for accepting my invitation. The banquet will be in three days, but I hope you’ll stay with us until then.”

“Of course. I have a few crates of goods that might interest you greatly.”

She leaned close to the Alpha’s ear and whispered :

“And between us, I wouldn’t miss the chance to take a closer look at the continent’s most controversial new alliance.”

Konrad said nothing for a moment. Of course, she would bring up his pact with Ravok eventually. His gaze darkened briefly, but he remained impassive.

“News travels fast, it seems.”

“Too fast. Between Ravok’s arrival and your fight with a dragon, everyone from the Wild Desert to the Deleskar Mountains is talking about you. Some see you as a bold king, others as a madman.”

Her voice dropped.

“As for me, I find you simply... fascinating.”

Erik rolled his eyes. Jean pretended to inspect his boots. Lily-Ari watched the scene amused.

“You’ll have plenty of time to judge me at dinner,” Konrad replied.

“With pleasure. But first, may I take a moment to settle in and refresh my people ? My convoy is exhausted.”

“Of course. My steward is waiting for you. Your quarters are ready.”

Cassandre nodded, satisfied.

“Then everything is perfect. I can’t wait to taste the royal kitchens and see if the rumors are as well seasoned as the dishes !”

Konrad gestured toward the castle’s interior.

“Come. After the meal, we’ll have some time before the next council. Let’s take that moment to talk... away from prying ears.”

Erik chuckled and gave Jean a friendly nudge in the ribs.

“Oh dear, our good old Konrad and his taste for older, independent women !”

The gates opened wide to welcome Cassandre’s delegation, who entered the courtyard with all the grace and weight of a woman used to having her place everywhere. Behind her, the wagons were methodically unloaded under the watchful eye of the steward. The murmurs in the courtyard now only concerned her. As always.

*****

The air in the chamber was warm, heavy with a mingling of sweat and incense. Shadows flickered softly, broken only by the faint crackling of embers in the hearth, wrapping the room in a quiet heat. Konrad sank back onto his back, his chest still rising and falling with the remnants of exertion, breath ragged. His eyes drifted up toward the ceiling as he tried to steady his breathing, when Cassandre, also naked, slipped beneath his arm and leaned against his broad, muscular shoulders.

She absentmindedly traced the line of his chest muscles with her fingertips, then followed the curve of his sharp ribs, before stopping on the black scar that marked his left palm.

“You really have no pride,” she murmured, teasing. “Letting yourself be mutilated by a man like Ravok…”

Konrad turned his head slightly to look at her, his gaze hard but tinged with amusement.

“That was either that, or war. And it’ll heal. Slowly.”

Cassandre snorted softly, disbelief in her laugh. She kissed his fingers gently.

“Slowly, yes. And you refused treatment like a stubborn fool. You know you’re driving everyone mad, even poor Erik ?”

“He’s been angry since birth. Doesn’t change much.”

This time she laughed more openly, resting her cheek against his shoulder, her arm curling around him with unexpected tenderness.

“You’re incredibly stubborn. And incredibly good.”

“Good ?”

“In bed.”

“How charming.”

A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the occasional pop of burning wood. Then Cassandre spoke again, her tone lighter.

“I’ve got news. Gossip, rumors, the usual whispers you love to ignore.”

Konrad grimaced.

“Go on.”

“Your villagers — especially those in the North — hate this alliance. Hate it. They fear Ravok, his men, their rituals. Some call it an unholy pact. There are words going around about you. Traitor. Madman. Subjugated.”

Konrad closed his eyes briefly. It wasn’t new to him.

“And the other kingdoms ?”

“Fascinated. Some admire it. Others question it. But one thing’s certain : the whole continent is talking about you. You’ve become the king who tamed the Enigma.”

“Tamed ? I’d say more ‘tolerated.’”

Cassandre slid her hand down his hip, stroking the hard muscles of his side. Then she added quietly :

“You know, I once did business with him. Ravok.”

“And ?”

“He’s terrifying. Every word carefully measured. His eyes… it’s like they dissect your soul. When he looks at you, it’s as if he’s peeling you apart.”

Cassandre shivered.

“As a Beta, I don’t normally sense pheromones, but his were overwhelming, suffocating. I’ve rarely felt so exposed. I had to put on my strongest mask, the one that lets nothing show. Even then, he saw through it. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You survived, though.”

“Because I know when to stay silent and when to bow. Not like a certain Alpha,” she added, pinching Konrad’s nose playfully.

She chuckled before growing more serious, her tone deepening.

“Through my travels, all my commercial dealings... Even for me, Ravok is on another level. I wouldn’t say he’s not… human. But he feels unpredictable, more animal, less civilized. It’s like he’s lived many lives, carrying the memories of a forgotten world.”

Konrad turned his head toward her, one brow raised.

“Do you believe in such things ? The Enigmas ? Old legends ?”

“Of course I do. I always have. The world is far older than our kingdoms, Konrad. There are things our books don’t even dare to mention. And after fighting a dragon, you’re the one still doubting ?”

The Alpha paused a long moment before answering.

“Fair. The dragon I fought was real. Massive. But it was still a creature of this world. Flesh and blood. Full of weaknesses. Not at all like the invincible beasts the myths talk about.”

“And it doesn’t unsettle you ? To know this world doesn’t belong to us as much as we like to think ? That we are not alone?” Cassandre asked.

“No. Creatures like that are so rare we mistake them for stories. And if they do still exist, then they live far from us — hidden, wild. And honestly ? That’s for the best.”

“What, are you scared of legendary beasts now ?” the redhead teased, a sly smile on her lips.

Konrad was silent for a moment, then shrugged.

“Scared ? No. They’re just not my concern. My job is to protect my pack and my kingdom. Any magical creature lurking in the skies, the depths, or the shadows doesn’t matter to me. Unless it threatens my land.”

“Pragmatic philosophy.”

“Realistic. I’m no longer the age to chase after fairy tales.”

Cassandre snuggled back against him, her fingers lazily drawing circles on his muscled chest.

“And your ruts ? Still as rare as ever ?”

Konrad gave a wry, joyless smile.

“One a year. Two, if I’m lucky. The physicians talk about hormonal imbalances. Some think it’s due to stress and exhaustion. That I’m overworking myself.”

“Shame. I would’ve liked to spend your next rut with you. Like old times.”

He turned his eyes to her.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. Cassandre...”

She sighed, resigned.

“Ah, is this the part where you break up with me ?”

“Not break up. Just take a step back. I’ve truly valued what we’ve had these past few years. But I need to sort things out. With myself. With the pack. With everything I’m going through right now.”

“You mean with Ravok.”

He didn’t answer.

Cassandre let herself fall back against the pillow.

“So you waited until after we slept together to tell me ? You rogue.” She smirked. “I’ll forgive you — but only because you’re hands-down the best lay I’ve ever had. And probably the most insufferable.”

Konrad chuckled softly.

“You knew what you were getting into.”

“I know. That’s why I’ll come back. When you’re done playing the tormented king.”

“Deal.”

Cassandre kissed his shoulder, then closed her eyes.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Konrad. Your kingdom is watching. And so am I.”

She yawned, her voice tired.

“Looking forward to the banquet.”

Konrad stayed silent. In the shadows, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, but his mind was already elsewhere — Ravok. The pack. The villagers from the North. The rumors. The choices.

The black scar on his left hand still throbbed beneath his skin as sleep finally claimed him.

*****

The cool dawn air drifted in through the wide, half-open windows, carrying the scent of the forests that bordered the capital. Konrad hadn’t slept much. The conversation with Cassandre the night before played on an endless loop in his mind, mingling with the rumors, the complaints of the northern villagers, and Erik’s sharp criticisms. It all piled up into a silent storm that kept him from rest. He needed to speak with Ravok.

The Enigma had been invited to the banquet for both practical and political reasons : several of Konrad’s allied kingdoms had shown growing interest in meeting Ravok. Some saw it as an opportunity to establish trade relations ; others simply wished to observe him up close. As host, Konrad couldn’t afford to ignore this dynamic. It was better to officially integrate Ravok than to risk others taking the initiative beyond his control.

So that morning, Konrad made a clear decision : he needed to meet with Ravok before the banquet, which would take place in two days. He had to speak with the Enigma to lay down the rules, ensure that his men would respect local customs, and that they understood the role they were expected to play in this alliance. They needed to realize that the banquet would be a highly political moment, with many allies watching and judging the strength of this pact.

Konrad pulled on his reinforced linen hunting tunic, a dark leather jerkin, and his supple boots. He strapped his twin sabers across his back, took a hunting dagger, a short bow, and a half-filled quiver. His left hand was still weak ; he would rely on the right. At his belt, he added a satchel containing clean cloth strips, a vial of strong alcohol, and a small bundle of dried meat.

He didn’t intend to hunt seriously, but he wanted to have a plausible reason for being there.

He made his way down to the stables. His bay stallion was waiting, saddled, groomed, ready. The groom had done a quick, efficient job. Without a word, Konrad mounted, his expression unreadable, and rode out through the eastern gate, where the forest trails began.

After more than a month of his own observations — and reports from his guards —, the Alpha knew Ravok hunted regularly at dawn, venturing deep into the woods for hours. The timing was precise. He had calculated his chances to cross paths.

And he’d been right.

Around a clearing downhill, he spotted the mercenary group. He immediately noticed Ravok mounted on his mare, Seraya : her stunning golden champagne coat, pink nostrils, and piercing blue eyes full of intelligence left no doubt. She wore only a simple white cord around her neck, yet seemed perfectly controlled, as if anticipating every move of her rider.

Konrad found it hard to pull his eyes away. His inner wolf, for all its bloodlust, had always had a taste for beauty — and this was beauty, no doubt about it.

Three of Ravok’s men accompanied him, all familiar faces.

There was the stocky one, all muscle and bad attitude, with the look of a bear roused too early from hibernation. A bristling mustache, a perpetually sour glare — that was Guo, Konrad recalled. The man rode a massive black warhorse that looked almost absurd beneath his short frame. Always scowling, as if morning dew personally offended him.

Beside him, a tall, awkward  woman whose legs dangled awkwardly on either side of her mount like twigs. Her blond braids swung as she laughed to herself, a laugh too loud for no one’s joke. Oya, of course.

Lastly, a broad-shouldered, one-eyed Alpha, calm and reserved, riding at a slow pace — Garron, Ravok’s right hand.

Konrad nudged his stallion forward. The hooves scraped softly against the fresh humus. As soon as he was within speaking distance, Ravok slowly turned around. He didn’t look surprised. Of course not. The Enigma had likely sensed him coming minutes ago.

“Konrad,” Ravok said with a faint, mocking smile. “I thought I’d never see you again. You disappeared right after the blood rite.”

Come to think of it, it had been nearly a month since they last crossed paths.

“I had some business to attend to,” Konrad replied. "But there are matters between us that need to be settled."

Ravok’s eyes flicked briefly to the bow and twin swords strapped across the Alpha’s back. His smirk widened slightly. With a hint of humor, he said :

"Sounds serious. Though I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing you say while showing up that heavily armed — unless it is a threat."

Konrad shrugged, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"You never know what you might find in the woods. Can we talk for a moment ?"

Ravok’s companions straightened in their saddles, tense and wary. The Enigma studied Konrad for a long moment, then gave a single look to his men. No words. No gestures. They all flinched, surprised, but immediately understood the silent order.

Guo clicked his tongue in disapproval and turned his horse with a grunt, mumbling into his beard. Oya rolled her eyes, threw a theatrical wave like a court jester mocking royalty. Garron, the one-eyed Alpha, gave a slight nod of respect toward Konrad before guiding his horse after the others, following them to the forest’s edge until all three faded into blurred silhouettes between the trees.

Now, only Ravok and Konrad remained. Just the wind rustling the leaves, the soft clop of hooves on damp earth.

“What brings you here ?” Ravok asked.

“You agreed to attend the banquet. What are your plans ?”

“To eat and drink. Nothing too extravagant.”

Konrad sighed, more in mock annoyance than real frustration.

"I want to make sure your words — and your actions — stay aligned with the terms of our pact. I doubt you’ve had much experience with this kind of gathering."

Ravok smirked.

"You mean, I’m better at burning cities to the ground than clinking glasses with kings and barons ?"

“...Something like that.”

Seraya tossed her head, and Ravok calmed her with a quiet hand on her neck.

"You’re right," he said. "I’ve never needed allies. Never wanted them, either. But it’s the birthing season, and for the next five months, I’m stuck doing nothing. Figured a little distraction wouldn’t hurt."

A political banquet among the kingdom’s most powerful lords — a mere “distraction” ???

Konrad gave a dry snort.

“You never take anything seriously, do you ?”

“Why would I ?” the Enigma replied. “We’re only here for a short time. Might as well enjoy ourselves when we can. Who knows ? The banquet could be entertaining. I like watching power dynamics among other wolves. Seeing who dominates, who bends. Nothing like a little theater to read a man’s soul.”

The Alpha didn’t rise to the bait. He’d grown used to the Enigma’s way of dressing venom in velvet.

“And do you plan to forge alliances with any of the lords attending ?”

Ravok shrugged, already looking bored with the idea.  

“Probably not. I’m just coming to see what they’re worth. To size up my company.”

Konrad nodded, satisfied with the answer. Then Ravok’s eyes flicked to the Alpha’s bandaged hand. The cloth was clean, fresh. No trace of blood. But Konrad knew better than to think he could fool the Enigma — his senses were too sharp. He could probably smell the infection from here.

“Your hand,” Ravok said flatly. “It’s not healing.”

Konrad took a slow breath.

“It got infected,” he admitted. “I neglected it. Had too much going on to deal with it.”

Ravok’s face darkened instantly. The usual calm in his features hardened, a flicker of cold fury tightening his jaw. His voice dropped, sharper now, almost glacial.

"Where I come from, a healer who lets a wound fester is a dead man. We hang him at the edge of camp. As a warning."

Konrad didn’t flinch. He simply raised an eyebrow and gave one of his rare crooked smirks.

"Here, we just dock their pay."

A short sound escaped Ravok — half laugh, half grunt of approval.

“Not bad.”

An almost conspiratorial silence settled between them.

“Shall we hunt ?” Ravok finally suggested, straightening his back.

Konrad frowned. He hadn’t planned to hunt. He had only wanted to ensure the Enigma wouldn’t turn the banquet into some display of dominance or blood-soaked spectacle. Afterwards, he intended to return quietly to the castle, see Lily-Ari, talk with Cassandre, and spend the last two days locking down the  final logistical details.

“Just the two of us,” Ravok added. “The others would slow us down.”

Konrad weighed his options in a heartbeat. He already had his bow, his blades, his supplies. He had planned a ride anyway.

Might as well.

“I suppose a detour wouldn’t hurt,” he said, tone casual.

Ravok gave a satisfied smile. Then, without a word or a visible cue, Seraya launched into a gallop, hooves drumming against the soft ground with lethal grace. Konrad pressed his heels to his stallion’s flanks and gave chase. The sharp rhythm of hooves rang out through the woods, mingling with the hush of leaves brushing against them.

As the sun barely pierced the dense canopy, the two figures slipped into the forest side by side and vanished, swallowed by trees.

Chapter Text

Pale sunlight filtered through the canopy in soft halos. The air smelled of damp moss, manure, and wet leaves. Hooves splashed through puddles along the forest trail.

As usual, Konrad rode a heavily adorned bay stallion. The leather saddle gleamed with polish, the stirrups were polished to a mirror shine, and silver spurs caught the light with every movement. A breastplate kept the tack tight, while a stiff bit pulled lightly at the horse’s mouth, making him carry his head arched and disciplined. A branded crest marked the royal domain on his flank. Every strap and rein was a reminder that this animal belonged to something greater than itself.

Ravok rode Seraya. No saddle. No bit. Just a thin cord around her neck and a rough animal pelt cushioning his seat. The mare’s bare hooves made far less noise than the stallion's shod ones. Ravok wore no cloak or decorations. A longbow was slung across his back, and a few fletched arrows hung at his belt beside a worn, curved knife. He looked more hunter than lord.

They rode with distance between them, each following his own path — parallel lines from separate worlds.

"Do you hunt often ?" Konrad asked, his voice calm but clear, breaking the morning silence.

Ravok turned his head slightly, without slowing Seraya’s steady trot.

"Every day. If not me, then someone else. Hunting is essential where I come from."

Konrad gave a slight nod, eyes scanning the cleared paths ahead.

"For sport ? Training ? Or to feed your people ?"

"To feed the pack. Especially during birthing season. We need to stock meat. Game, roots, fruit — whatever the land offers. We don't farm. We adapt to the land we settle in."

Konrad raised an eyebrow.

"A demanding way to live."

"A free one."

A brief silence settled between them. Konrad absently ran a gloved hand down his stallion’s mane. The animal held its head high, but its eyes betrayed a restrained unease.

"Here," Konrad resumed, "we do hunt, but rarely out of necessity. Livestock and agriculture sustain us. Sheep for wool, pigs and poultry for meat. Hunting is more a sport or tradition."

Ravok let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"Animals fattened in cages their whole lives, slaughtered without a fight. Fed, pampered, killed without ever tasting freedom. Is that how men are treated in your kingdom, too ?"

Konrad ignored the jab.

"We call it subsistence economy."

"You can dress up domestication in polite words all you want — it doesn't change what it is. You want everything handed to you. You like what doesn’t fight back."

Konrad glanced sharply at him.

"And you, do you only value what resists you ?"

Ravok’s smile was sharp, void of innocence.

"Exactly. It's more interesting that way. Anything that yields too easily isn’t worth much."

Konrad had the unpleasant sense there were layers to Ravok's words — he chose to ignore them.

They rode on. The trees began to thin, their mounts breathing heavily but keeping pace. Konrad cast a look at Seraya's lack of harness.

"No bridle, no saddle," he noted. "And she roams freely outside the stables. That’s the first time I’ve seen a horse treated like a wild animal."

Ravok ran a hand along Seraya’s neck. She didn’t slow, but closed her eyes, clearly enjoying the gesture.

"She is wild. And she doesn’t belong to me. She lets me ride because she chooses to. I couldn't force her, even if I tried."

Konrad stared at her, unable to look away. Back home, horses were broken in from a young age. Tied, trained, taught to obey voice, leg, and rein. They followed. They submitted. They were shaped for service, tools for the rider. Not companions — certainly not equals. Seeing Seraya unrestrained yet obedient was absurd. How could a mare just... stay, comply, allow a rider without being broken in ?

"That kind of bond is rare," the Alpha remarked quietly.

"Not where I come from."

Konrad lightly flicked his reins. His stallion picked up speed. Ravok followed effortlessly — no signal, no command —, Seraya matching the rhythm on her own.

"Her name is Seraya, isn’t it ?" Konrad asked suddenly.

"That’s the name she carries, yes."

"You gave it to her ?"

A pause.

"Not exactly," Ravok replied. "It was a name that suited her. One she accepted. In our culture, animals don’t get named — they either recognize a name, or they don’t."

Konrad frowned slightly.

"And what does it mean ? Seraya."

"In my language ? Untamed."

The word landed with quiet finality. Konrad repeated it to himself. Untamed. Ravok glanced his way, faint amusement in his eyes.

"And your stallion ? What’s his name ?"

Konrad opened his mouth, then hesitated. A small crease formed between his brows. He almost never used the horse’s name. He barely remembered it.

"Uh..." he thought aloud. "Royal Flame of the Levant. The Third."

Ravok blinked.

"You’re joking."

"I’m not. Royal Flame of the Levant, the Third. He comes from the Levant line. It’s a prestigious bloodline. His sire was Royal Flame of the Levant the Second, and so on. The name follows a lineage. It’s how we track breeding, ownership, history."

He added :  

"His father was a top stallion who served two kings. He’s in the royal registries, like all his ancestors."

Ravok raised his eyebrows.

"You name your beasts like inventory records."

Konrad simply replied, tone even :

"It’s efficient. Helps preserve lineage, ensure the animal’s quality."

Ravok let out a quiet, dismissive scoff.

"How dull."

A heavier silence settled over them. They rode on without a word, accompanied only by the sounds of the forest. Seraya’s hoofbeats were soft against the moss, a muted rhythm that contrasted with the sharper clatter of Konrad’s shod stallion. The trees grew thicker, their branches heavier with foliage, dimming the light. The dirt road faded, giving way to narrow paths only the forest’s frequent visitors could decipher.

Suddenly, Ravok raised a hand — a brief, silent signal. Konrad gently pulled his reins, halting beside him. The nomad closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He tilted his head in a precise direction, then shifted his posture, dismounted, and crouched down, fingers parting the leaf litter on the forest floor. He remained motionless for several seconds, breathing in the scent of the earth.

“A herd,” he murmured, without looking up. “Not far. Ten, maybe more.”

Konrad lifted a brow. He hadn’t seen anything — no movement, no tracks. Even with his heightened senses, he had only picked up the mingled smells of wild plants and damp soil. But Ravok didn’t seem uncertain. He stood, gestured toward the right, where the trees began to thin out.

“If we approach from both sides, they’ll scatter. Take the east. Keep the wind at your back — but not too close. They’re quick to catch a shift in the air.”

Konrad gave a terse nod, tension creeping into his shoulders. He adjusted the bow strapped across his back, wincing as his left hand closed around the grip. His palm hadn’t fully healed — the tight burn of the scar flared in protest. Under his breath, he muttered :

“I should have brought the crossbow.”

No one responded. Ravok was already gone, disappearing into the undergrowth, hunched low, nearly crawling. Seraya followed without a sound, keeping her distance. No command. No cue. As if they shared a language beyond words. As if this was a game they’d played a hundred times before.

Still on horseback, Konrad took his time skirting the woods. He tried to move with more care, but his stallion struggled to go unnoticed. Branches snapped under its hooves, and twice he startled birds from the underbrush. He wasn’t built for this kind of terrain — and he knew it. Where he came from, hunting was a performance : beaters, hounds, horns, ambushes. The game was flushed out, cornered, and the nobleman merely had to fire the final bolt to complete the spectacle. It was all a noisy ritual. Never did a hunter have to crouch to the ground or crawl through leaves.

Far ahead, Ravok moved quickly, low to the earth. He had left Seraya behind, motionless behind a thicket. He, half-crouched, studied the signs. Fresh tracks, deep in the damp soil. A broken twig, brushed recently. A tuft of fur clinging to bark.

He looked up. There, between two trunks — a flicker of reddish-brown fur. A doe. Young. Slightly apart from the herd. She grazed, head down, her ears rotating gently. She hadn’t yet noticed his presence.

Ravok crouched lower. He drew an arrow, nocked it, and remained perfectly still. He waited for his own breath to settle. Then he inhaled deeply, tasting the air. He drew the bowstring. No hesitation. Only the cold assurance of an apex predator. His fingers gripped the string with precision. He aimed just behind the base of the neck. The angle was good. He released.

The hiss of the arrow was clean. The doe barely had time to lift her head. The shaft pierced beneath her shoulder blade. She leapt forward a few paces, stumbled, then collapsed onto her side.

The rest of the deer bolted at once, scattering with sudden, elegant bursts into the dense woods. Konrad swore, spurred his stallion, and gave chase at a gallop.

Ravok did not move. He watched, waited for the injured animal to stop struggling. When her limbs no longer twitched, he approached slowly. He whispered something in his tongue — barely audible. Then he drew his knife and began to skin the kill with practiced ease. His hands worked quickly, efficiently. Every movement was clean, assured. He set aside the viscera, sliced the tendons, and drained the blood.

Hands stained red to the wrists, he hoisted the carcass over his shoulders, then gently slid it onto Seraya’s back. The mare had approached quietly, as if sensing that the task was complete.

He tied the doe with a coarse rope made of plant fibers. A quick knot — firm, unyielding. Seraya exhaled softly, showing no discomfort.

The Enigma straightened, wiped the blade on his own thigh, then scanned the surroundings. The sounds were distant. Konrad had gone off after the stags, relying on a different kind of hunt.

To the east, Konrad’s stallion galloped with furious weight. Iron-shod hooves pounded the earth, sending clumps of wet soil flying. Konrad held the reins tight, eyes locked on the silhouettes of the deer leaping between trees.

The Alpha pulled an arrow from his quiver and clumsily nocked it. His left palm burned. Every draw of the string made him wince.

He aimed at a stag weaving through the branches, fired. The arrow veered and sank into a tree with a dull thud. He growled, loosed a second shot — this one more desperate. Another miss. The deer was already bounding away, almost out of range.

He cursed, breath short, then spotted another animal — slower, perhaps wounded or young. This one lagged behind the herd. Konrad adjusted his aim, took a moment this time, drew carefully despite the pain, and released. The arrow sliced through the air and struck the animal’s flank. The stag staggered, collapsed after a few erratic steps.

He slowed, dismounted. His right shoulder ached from the strain, and his left hand trembled. Approaching the body, he wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The shot was clean — not perfect, but fatal at least.

He drew his knife, spun it briefly in his fingers, then hesitated. He had never skinned a beast himself. It wasn’t something he did. Kneeling beside the carcass, he hesitated once more. Never mind — he would carry the whole thing back and leave it to the castle skinner, whose hands were used to the mess of blood and hide.

When he finally rejoined Ravok, the stag lay draped over his horse’s haunches. The Enigma was waiting for him, leaning casually against a tree trunk, arms crossed, silent.

The Wolf King's stallion was drenched in sweat, foam coating the bit, its flanks hollowed from exertion. The king pulled off his gloves and inspected his left hand. The leather stuck slightly, damp with sweat. Then, without bothering to hide the discomfort in his tone, he said :

“I’m far more accurate with a crossbow. Especially since my injury.”

Ravok didn’t reply immediately. His gaze slid briefly over the stag, then to Konrad’s hand, and finally to the heaving horse, foam gathering at its lips. He straightened, stepped closer, unhurried.

“A crossbow ? Is that not a weapon for battlements and ambushes — not for the hunt ?”

Konrad shrugged.

“We also use traps. They’re more efficient. Sometimes we leave a bait out for days. Then we simply return — when the game’s already caught. Works well enough.”

Ravok stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t answer right away. A silence hung between them, heavy and deliberate. Then, in a calm voice, laced with quiet disdain, he said :

“So, you set traps, you wait, and then you come back to harvest the result ?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the effort in that ? The danger ? The thrill ? You are not hunting, you are collecting.”

Konrad held his gaze. There was no anger — just a flicker of genuine incomprehension.

“In our lands, efficiency is key. The aim is to feed mouths. Or to provide a spectacle, in the case of a royal hunt.”

Ravok’s lips curled faintly.

“Ah. I see. So it is not hunting. Merely logistics... or theatre. I call that well-dressed laziness.”

Konrad was about to respond, but Ravok turned without another word, taking a few steps to mount his mare.

He let it go. Clearly, two worlds stood between them. Two worlds drawn apart by a fine, invisible line neither could cross.

The morning stretched on uneventfully. At times, they dismounted, climbing through rougher terrain, skirting a half-frozen brook. They found burrows, inspected tracks in the mud, flushed out a few rabbits. Konrad set snares in strategic places, using a blend of bait to lure small rodents. Ravok, for his part, hunted by sight. With his bow, he brought down two swift birds in mid-flight. One arrow, a sharp cry, and the body fell soundlessly into the leaves.

The Enigma carried the small game in a leather satchel he’d retrieved from his saddlebag — worn, dark, stained, but perfectly serviceable.

Konrad, meanwhile, collected the snared rabbits and tied them to his saddle by the hind legs, hanging by twisted cords. The contrast was stark : on one side, prey strangled or suffocated, eyes wide, frozen. On the other, animals swiftly felled, cleanly pierced through the neck.

They had been walking side by side for several minutes now. Silence had returned. They moved steadily through the dense forest, not quite aimless, yet neither seemed eager to find the main path again.

The trees began to thin. The light shifted in texture — less filtered, sharper. The ground turned softer underfoot, with fewer roots and a thicker carpet of moss.

Then, without warning, the forest opened onto a luminous clearing.

It was broad, perfectly circular, carpeted with low grass and wildflowers. At its center, a waterfall sprang from a rocky fold, casting sunrays into soft, iridescent halos. A river crossed the glade from west to east — peaceful, crystalline. Around it, wildflowers bloomed in dense clusters : cornflowers, wood carnations, foxgloves. Insects droned gently, and high above, a buzzard soared in silence.

The place felt unreal. As if nature itself had chosen to reveal perfection here, far from any gaze. A sanctuary — untouched, unmarked. No footprints, no trails, no signs. Nothing but wind, water, and light.

Konrad came to a halt and dismounted, his gaze sweeping slowly across the entire landscape. He was awestruck — but the pride of an Alpha compelled him to mask his wonder.

“I was not aware of this place,” he said, more to himself than to Ravok.

But the latter answered at once, his tone calm, almost composed :

“It was here that I resolved to take your kingdom. From this very spot.”

Konrad turned his head. The nomad had remained on horseback, upright, his eyes fixed on the cascade.

“You mean to say…?”

“I came from the East. Camped in the woods for two days with my men. Then I stumbled upon this clearing. And I thought to myself — this land is far worthier than what I’d been told. That despite the birthing season and the weakening of my army, it was worth marching once more, to seize this soil.”

He turned his gaze to Konrad — not hostile, but with a raw, unflinching intensity.

“This is the kind of beauty one does not find elsewhere.”

A silence settled between them. A faint breeze stirred the grass, rippling through the clearing like the surface of water. Konrad stood motionless for a moment, caught between unease and annoyance. He examined the edges, vaguely recognized the distant ridgelines… But no, he had never set foot here. Nor had his men. This place was on no map. Likely an omission. Or an oversight.

The Alpha loathed oversights.

“You think a landscape alone justifies a conquest ?” he asked at last, a tinge of irritation in his voice.

“Perhaps,” Ravok replied. “But this clearing spoke to me. It told me your hold as king was too weak, too distracted to truly deserve this land.”

His words were cruel, but not mocking.

Konrad clenched his jaw, yet said nothing. He took a few paces into the grass, hands clasped behind his back. His stallion’s hooves trampled the wildflowers with no regard. Seraya, meanwhile, had remained at the edge of the glade, watchful but aloof.

“Such beauty, squandered,” Ravok continued. “I hold the belief that no land should belong to any kingdom, to any man. We are merely passing through. The earth is never truly ours.”

Konrad did not answer immediately. But in that instant, his gaze did not waver from Ravok’s. It lingered — colder, more calculating.

Then he turned away. He felt caught off guard, exposed. The magnificence of the place, the intimacy of the hunt, the silence shared… he had let himself relax.

The Alpha slowly turned his back to the river, jaw clenched.

What a fool.

Ravok was no companion. He was not a friend. Not even an ally in the truest sense. He was a conqueror. A predator. An Enigma. And he, Konrad, had behaved like a gracious host, like a courtier entertaining a guest. He had shown him his lands, shared his game, walked by his side as if among equals. He had spoken to him as one might to an old acquaintance.

How could you forget ?

Yes, he had forgotten who Ravok was. What that name carried, what this man embodied. The Enigma was not like other men — he obeyed no one but himself. He owed nothing, held no rightful domain, served no court, no system, no law.

He was, in the end, nothing more than an intruder on the lands of the Wolf King.

A slow burn of irritation rose within Konrad — a quiet fury, directed as much at himself as at Ravok. He had let his guard down. He had risked the humiliation of forgetting, of treating this man as an equal. Which he was not.

He had seen the way Ravok hunted. The ease with which he tracked his prey, brought them down with uncanny precision. The almost disarming naturalness of his violence. It was in his nature — to be an animal, to be a gifted predator.

And he, Konrad, had made peace with that. As if it were normal. As if he were dealing with an ordinary man.

The Alpha lifted his chin, glanced briefly at his horse. Then, with no trace of emotion, he said:

“It is time to head back.”

Ravok did not respond right away. He turned toward him, one brow arched, as if registering the shift in tone. Then he nodded with composure, unoffended :

“Of course. We’ve lingered long enough.”

The Enigma gave a soft whistle. Seraya snorted, stepped closer, her sharp eyes briefly scanning Konrad with something like curiosity.

“I do hope you won’t lose your way on the return journey,” Ravok added, his tone light, almost amused. “It would be unfortunate for a king to become lost in his own forest.”

Konrad halted abruptly. His expression hardened — sharper now, tighter, colder. Ravok had a talent for provoking without overt mockery, with just enough edge to unsettle.

The Alpha couldn’t believe it. How had he let himself grow so careless around this man ?

“Spare me your barbs, Ravok. We’ve more pressing matters to attend to, I believe.”

His tone was clipped, defensive, taut.

The Enigma did not insist. He turned toward Seraya. Konrad, meanwhile, made a move to mount his horse.

That was when Ravok called out to him. His voice was calm, but resolute.

“Wait.”

Konrad froze mid-motion, without turning back.

Ravok lifted his gaze toward Konrad’s stallion, assessing the beast’s endurance with a glance.

“Is your stallion strong ?” he asked.

Konrad nodded, warily. He had yet to grasp the purpose behind the question.

“He is. If you're wondering whether he can carry more — yes, he can.”

Ravok said nothing. He turned to Seraya, unfastened the dead doe from her croup, and lifted it in a smooth, precise motion that betrayed no effort. The animal looked light in his arms. He turned back, the prey slung over one shoulder, and approached Konrad.

But this time, he stepped into Konrad’s personal space with unflinching confidence. No warning. No preamble.

Konrad almost stepped back — but his body held still.

Ravok halted before him, close enough that, had he listened carefully, Konrad might have heard the rhythm of his heart. The scent struck him first : the warm musk of worn leather, the dampness of soil, the flesh of freshly killed game... and that other scent. The scent of the Enigma.
It wasn’t that of an Alpha, nor that of an Omega. It was something else. Something feral that gripped the gut, that seeped beneath the skin. A scent of heat, of smoke, of a fire smoldering deep.

Ravok tilted his head slightly, as though gauging the right angle. Then, with slow control, he slid the doe off his shoulder and guided it toward the stallion’s hindquarters. His arms passed dangerously close to Konrad’s chest, brushing him — barely. An almost accidental contact. Almost.

A knot formed in Konrad’s stomach. Not fear. Not exactly. Something more elusive. Like static under the skin. A slow bloom of heat.

He became suddenly aware of their solitude. They were alone. Isolated. Not a guard in sight, not a patrol on the horizon. If Ravok chose to slit his throat here and now… no one would stop him.
And his body might never be found.

Out here, he was no longer a king.

He swallowed hard. Didn’t flinch. But his fingers curled into fists. He was wrestling with himself.
With that shiver crawling up his spine. That sudden, dizzying pull.

Ravok busied himself tying the straps around the doe, his movements slow and deliberate. Focused. Muscles tensed with each motion, drawing clean, powerful lines beneath his clothes. His shoulders rolled with strength, and the veins along his forearms rose each time he worked the cord. Several times, his arms brushed against Konrad’s as he adjusted the bindings.

It was a masculine image. Raw. Mesmerizing.

Then, with a movement almost too subtle to notice, Ravok leaned in just a little closer. His nostrils flared — and Konrad swore, silently, that he had just… sniffed him.

A faint breath against his neck. Perhaps nothing more than an exhale. A stray gust of air.
But his inner wolf knew better.

He had felt it. Ravok had breathed him in.

As one might recognize another of their kind. As a predator tests the charge in the air around its prey. Or as a wolf scents its equal.

Ravok tightened the final knot. His arms grazed Konrad once more before withdrawing — slowly, as if there had never been any tension at all.

The doe now hung securely from the stallion’s flank.

Ravok stepped back before turning away. He mounted Seraya in one fluid motion, without so much as a backward glance. But just as he was about to leave, he said simply :

“The doe is yours. Make good use of my offering.”

And without waiting for a reply, he vanished at a gallop, swallowed by the trees, consumed by the forest.

Konrad remained where he stood, alone. Breathing fast. Sweating. He wiped his forehead with a sharp gesture, trying to collect his thoughts. But his senses were still clouded, his body still vibrating from the contact. It took him a long moment to find his footing again.

What the hell just happened ?

The Alpha laid a hand on the doe. The strap was still warm. The scent of the kill, mixed with Ravok’s own, clung to the ropes. He stood there, eyes unfocused, brows drawn, not yet mounting his horse.

An offering.

It struck him. This was no simple gift.

It was a symbol.

Wolves do not share prey. Not without a reason. They hunt for the pack.

Or for a mate.

The word rang in his skull. He shoved it aside.

But the signs were there. The morning hunt. The silence. The shared space. The way time stretched between them, charged. Ravok, who lives only by instinct, who plays with words but treats gestures like sacred codes.

This wasn’t coincidence. Nor was it pure intimidation.

Perhaps it was another kind of dominance. Another kind of power play.

He was courting him.

Ravok. The Enigma. The warlord. The king-slayer.

He was courting him.

The realization hit like a blade — sharp, searing. And Konrad couldn’t tell if he was outraged… or terrified by what it stirred in him.

He chose not to put a name to that feeling.

*****

The late morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, painting the corridors in glints of gold and crimson. The castle still seemed to slumber, but Lily-Ari could no longer remain still in her chambers.

She ventured out into the castle, wandering without clear purpose, unescorted, her hands clasped behind her back. She descended the secondary staircases that led to the lower levels — where the servants lived, where stores were kept.

She barely knew this part of the palace. It was not her place. She had never come down alone. But curiosity got the better of her.

The corridor opened into a large vaulted hall where carts laden with cloth, grain, and provisions arrived for daily sorting. Two women were chatting as they picked through baskets of roots. The workload must have doubled since Cassandre’s arrival with her caravan of goods. The servants paused at the sight of her, straightening instinctively.

"Lady Lily-Ari… have you lost your way ?" asked one of them, a redhead with sun-browned skin and hands still covered in earth. She looked very young — no older than fifteen.

"No. I was only looking for a breath of fresh air. I came down without thinking."

She gave her a warm, genuine smile. The other woman, much older, inclined her head slightly.

"If it’s air you seek, there’s an opening near the kitchens. From there, you’ll have a clear view of the valley."

"Thank you. May I stay here for a while ? I won’t be in the way."

The two servants exchanged a surprised glance. Then the redhead shrugged.

"As you wish, my lady."

She hesitated just a second too long before adding :

"...But the servants here have loose tongues. You’ll hear things — don’t pay them too much mind, my lady."

"I never take gossip seriously, if that’s what worries you," Lily-Ari replied with a smile.

The Omega sat on an old stone bench. She watched the comings and goings in silence. The underground life of the castle. Everything seemed orderly here. But she felt sideways glances, whispers whenever she looked away. Servants, peasants, villagers. Dozens of people must have passed through the hall in just a few minutes. And sometimes, fragments of sentences reached her, half-spoken.

"They’ve raised the rations for the soldiers again…"
"While we’re left eating the scraps…"
"…Ten years serving the kingdom in silence, and now they talk of requisitioning the granaries ?"

Lily-Ari frowned. She knew nothing about the kingdom’s policies, the rations, the requisitions, the taxes. Those were matters for Jean and Konrad. She was about to speak, to ask the two servants for more information when suddenly, the young redhead began humming an old song. It was a pre-war ballad, a forgotten hymn sung only before Konrad’s reign.

"This song… I know it !" Lily-Ari exclaimed.

The girl looked up, surprised.

"Oh… It’s rarely sung nowadays. My parents taught it to me."

"Really ? That song cradled my childhood. It brings back good memories, despite the civil war."

The servant smiled, a little embarrassed.

"I didn’t know the civil war, I was too young…"

"Good for you," Lily-Ari breathed.

The young servant cast a furtive glance at her older companion, afraid of making a misstep, of revealing something compromising. The other woman was busy taking inventory of vegetables and wasn’t listening to their conversation. The redhead continued, lowering her voice this time :

"My parents lived through the civil war. They said that without King Konrad, we would have lost everything. He’s the one who saved the country."

Lily-Ari slowly nodded. Those words echoed what she herself felt. She remembered too — the civil war that had torn the kingdom apart ten years ago. The old tyrant king. The uprising of the people. Konrad, the son of commoners, who had raised an army at just eighteen. Who had marched on the capital. Who had overthrown the throne. And who had conquered the hearts and loyalty of all his subjects.

She had watched the kingdom rise from its ashes. She had seen Konrad rebuild, brick by brick — arbitrate, listen, punish without cruelty. She knew the complexity of his reign, what it had cost.

"Konrad is a good and fair king," Lily-Ari said firmly.

"Yes," the young servant replied. "But I’ve heard some say that His Majesty’s kindness is taken for weakness. You know… with Lord Ravok…"

The Omega clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"That’s wrong," she said with conviction. "He did what had to be done to avoid another war. His decision wasn’t easy, but it was necessary."

The servant’s eyes widened, and she lifted her hands in submission.

"That’s not what I meant, Lady Lily-Ari ! I completely agree with you ! I was only repeating what people say ! Please forgive me."

The Omega waved her hand to calm the girl.

"No need to apologize ! You’re free to speak your mind with me. I won’t tell anyone."

But the redheaded girl melted into apologies and silently returned to sorting vegetables, no longer speaking, no longer humming. Lily-Ari was saddened to see that the servants didn’t feel free to speak their minds without fear.

She sighed, then rose and continued on her way. She passed through the kitchens, the corridors, the storage rooms. Farther on, in a spiral hallway, she caught sight of two men crouched down, whispering.

All morning long, between the enormous pots, the rhythm of the carts, and the sound of sweeping brooms, one word kept resurfacing. Always the same.

"Taxes."

When the Omega appeared, the two men fell silent, then stood up and bowed.

"Forgive us, my lady."

"You have nothing to be forgiven for," Lily-Ari said with a small, embarrassed smile.

It felt strange to her, being treated with such deference. She wasn’t used to it. In the southern village where she lived with her mother, they were just two women among many — simple keepers of a modest tavern, lost in the crowd, nameless, without privilege. No one bowed to her there. No one looked at her twice. But here, in the castle, she bore a name. She was the sister of Erik, the Wolf King’s right hand, born of the same blood — and that alone made her a respected figure, nearly untouchable.

The guards, the servants, the passing nobles… they all recognized her, all greeted her. And yet, the moment she left these walls, her face became anonymous again, her name forgotten.

The Omega climbed back up to the upper level of the castle, where everything was stone and marble. She wondered if Konrad knew. If he was aware of the rumors. Of the fragile balance in his kingdom since the arrival of the warlord Ravok. Of the tremors beneath the country’s foundations.

She walked past the training hall — empty. No clash of blades, no grunts of effort, not even the shadow of a squire. The training dummies stood motionless, like abandoned statues. She descended into the stables. There, a stable boy looked up, surprised to see her.

"Do you know where Konrad is ?"

"His Majesty ? No, my lady, I haven’t seen him this morning."

"Did he come by at dawn ? Is his horse still here ?"

The man hesitated, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Royal Flame of the Levant the Third isn’t in the stables either, my lady. His stall is empty. That means he left early, before sunrise. A colleague must’ve saddled him in my place."

"And you don’t know where to ?"

"No, my lady. Maybe the forest ? He does that sometimes, when His Majesty needs silence."

Lily-Ari nodded in thanks, hiding her concern. She didn’t like these solitary disappearances. Not right now. Not with Ravok’s shadow still lingering, even in the golden corridors of the castle.

But she knew chasing after him would be in vain. Konrad was a free man. He vanished when he needed to think. And her… she, too, needed to think. To act, perhaps. But how ?

Her steps led her — almost in spite of herself — to the war room, a vast circular chamber in the north wing, always steeped in the scent of leather, ink, and melted wax. The heavy doors stood slightly ajar. Inside, morning light poured across the massive tables strewn with parchments and quills.

She wasn’t supposed to enter without being summoned. But she no longer moved with that passive obedience that had once defined her. Today, she stepped across the threshold without hesitation.

No one was there.

She quietly closed the door behind her.

On one of the large tables, neatly stacked, were reports, letters, and maps covered with handwritten notes. All bore the seal of Jean, Konrad’s main advisor. She approached, heart pounding.

She hesitated for a moment. But it wasn’t idle curiosity. It was a need to understand. A need to know why the kingdom’s atmosphere had shifted. Why there were so many whispers.

She opened the first letter. The handwriting was clean, precise. It came from a messenger in the southern part of the kingdom, dated four days earlier.

“Three villages in the Targan Valley are refusing to pay their dues for the second tax levy. They claim the last harvest was poor and that the presence of Ravok’s foreign troops has drained their reserves. The collectors were driven off, sometimes with pitchforks. No deaths, but several injuries.”

Lily-Ari inhaled slowly. She opened another letter. Then another. And another.

“In the northern county, peasants have gathered at the edge of the woods, blocking the trade road. They chant that ‘King Konrad protects enemies and abandons his people.’ A direct reference to Ravok’s presence.”

“A rumor is spreading in Merovie : a group of young blacksmiths and laborers may be forming a ‘resistance,’ unarmed for now. They seem peaceful and are influencing only town criers and handwritten chronicles.”

She laid the letter down, eyes fixed on the dark grain of the table. The people had not yet risen — but they were beginning to rumble, quietly, crushed under the weight of fiscal pressure and Ravok’s looming presence in the northern lands. This was not war — not yet — but the anger was tangible.

Lily-Ari continued reading, until another document caught her eye. It was a different report. She recognized Jean’s handwriting at once.

“Despite the disturbances in rural areas, a large portion of the population remains loyal to the king. Notables from Ravennes, Port-Bleu, as well as guild leaders from Boëdic have affirmed their support for the alliance with Ravok, seeing it as a pragmatic strategy. Even monarchs abroad, scattered across the continent, continue to support King Konrad and are offering aid.”

“Anonymous citizens have submitted petitions thanking the crown for avoiding open war through such bold diplomacy. Others claim Ravok’s presence deters rival kingdoms from launching attacks. To them, this alliance is a blessing.”

She stopped, shaken. There were two sides now. Two worlds. Two realities. One angry, wounded, fearing for its land and survival, hating Ravok and Konrad’s decisions. The other, clear-eyed and calculating, believing Konrad had no other choice — and that his treaty with the Enigma had saved the kingdom from destruction.

Konrad was not hated… but his authority was no longer unshakable.

The Omega sank into a leather chair and placed both hands flat on the table. She now understood the weight on Konrad’s shoulders, the heavy burden he carried.

He shouldn’t have to bear all of it alone.

Suddenly, the door opened silently. Lily-Ari hadn’t even heard the approaching footsteps. It was the faint creak of wood against stone that made her turn her head — too late to hide the letters she’d been reading.

Jean stood on the threshold, wrapped in his heavy advisor’s robes, his face tired but surprised.

“What are you doing here, Lily ?” he asked.

Lily-Ari stood up with a grimace, but she made no move to hide the documents.

“I was looking for Konrad,” she said. “He’s nowhere to be found. And… I came across these.”

Jean stepped forward slowly, tense. His face, framed by brown strands of hair, betrayed the exhaustion of the past month. But his eyes remained alert, sharp. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, but tinged with a subtle note of reproach.

“And you thought rifling through confidential reports would help you locate the king ?”

“No, I’m sorry. I just… saw the seals, the letters… I got curious. I read them because I had to understand.”

Jean looked at her for a moment before glancing away to hide his fond expression. Then he pulled out a chair and sat with a sigh. He picked up one of the reports between his fingers.

“So now you know.”

The Omega nodded.

“Did you tell him ? Konrad, I mean. About all these letters ?”

“No,” Jean replied with a sad smile. “He already has too much to deal with.”

“You should’ve told him, Jean.”

Jean pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly.

“I know,” he sighed. “But Konrad’s carrying so much already. Every day, every night, it’s one threat after another. First Ravok. Then his injury — his left hand. Then the angry peasants. And now the banquet preparations. We wanted to wait until after the banquet to bring it all to him.”

Lily-Ari looked at the papers scattered across the table.

“You need to tell him,” she insisted. “You’re his advisor, aren’t you ? These are serious signs. There are villages refusing to pay taxes, rallying against Ravok, against the government. You know what this could turn into. You know what it reminds us of.”

Jean nodded, his expression tightening. He understood the reference immediately.

“Yes. But I know him too well. If we overwhelm him with too much at once, he’ll shut down. He doesn’t delegate enough. He’ll try to fix everything alone. My job is to protect him from that.”

“Exactly !” Lily-Ari exclaimed. “That’s what you’re all here for — Erik, you... me too. Tell me if there’s anything I can do.”

“Lily,” Jean began gently, “Konrad trusts you. And I do too. But these are complex political decisions. It’s not a role that’s been given to you.”

“But I can’t stand by and watch Konrad’s kingdom fall apart. I grew up with him. I saw what he built. I can’t bear the thought that people would turn against him.”

Jean studied her face. He saw determination in it, an honesty he couldn’t deny.

“I understand completely.”

The Omega hesitated a moment, then added:

“I’m asking you one thing. Don’t tell Erik I saw these documents. He’ll treat me like a child again — like I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong.”

Jean nodded immediately.

“Alright. I won’t say a word. But you know he’s going to figure it out eventually.”

“I’ll handle it.”

As if to punctuate her words with some absurd irony, the doors to the war room burst open with a sudden crash.

Erik stepped in, tense, his brows furrowed, his gaze darting from Jean to Lily-Ari, then to the documents on the table. He understood immediately. His expression shut down in an instant.

“What’s going on here ?”

Lily-Ari opened her mouth, but Jean answered before she could speak.

“I showed her a few reports. She needed to know what’s happening in the provinces.”

Erik shot a wary glance at his younger sister.

“You weren’t supposed to have access to those documents.”

“I know,” she replied. “But I read them. And I’m glad I did. The kingdom is cracking, Erik.”

“You think I don’t know what’s going on ?” Erik crossed his arms. “We’re aware. We chose not to burden him with it just yet. You don’t get a say in this.”

“Because I’m an Omega ?” she asked, her eyes shining. “Do you think I’m an idiot ?”

Erik flinched — barely perceptibly. Then he shook his head, his voice vibrating with anger and frustration.

“That’s not what I meant. But you don’t belong here. You should’ve stayed in the village with Mother.”

Jean watched them both in silence. He saw more clearly than anyone else the invisible web of tensions. In Erik’s clumsy desire to protect, and in Lily-Ari’s burning loyalty to the crown. In their shared inability to truly understand one another.

“She has the right to know,” he said at last. “And the right to want to act, even in her own way.”

Erik shot him a cynical look.

“Bullshit. What next, then ? You planning to give her a seat on the next war council too ?”

Lily-Ari, exasperated, stood abruptly, pushing back her heavy chair across the stone floor.

“There’s no point trying to talk to you, Erik. I’m going to get some air.”

The Omega bowed slightly, respectfully, and left the room without another word, her steps quiet, but her heart heavy. She barely caught Jean’s voice behind her :

“You underestimate her, Erik. You think she’s weak because she’s an Omega. But me — I see in her the same fire that once burned in Konrad.”

She shut the doors behind her with a loud thud.

Erik was right, deep down. What could she do ? She was neither noble nor warlord. She had no voice in council, no sway over the kingdom’s allies. Worse still : she was a woman. An Omega. By default, they saw her as weak.

But she had seen the kingdom rise from ashes. She had seen Konrad take the crown out of duty. She had watched him restore peace, justice, trade, festivals, harvests. He wasn’t perfect. But he was good. Fair. And now, he was in danger. Not from some enemy out of the North or East, but from within. From those who had forgotten.

In the corridor, a tall window revealed the dark sky gathering on the horizon, layer upon layer of darkness folding into itself. Heavy clouds had formed in silence above the castle rooftops, and the air carried that metallic, cold scent — the kind that comes before a storm.

A first bolt of lightning split the heavens in the distance, white and merciless. Like a jagged scar across the sky. Lily-Ari stopped in her tracks, eyes lifted. A second later, thunder cracked, deep and resonant, like a warning.

The storm was coming. Not only in the sky.

And this time, she knew : not even the stone bones of the castle would be enough to keep anyone safe. Not even the walls would offer shelter once the wind truly rose.

Chapter Text

Konrad finally returned to the castle early in the afternoon, after several hours away. He crossed the drawbridge, his boots still caked with wet earth, his hands stained with dried blood. A cold rain had fallen without warning, accompanied by lightning and gusts of wind.

The guards at the main gate stepped aside respectfully as he passed. At the sight of the stallion carrying several game animals, squires and servants rushed forward with a cart, collecting the spoils of the hunt : a massive stag, a doe, three rabbits, and a few rodents. They unloaded the carcasses at the entrance of the castle’s annex, where the butchers worked. The room was stone-tiled, the walls stained with old blood marks.

The master butcher bowed as soon as Konrad entered. The man was old, sturdy, and experienced in his craft.

“Get everything ready for the next two days’ meals,” Konrad ordered evenly. “Serve the best cuts.”

“And the doe, Sire ? She’s already skinned.”

“The same,” Konrad replied.

He paused.

“Though…”

He fell silent for a moment. His gaze lingered on the skinned doe, then shifted to the other carcasses laid out silently on the floor, ready to be processed. He’d hunted countless times before — stags, boars, even bears on occasion — and never once hesitated like this. Usually, he handed everything over to the butcher and lost interest in the haul. He moved on. The meat was served, trophies given to nobles or hung in the throne room. It was routine.

But this time, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the doe. She was nothing remarkable — neither large nor meaty, with no particular merit. And yet...

He stood frozen, too long. The butcher shot him a sidelong glance but said nothing. Konrad crossed his arms as if appraising the meat’s yield, but that wasn’t it. He wasn’t even thinking about the banquet.

He didn’t know why he was staring so hard at the carcass. He couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t explain his own behavior. But something deep inside whispered that he should keep a piece of the doe. Not just toss her aside.

This wasn’t him. He wasn’t that kind of man. As a warrior, he didn’t get attached to things. He paid even less mind to pieces of dead animals. He wasn’t superstitious. He kept nothing from his victories, hunts, or battles.

And yet, this time…

He clenched his jaw tight.

He hadn’t put it into words yet, but since returning from the forest, a gnawing feeling had settled deep inside him. A knot in his chest.

He replayed the scene in his mind : Ravok, mere inches from him. The heat of his breath brushing his neck. His powerful, muscled arms barely touching him as he lifted the doe onto the Wolf King’s stallion. His hands moving with practiced skill, expertly tying the ropes around the animal’s body.

It wasn’t just a simple hunting act. Not just camaraderie between men. It was something else.

An attempt at closeness.

An offering.

Like a male presenting prey to a chosen mate.

And Konrad… Konrad didn’t know what to make of it. He clenched his fists. It was absurd. An Alpha doesn’t receive. An Alpha takes. An Alpha chooses. An Alpha hunts. Pursues. Courts. Nothing is given to him; no one seduces him.

Konrad should have felt insulted, offended even. But he couldn’t. Something deep inside him was flattered by the attention. No one had ever tried this kind of approach before. Not the nobles at his court. Not the Omegas, too shy to make the first move. Not even Cassandre, who was rather forward. And other Alphas ? It was illogical, even taboo. They were always rivals, tangled in games of power and dominance, never anything remotely romantic. Such a thing was unthinkable.

But Ravok had done it. Deliberately. Maybe as a challenge, or a game. And the Wolf King knew it wasn’t a reckless dare or empty provocation. He was dealing with no ordinary Alpha.

Ravok was an Enigma. And he knew Enigmas operated differently. Yes, they were dominant, but by an older, harsher, more primal code. Their need to possess wasn’t just an extension of power; it was instinctual. What they wanted, they took. And when something resisted, they chased it down. They had no interest in what was already theirs. They thrived on conflict, control, conquest.

So maybe this gesture — Konrad tried to convince himself — wasn’t a seduction in the usual sense. Maybe Ravok wasn’t trying to charm or flatter him. Maybe he was simply acting on instinct — the drive to dominate what slips away, to recognize an equal and assert control.

Yes. Enigmas had that reputation. Turning every glance into a calculated move, every gesture into a conquest. They didn’t have mates. They had trophies. And whatever resisted them became all the more valuable. The stronger the spirit, the harder they pushed to break it. The prouder the soul, the more they wanted to bend it.

Konrad took a deep breath. Sure, he might feel flattered. But he wasn’t a plaything. Not a piece of land to be marked. If Ravok needed to be put in his place, Konrad wouldn’t hesitate.

But there was another problem. Another variable in the equation. His instincts buried deep in his blood. His inner wolf. And that wolf had responded to Ravok’s offering. It had liked it. It had welcomed this raw, primal gesture.

And Konrad hated it. He hated being at odds with his wolf. Hated losing control of his own body. Hated being a slave to instinct.

He felt it stir inside him. A low growl, a primal call from some ancient part of himself. A pulse. Something refused to let go of the doe Ravok had offered to the butcher. Something refused to let everything vanish like it never happened. It ordered him not to reject the gift, because that would be an insult.

His inner wolf demanded a keepsake. Proof. Because you don’t reject an offering. You honor it.

Keep a part of the doe, the voice urged.

Konrad closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He resisted. He wanted to resist. To accept would mean playing Ravok’s game, admitting he’d been affected. And he didn’t want to be affected.

It’s nothing, he told himself. Just a personal whim. I want to keep part of the doe. That’s all. No special reason. Nothing to do with Ravok. Absolutely nothing.

Konrad refused to think about it any longer. He straightened up, cold and sharp, and spoke to the old man before him :

“Keep the doe’s right front hoof.”

The butcher raised an eyebrow, surprised.

“The hoof… which one, Your Grace?”

“Right front. Have it mounted. I want it polished, set on black wood. Heel intact. No frills, no decorations. Simple. Discreet.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll notify the taxidermist immediately.”

Konrad gave no explanation. He turned on his heel and left the room without another word.

In the hallway, his steps were quick, measured, mechanical. He climbed the stairs to his chambers like a man ascending the scaffold : tense, but dignified.

He hated this feeling : the surrender to a wild impulse he couldn’t control. Not fully understanding what had driven him to act this way. Why his inner wolf had howled for him to keep a physical reminder of Ravok’s offering.

In his room, he slowly peeled off his gloves. The leather was still damp. He looked at his left hand. The wound in his palm was still there, though less raw. He stared at it a moment, silent, then fetched the antipoison ointment. This time, he promised himself, he’d clean the wound more often, stop neglecting it, speed its healing.

At least he wanted to erase that mark from himself : one less scar, one less memory of Ravok. And maybe that was for the best.

*****

The castle’s war council chamber was thick with a kind of quiet tension, stifling, like a storm about to break. The wide windows had been shut tight to block the wind, casting the long central table in a somber, muted light. A dozen figures were already seated around it, settling in with the stiff weight of ceremony.

Konrad sat at the head, his presence still and commanding. He wore a sharp, understated outfit — black and deep crimson — cut close to the body, almost military in tone. Simple shoulder pieces marked his rank, discreet but impossible to miss. His expression was closed, focused. He watched as his advisors took their places, letting their natural hierarchy fall into place without interference.

Jean, ever precise, took the seat to his left. Quiet and methodical, he unrolled a parchment with practiced ease. Konrad knew the man could recite it from memory, but he appreciated the ritual. It made things feel ordered. Controlled.

To his right sat Erik, idly spinning a dagger between his fingers. He grumbled under his breath about the heat, or maybe the boredom. Formal meetings had never been his thing : his comfort zone was the ramparts, the training grounds, the front lines. Not a room full of overdressed nobles. But as Konrad’s right hand, his presence here wasn’t optional.

Cassandre was the last to enter. Elegant, composed, dressed in a dark gray gown that gave nothing away. She carried a small notebook and took a seat lower down the table. Around her, captains, stewards, and logistical heads filled the remaining seats.

Jean stood and opened the session in his usual measured tone.

“Topic of the day : logistics, security, and political strategy surrounding the royal banquet scheduled for two days from now. Given the presence of high-ranking guests, precise organization will be critical.”

Konrad nodded once. “Proceed.”

A man across the table spoke up immediately, calm, clear, professional.

“First, confirmed guests. Besides Prince Darel, who arrives the day before with a twenty-person entourage, and Ravok, already present in the northern territories, we’ve received confirmation from several major nobles.”

He slid a parchment toward him and scanned it briefly.

“The Duke of Véren, traveling with six men. The Vicountess of Ravennes, alone. Count Ygor of Port-Bleu and his twin brother. Lords of Baselune and Marnay, and the ambassador from Boëdic. We’ll also be hosting several lower-ranking nobles from the Central Marches. In total, we’re preparing for roughly a hundred and twenty titled guests.”

Jean added smoothly, “Forty chambers have been prepped inside the castle. We’ve also commandeered two inns just outside the walls. That should be enough, assuming we house junior officers and staff on the outskirts.”

Konrad nodded slowly, his tone tightening slightly. “What about General Alkan?”

Jean didn’t miss a beat. “He’s confirmed. He’ll arrive the day of the banquet, coming in via the Mérovie road. But he’s made it clear : he won’t stay long. An hour, maybe less.”

He scanned the parchment again, fingers moving with trained precision.

“As for security : the castle guard will double starting tomorrow. Ravok’s entourage will be under constant surveillance — subtly, of course.”

“Subtly,” Konrad repeated. “Good.”

Then, from down the table, Cassandre’s voice cut in, cool, composed, a touch bored.

“One of the key risks remains how the public will perceive the banquet.”

The room fell silent, her words slicing through the air like glass. After a beat, she continued.

“Tensions are very real in the lower quarters. Especially after the latest tax levies and the presence of Ravok’s forces. Hosting a lavish event during what’s perceived as a time of scarcity could trigger unrest.”

“Perceived scarcity ?” Erik snapped. “You mean actual scarcity. Half the northern villages have been rationing bread for weeks.”

“That’s poor supply management, not famine,” Cassandre shot back without blinking. “The granaries are full. Trade routes are just behind schedule… with everything else going on lately.”

Konrad cut through the exchange with a firm voice.

“Order the emergency granaries opened for the duration of the banquet. Free rations for families in the northern towns and villages. Bread, wine, soup. Enough to silence the loudest mouths.”

Jean immediately scribbled a note onto his parchment. Cassandre gave a small nod, eyes lowered.

“It’ll be costly,” she said.

“Less than a riot,” Konrad replied.

Then he turned to Erik.

“External security ?”

“Fifty men on rotation. Six mobile patrols. All entry points under watch. I banned unidentified armed guests as of this morning.”

The Wolf King gave him a curt nod of approval before addressing an intendant at the far end of the table.

“Food ?”

“Poultry, fish, roasted pork,” the man answered. “Also game : boar, deer, hare, pheasant... even swan and peacock. We’ve also brought in dates, figs, and prunes from the southern coast.”

Cassandre, always sharp, seized the opening.

“I’d suggest setting up a few of my vendors in the outer courtyard during the banquet,” she offered. “A small festive market. The bourgeoisie love exotic goods, fine fabrics, perfumes... It might help shift some of the public’s attention away from the opulence inside.”

Jean nodded slowly. “Clever. Gives the illusion of a popular celebration without going overboard.”

Konrad considered it. Then:
“Fine. But keep prices modest. Give out samples. You’ll make your profit elsewhere, Cassandre.”

“Always,” she replied with a faint smile.

“Oh, perfect,” Erik groaned. “A bloody market in the courtyard. Next we’ll be hawking trinkets in the latrines.”

“And you’ll still be sulking in the corner with your beer, like always,” Cassandre muttered.

“Exactly the plan.”

Konrad raised a hand. Silence followed instantly.

“Good. We have two days left. No more. I want every detail locked in. This banquet isn’t just food and fanfare. It’s a message to our allies, to our rivals, and to the people.”

His gaze moved slowly across the table, fixing each of them in turn.

“They need to see that the realm is stable. Strong. That the king is watching.”

The meeting carried on a while longer, moving into secondary logistics : table placements, room assignments, menu variations. Konrad spoke little, except to make final calls. He wasn’t a king who liked to chatter. But when he spoke, people listened.

By the time the scribe announced the session closed, the light outside had shifted. Nearly two hours had passed.

Chairs scraped the floor. Erik stood so fast it was clear he’d been waiting for it. Jean carefully rolled up his parchments. Cassandre shut her notebook with a crisp snap.

Konrad placed both palms flat on the table.

“No mistakes,” he said quietly.

Everyone nodded in silence.

Then, one by one, they followed the Wolf King out of the hall.

*****

The two days leading up to the banquet were a full-blown sprint against the clock.

By dawn, the castle was alive with chaos : servants rushing through corridors, soldiers on special assignments, panicked cooks barking orders, scribes juggling scrolls like lifelines. Hooves echoed across the courtyard. Hammers rang, crates scraped, metal clanged. The whole place pulsed with tension.

That first morning, the velvet drapes were hoisted in the great hall despite the grumbling of the aging steward, who insisted they’d “trap dust and block the view.” The parquet floors were scrubbed with rosewater. Every dish, goblet, and silver knife was inspected, polished, and polished again. Two broken chandeliers had to be replaced in a rush : one had cracked under the elbow of a page carrying a platter of roasted game.

Down in the kitchens, the atmosphere was near meltdown. Beasts were butchered, fish gutted, sauces stirred in cauldrons so massive a grown man could sit inside one. Most of the kitchen staff hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. They were running low on cinnamon, saffron, and dates —and the head chef had personally dispatched a rider to the city to hunt down a jar of cloves.

Cassandre, meanwhile, had set up camp in the heart of High Borough Market. Three of her finest stalls were on full display : rare perfumes, silk from Ravennes, blown glass from the Wild Desert. Business was booming. She kept a ledger in hand and had goods delivered straight from the stalls to the castle steps.

That same afternoon, the first guests began to arrive. The minor lords of Marnay and Baselune came in road-weary and irritable, demanding hot baths and grumbling about the wind. To make matters worse, three of the guest rooms had been declared unusable — faulty chimneys sent smoke pouring back into the hearths. While laborers rushed to fix the issue, royal stewards stalled the nobles with cheese and wine in the throne room and scrambled to clear out garrison quarters for their squires — who, of course, hadn’t been included in the official headcount.

And through it all, Konrad kept moving.

He paced between the throne room, the kitchens, the banquet hall — sometimes on horseback, inspecting the castle’s outer defenses. His commands were calm, sharp, unquestioned. Every corner he turned revealed new anxious faces, hands full of linens, trays, or scrolls.

On day two, the pressure tightened like a noose.

A noble guest arrived at sunrise and insisted his personal falconer be quartered in the inner courtyard, much to the dismay of the guards, who saw it as a distraction and a security risk. One horse broke a leg on the stone path. A nurse screamed when a page shattered an antique vase by swinging a practice sword indoors. Then the sky turned against them : an unexpected downpour forced the staff to cover the food carts still waiting for inspection.

Jean ran himself ragged between the war room and the upper halls, double-checking security protocols and coordinating with officers. Erik, perpetually scowling, threatened to gut the next squire who stepped on his boots. Cassandre kept selling. Selling, adjusting, and selling more.

The castle had turned into a theater of nerves : every player rehearsing for perfection, knowing full well they had just one night to get it right.

In the middle of all the chaos, Lily-Ari was desperately trying to speak with Konrad. She had read too much to stay silent : reports from the northern villages, signs of unrest, quiet resentment toward the Crown. But every time she tried to reach him — catching him in a hallway, slipping between inspections, waiting outside a council door — something, or someone, always got in the way.

She finally found him in the gardens, late morning on the first day. He was striding briskly between two hedged paths, inspecting the floral arrangements meant to line the main promenade guests would walk. Behind him, two sweating gardeners pushed a wheelbarrow full of mangled roses.

Lily-Ari ran to him, lifting the hem of her dress with one hand, clutching a stack of books to her chest with the other.

“Konrad ! I need to talk to you about the reports from the northern towns. There are rumors, tensions—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish.

A shrill whinny broke through the garden, followed by a heavy crash.

“What the hell now ?” Konrad snapped, spinning around.

A rider had fallen headlong off his horse at the garden’s entrance, face down in the gravel, legs tangled in the reins. His horse reared up, then bolted toward the stables in full panic.

“Urgent message ! For Lady Cassandre !” the man gasped, struggling to rise with a bleeding gash across his forehead.

Konrad dropped to one knee beside him without hesitation, grabbing his shoulders as guards sprinted over.

“Get him to the infirmary. And find Cassandre, now !”

And just like that, he was gone, walking off with the injured messenger slumped against him. He didn’t even glance back.

Lily-Ari stood frozen, lips parted, her books still clutched tight.

Well. That didn’t work.

The next day, late afternoon, she tried again — this time in the sewing room, where the final touches were being made to the royal attire.

Konrad was being fitted with a ceremonial tunic, deep blue with silver embroidery. A frantic tailor hovered around him, stitching on the shoulder. Jean sat nearby, reading aloud from a logistics ledger, his voice low and monotone.

Lily-Ari approached with resolve. She waited patiently for the sleeve to be pinned, then slipped between two worktables, brushing past golden ribbons and thick rolls of wool.

“Konrad, I really think we need to talk,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “The tax records I’ve been reviewing : they show huge disparities between the villages. I think this needs—”

“Goddammit !” Erik’s roar shattered the moment as he stormed into the room, two scrolls clenched under his arm.

“Something wrong ?” Jean asked, not even looking up. He’d long since stopped reacting to Erik’s mood swings.

“Wrong ?” Erik spat. “Try catastrophic.” He waved the scrolls in the air like weapons. “The seating charts, Jean ! The guest list ! I had a perfect plan. Perfect ! And someone flipped the whole thing upside down.”

He slammed the scrolls down in front of Konrad and Jean. A pair of sewing needles went flying across the room.

“Why the hell is General Alkan seated next to Ravok ?” Erik growled. “Are you trying to start a war, Jean ? Do you want to watch two Alphas rip each other’s throats out over the stuffed boar ?”

Konrad pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Erik. Breathe. We’ll fix this.”

Lily-Ari jumped in, fast, before the moment slipped away again.

“About what I was saying—”

“Sorry, Lily,” Konrad cut in with a tired smile. “Not now. I’ve got to deal with this first.”

And just like that, his attention was gone again : back to the scrolls, the chaos, the endless list of things that couldn’t wait.

Lily-Ari stood there another few seconds. No one looked at her. No one asked what she needed. Two seamstresses brushed past her, knocking into her shoulders without so much as a glance.

She exhaled slowly.

Right. Another try wasted.

Third and final attempt.

The sun was sinking low, its last orange rays bleeding across the horizon. Lily-Ari sat on the stone steps just outside the throne room, back straight, arms folded. She wasn’t moving. Not this time. She knew Konrad would come through eventually, and when he did — she’d stop him. She’d speak. No interruptions, no deferrals. She’d look him straight in the eye. Clear. Concise. Unshakable.

Then came footsteps, sharp, purposeful.

Konrad rounded the corner, striding through the courtyard with that same relentless pace, climbing the stairs in three fluid steps. His eyes met hers. She stood at once, heart hammering, breath tight in her chest.

“Konrad !” she called, stepping forward. “I need to speak to you. About the people, about what I’ve read—”

A deafening crack split the air behind her.

Wood shattered. Screams followed.

Lily-Ari spun around just in time to see an entire scaffold collapsing into the courtyard. Beams crashed down in a cloud of dust. Three workers were trapped, their cries piercing the evening air. Chickens scattered. Donkeys brayed in panic. Cassandre appeared on the balcony above, eyes blazing.

“Get them out of there !” she shouted, pointing frantically. “Now !”

Konrad didn’t hesitate. He slipped past Lily-Ari without a word, vaulted down the stairs, and ran straight toward the wreckage.

Lily-Ari stayed frozen. Mouth tight. Shoulders rigid.

Of course.

She let out a long, slow breath through her nose.

Okay. Not the end of the world. Keep calm. Breathe.

That same evening, resigned to the idea that speaking to Konrad was impossible in the ongoing chaos, Lily-Ari made her way to the castle library.

The air was cool. The place, quiet. Peaceful. The chaos of the palace felt distant here, muffled by thick stone walls and the weight of old books.

She sat at a large table, pulled a stack of dusty ledgers toward her, and began to read. Rural taxation. Land distribution. Feudal duties. Tithe systems. Trade exemptions for merchant cities. Local jurisdictions.

Nothing was simple. Every rule had an exception. Every tax, a counterweight.

She read late into the night, eyes stinging with exhaustion, neck stiff from the strain. She didn’t understand it all — not yet — but she was determined to learn. To help. To lift something off Konrad’s shoulders. To understand his decisions. To find a way to make the system less cruel. To ease the people’s suffering.

She underlined passages. Scribbled notes. Drew connections.

The kingdom was brittle. The people were angry. And all this grandeur, this feast, this parade of nobles and power plays, could snap that tension in two.

That night, Lily-Ari understood something: if she wanted to speak to Konrad, she had to be ready. Ready to face him not just with worry, but with facts. With numbers. And above all, with a solution.

So she kept reading. And reading.

Until exhaustion finally dragged her down, and she fell asleep with her head resting on the open pages.

*****

The day of the banquet arrived in the blink of an eye.

Konrad’s great hall had been completely transformed, now resembling the kind of royal feast sung about in old ballads. Tapestries lined the stone walls, each depicting scenes of epic hunts and battlefield triumphs. Banners in the colors of noble houses hung from the rafters, and the long banquet tables were arranged in a wide U-shape, leaving the center open for musicians, dancers, and whatever entertainment the evening might demand. Iron chandeliers dripping with candles bathed the room in a warm, golden light.

The tables were overflowing — silver platters stacked with spiced gingerbread, crusty bread, ripe fruit, flaky meat pies, glazed boar’s legs, smoked fish, aged cheeses, and fresh salads bursting with color. A deep red wine, imported from across the sea, flowed freely between hands and toasts. The royal guard stood along the walls, silent but alert.

The guests had already begun to arrive : nobles, dukes, military leaders, foreign ambassadors, and a carefully curated handful of Omegas.

Konrad presided over it all, watchful and composed. Tonight, he was every inch the ruler. Clad in a dark blue ceremonial tunic trimmed in gold, with high collar, embroidered shoulders, and a leather belt studded with gemstones, he looked less like the warrior king his people knew and more like a monarch.

He moved with quiet confidence, his presence commanding, his voice steady. Tonight, he was the symbol of strength and stability.

Then the main doors swung open, and the room swelled with noise and whispers. Prince Darel of the Deleskar Mountains had arrived.

The prince, a sturdy Alpha but quite short, entered with his head held high and a broad, unapologetic smile on his face. Draped in a thick gray fur cloak — far too warm for the southern weather — he was every bit the mountain noble.

"Your Majesty ! King Konrad ! What a pleasure !" he boomed as he strode up to the dais where the Wolf King stood.

Prince Darel moved through the crowd like a landslide — no regard for courtly distance or subtlety. He clasped Konrad’s hand in both of his, gripping it with the kind of force that bordered on challenge. Konrad met it head-on, his handshake firm and measured. The two men, both Alphas, both rulers, locked eyes. Even among allies, neither could afford to look weak. Konrad felt the instinctive tension run up his arm but didn’t let it show.

"Prince Darel," he said evenly. "Welcome. I hope your journey was smooth."

"Nothing feels long when you’re riding through your lands," the prince replied, grinning. "Truly, the most beautiful landscapes on the continent."

A young Omega servant approached with a tray of crystal goblets and bowed slightly, offering them drinks. In one smooth motion, the prince snatched a glass of wine, then slapped the servant playfully on the hip, flashing a lewd grin. The Omega flushed crimson, stumbled, and hurried off without a word.

"And I must say," Darel chuckled, raising his glass, "you’ve got the most beautiful Omegas in the realm too."

Konrad clenched his jaw for a moment, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. He watched the Omega retreat, face flushed with embarrassment, and felt that familiar sting rise in his chest — a bitter blend of anger and helplessness. He had never understood why some Alphas took such pleasure in humiliating others, especially Omegas. There was no allure in it for him. What he felt toward Omegas wasn’t desire, not in that way. It was something more primal, simpler. A drive to protect.

But in moments like this, in public, surrounded by allies and scrutiny, he couldn’t act. Not against someone like Prince Darel. Not during a diplomatic event. Darel had been at his side since their first campaigns, through the blood and fire of retaking the throne. He owed him too much.

So Konrad swallowed his irritation and made a mental note : next time, only Betas in the serving staff.

"You might consider not scaring off the help," he said at last, his tone firm.

Darel lifted both hands with mock innocence, laughing.

"Oh come on, it was a friendly pat. He was cute. I couldn’t help myself."

"Then learn to help yourself," Konrad replied, his voice cold.

The prince just laughed harder, clearly unbothered.

"Still stiff as ever, Konrad. You walk around like you’re wearing armor under all that silk."

He gave the king a once-over and smirked.

"Speaking of which, you’re rarely this dressed up, Your Majesty. Trying to distract us from the whispers coming out of the North ?"

"What happens in the North doesn’t concern you," Konrad said with a sigh.

"How can it not ?" Darel pressed. "That’s all anyone’s talking about in the mountain passes."

Konrad raised a brow.

"It’s been over a month since rumors of your pact with the warlord Ravok started trickling down into my court," Darel went on.

"I imagine word travels fast in your mountains," Konrad replied as he picked up a goblet.

"Of course it does," Darel said, grinning. "A wandering conqueror, rumored to be an Enigma, sweeping across the map and toppling Alpha after Alpha ? You really thought that kind of thing would stay quiet ?"

He took a slow sip of wine, then continued.
"When those first rumors said the Enigma was marching toward your lands, I thought you were doomed, Konrad. They called him a curse, a shadow that buried kings. I was almost ready to send reinforcements, but I knew they’d be too late."

"You clearly underestimated me," Konrad said flatly.

"Not at all, Your Majesty. I just figured you’d fight to the last breath and die with your blade in hand. That’s who you are. So imagine my surprise when I heard you were not only alive — but that you’d made peace with him. That he’d settled in your northern territories. I nearly fell out of my chair."

Konrad twirled his wine before setting it back down.
"Ravok had strategic reasons. His army had taken heavy losses in prior battles. And the birthing season was closing in fast. A massacre would’ve served no one. If I’m still standing today, it’s because the timing worked out."

Darel chuckled, unconvinced.
"Oh, I believe you. Sure. That’s all probably true. But not the full truth. Not for someone like Ravok. I’d bet anything that it was your legendary fight against the dragon that changed his mind."

Konrad tilted his head slightly, skeptical.
"You really think that’s why he spared me ?"

"Yes, it makes sense," Darel said without hesitation. "He’s an Enigma. They see the world differently. They sense strength, potential. Maybe he saw something in you."

The Wolf King shrugged just as more guests entered the hall, bowing respectfully as they passed. When the crowd had thinned again, Darel leaned in slightly.

"In a way, I’m jealous," he said, a playful glint in his eye. "You made a pact with Ravok. An Enigma. No other Alpha lord’s managed that before."

"I betrayed my honor," Konrad replied. "I would never have done it if it wasn’t to protect my people. Some see it as weakness now."

"You’re still as dramatic as ever," Darel muttered, popping a dried fig into his mouth from a nearby platter. "What I see is a man who outsmarted all of us. Now you’ve got the most powerful ally anyone could dream of. And I want to meet him. Ravok is here tonight, isn’t he ?"

"He was invited. He should be arriving soon."

"Then you have to introduce me. That’s non-negotiable."

"He’s not exactly the talkative type."

Darel grinned, leaning closer.
"Don’t give me that. You just don’t want me to steal him from you, is that it ?"

"He’s not mine to steal," Konrad said sharply.

"Maybe not. But something tells me you’ve got a rare gem on your hands, and you’re not eager to share it. Me ? I just want to lay eyes on the man they say could bring an entire battalion to its knees with nothing but his scent. Just being in the same room as him will give me stories for the next ten winters."

Konrad let out a slow breath and rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling.

"Don’t get any ideas," Konrad warned. "Ravok isn’t a diplomat. He’s not even a lord in the sense you’d understand. You won’t get anything out of him."

"If you managed to win him over," said Darel, flashing a grin, "then why not me ?"

"I didn’t win anyone over," the Wolf King snapped, irritation tightening his voice.

"Details," Darel laughed, unfazed. "I want to try my luck. Come on, Your Majesty... don’t be selfish. Just introduce us. Let me shake his hand, exchange a few words. I swear I’ll behave."

Konrad hesitated, then finally gave in with a sigh. "Fine. But don’t expect too much."

Darel winked, then moved off to chat with a cluster of guests. Konrad scanned the hall. Two key figures were still missing from the banquet : Ravok, and General Alkan. He didn’t know when they planned to arrive. And he knew — though he hated to admit it — that he was dreading the moment more than he should.

*****

The banquet was in full swing beneath the great vaulted ceiling of the throne room. The U-shaped tables were heavy with platters of game meat in rich sauces, aged cheeses, honeyed fruits, and delicate pastries, all laced with the heady scents of mulled wine, roasted herbs, and spiced meats.

Minstrels played from a raised platform, their music weaving lutes, flutes, and hand drums into a vibrant rhythm, while a pair of dancers spun and twisted before the crowd. Every so often, heralds stepped forward to announce a new course or performance.

At one point, a stage magician made his entrance. He pulled behind him a golden cart carrying a small cage. Inside, a winged creature hovered midair — tiny, luminous, with iridescent skin and eyes like shards of starlight. A fae. With every flick of the mage’s wand, the creature spun, somersaulted, or burst into a glittering illusion. Part of the crowd clapped with delight, enchanted by the spectacle.

Konrad did not applaud. He remained motionless, jaw tight. This kind of circus magic had no place here. It was the first time he had ever seen a fae with his own eyes — and the sight of such a being, confined and humiliated, sent a quiet fury simmering through his chest. But tonight, he had to remain silent. Pretend.

As the laughter echoed and the fae collapsed into the bottom of her cage, her wings dulled by shame, Konrad turned his gaze just in time to catch a shift in the air. A subtle tension swept through the hall. Instinctual. Ancient.

The great doors opened.

Two valets stepped forward. Without hesitation, they bowed deeply before the figure standing on the threshold. No one asked his name. No one needed to. Everyone knew.

Ravok.

He wore simple dark leathers, devoid of any noble crest or ornament. But no one mistook him for a common man. Even without releasing his pheromones, the space around him seemed charged, dense and thrumming with the quiet danger of a predator at the apex of its hunt. Unchallenged.

He wasn’t alone. A handful of mercenaries followed him inside. Konrad recognized three of them immediately. Guo, the stocky Beta with the look of someone who’d break a nose just to feel something. Oya, tall and blonde, her braids gleaming as she stared around in wide-eyed wonder at the grandeur of the room. And Garron — silent, hulking, one-eyed — trailing Ravok like a living shadow.

The valets led them with impeccable reverence, following royal protocol to the letter. Not a word wasted. They didn’t touch Ravok, not even to remove his cloak. He allowed them to serve, motionless, impassive.

His gaze swept across the hall, bored or simply indifferent. Some guests stiffened. A few Omegas shrank back ever so slightly. Even among the Alphas, several turned their eyes away. No one said anything — but respect filled the silence, heavy and taut. So did fear. Everyone could feel it. Ravok wasn’t merely an Alpha. He was something else.

Something above.

At last, his dark eyes found Konrad.

The Wolf King stood tall, unmoving, a few steps from the head table. Their eyes met across the room. The moment was brief, but something passed between them. Not warmth. Not hostility. Something harder to name. Konrad didn’t look away, even as his wolf stirred restlessly within, reacting to the pressure of Ravok’s presence.

He had promised himself he’d be in control tonight. He would not waver. He would not fall into step. He was no Omega waiting to be claimed.

So he moved.

He stepped off the dais, slow and deliberate. Not hurried, not hesitant. He kept his breathing deep, his jaw loose, his movements measured. Proud, still.

Konrad cast a glance toward the musicians, who had paused momentarily but quickly resumed playing. The music returned, soft at first. Nervous laughter rippled through the hall as conversations resumed. Dancers eased back onto the floor, and valets resumed their seamless flow of goblets and trays.

When Konrad stopped before Ravok, the latter extended a hand. The gesture felt almost out of place : Ravok wasn’t known for handshakes. He dominated, imposed, took what he wanted. He didn’t greet people as equals. He certainly didn’t care about etiquette.

Still, Konrad took the hand and gripped it. Firmly. Harder than he needed to. Ravok matched the pressure without flinching. The moment their palms met, a jolt like static electricity surged up Konrad’s arm. He dropped Ravok’s hand immediately.

"Welcome," he said at last, the word tasting like something forced.

"I hope I’m not late," Ravok replied.

"You are. But it doesn't matter. You’re an official guest now, I expect a basic respect for protocol moving forward."

Ravok tilted his head slightly, calm as ever.
"That kind of talk only makes me want to disobey," he said with a flash of his canines.

"And I’d advise against it," Konrad replied, voice sharpening. "Unless you're hoping to break our alliance."

Amusement flickered in the Enigma’s eyes. Behind him, Oya, Garron, and Guo were being relieved of their cloaks and quietly directed to their seats around the banquet table. A short silence passed between the two warriors.

Ravok surveyed the room : the gilded moldings, crimson draperies, hanging crystals, overflowing platters, brimming goblets, and the hundreds of guests packed into the hall. Then his gaze returned to Konrad.

"All this luxury… for a kingdom supposedly in crisis."

"My kingdom is not in crisis," Konrad snapped back. "I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but it’s clearly wrong."

"Then maybe," Ravok murmured, "you should pay more attention to the rumors. There’s no better way to measure how much anger a people holds toward their king."

Konrad’s frown deepened. He drew breath to respond — but was cut off by a familiar voice.

"Gentlemen !" called Prince Darel cheerfully, a glass in hand. "Lord Ravok, what an honor. Your reputation certainly precedes you."

He bowed gracefully before Ravok, all charm and bright curiosity. Then he threw a knowing glance at Konrad.

"I believe His Majesty was just about to introduce us. Wasn’t he ?" he added in a low voice, subtly gesturing for Konrad to go ahead with the formality.

Konrad barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He gave Darel a brief look, then turned to Ravok, voice level :

"This is Prince Darel, sovereign of the Deleskar Mountains. A loyal ally."

"Since well before our dear Konrad wore that crown," Darel added with a note of pride. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Ravok. I do hope you enjoy the banquet."

Ravok gave him a flat look before replying curtly,
"I’ve seen worse."

Darel let out a small laugh, undeterred. He signaled one of his servants, who hurried over with a bottle and a few goblets.

"Not every day one gets to taste Deleskar wine, am I right ?" he said, pouring a glass.

"I don’t drink much," Ravok answered, but took the glass anyway and sipped. No reaction. No praise. Just acceptance.

Darel tried another angle, casually :

"If ever you feel like seeing the Deleskar heights for yourself... you'd be most welcome. And should you need support — military, logistical, or otherwise — I'm sure we could come to an arrangement..."

At that, Ravok raised an eyebrow.

Konrad had heard enough. He had no intention of watching Darel waste his breath trying to charm a man like Ravok.

"Enjoy the banquet," the king said, voice polite but final.

He gave Ravok a brief nod — a purely formal gesture — then turned and walked away without another word. He slipped into a different cluster of guests, leaving the prince and the Enigma to their diplomatic dance.

The music swelled. The banquet surged forward.

*****

Seated at the far end of a long side table, Lily-Ari kept to herself. This was the banquet’s blind spot — where the secondary guests were placed, the ones who didn’t matter much. But she didn’t feel insulted or slighted. She wasn’t a noble, a pack leader, a politician, or a merchant. She was just an Omega, and the sister of Erik, the Wolf King’s right hand. That last detail was likely the only reason she’d been invited at all.

She picked at her plate, enjoying the food without indulging. More than once, noble Alphas had approached her with charming smiles, offering drinks or dances. She had politely, but firmly, turned them all down. That wasn’t why she was here.

Instead, she spoke now and then with the valets, the pages, the younger servants. She encouraged the staff working tirelessly. It was in these little breaks between formalities that she found a sliver of comfort.

She paid no attention to the conversations swirling around her. All of them revolved around Ravok, the exceptional quality of the feast, the growing resistance in Merovie, the peasants’ tax refusal, or the dessert that had yet to be served.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lily-Ari caught sight of Erik, standing a ways off with Jean at his side. Erik’s eyes were locked on the high table, cold and unblinking. His gaze flicked from Ravok to Prince Darel, then back to Ravok again. Jean was gesturing animatedly, clearly trying to lighten the mood with a strained smile. Erik didn’t respond. He stood rigid, tense, as though Ravok’s mere presence was a provocation.

Lily looked away. Her big brother was hopeless and unreasonable.

A flash of red hair in the crowd caught her eye. Cassandre.

The businesswoman glided through the room like a fish through water. Her green dress was perfectly tailored, a luxurious pearl necklace around her neck, her updo flawless. She exchanged words with some, smiled at others, paused for a handshake or a quick laugh. She knew everyone here — or at least made sure everyone knew her.

And she made her way toward Lily-Ari without hesitation.

“Lily-Ari, darling !” she purred. “We haven’t had the chance to catch up since I arrived.”

Cassandre pulled out the chair next to the Omega and sat down without asking. Lily-Ari offered a sincere smile, then glanced toward the high table, where Konrad was speaking with other pack leaders.

“He is handsome, isn’t he ?” Cassandre teased.

“Huh ?” Lily-Ari blinked, confused. “Who ?”

The Beta stifled a soft laugh.

“Konrad, of course. Half the women and Omegas in the kingdom would fall at his feet. And who could blame them ?”

Lily-Ari jumped slightly, caught off guard. She turned sharply toward the redhead beside her.

“That’s not it,” she said quickly. “Konrad is like a brother to me.”

“A very handsome brother, then,” Cassandre quipped. “The most handsome in the kingdom, some say. And the best with a blade, according to everyone.”

“I’m not saying he’s not attractive,” Lily-Ari admitted. “But it doesn’t change the way I see him. He’s family.”

She knew Cassandre was teasing, not being serious.

“Tell me,” Cassandre said. “How old are you again?”

“Twenty-three. Why ?”

Cassandre paused, then chuckled.

“An Omega at twenty-three, still unmarried ? You know in the countryside, your kind are usually married off by fourteen ?”

It wasn’t a real jab, not a real judgment. Her tone was clearly ironic. Cassandre was a businesswoman in her forties, never married, never had children. But she’d traveled the world and built her fortune in trade.

Lily-Ari raised her eyes toward her.

“What about you, Cassandre ? No rich banker or noble ever tried to make you his bride ?”

Cassandre shrugged, a sly smile on her lips.

“I’ve always liked my independence. And I sleep better without someone snoring next to me.”

The two women laughed. Lily-Ari looked back toward the ballroom. The music had changed tempo. Guests were dancing. But the tension in the air hadn’t lifted.

“Have you heard about it ?” Lily-Ari whispered. “The unrest in the countryside ? What people are saying in the villages ?”

“How could a gossip-hungry merchant like me not know ?” Cassandre replied with a sad smile. “There are resistance movements. Some are refusing to pay taxes. Others whisper of betrayal, of weakness from the king.”

Lily-Ari fidgeted with her glass.

“Is it because of the alliance with Lord Ravok ?” she asked.

“Yes and no,” Cassandre replied, grimacing. “The alliance was just the final drop. The problems were already there : uncollected taxes, mismanaged lands, promises made to the people that couldn’t be kept… Konrad is a just king, but no man alone can repair generations of rooted inequality alone.”

Lily-Ari slowly nodded.

“It’s unfair,” she muttered. “After everything Konrad’s done for the pack ! How can people question their king, after he rebuilt the kingdom from ashes ?”

Cassandre took a few seconds before answering.

“People forget wars they didn’t live through — or ones that feel too far in the past. And they forget even faster the sacrifices their leaders make to prevent more.”

“They’re ungrateful,” Lily-Ari grumbled.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Cassandre murmured, sipping her wine.

Lily-Ari looked down at her plate, her chest tightening.

“Sometimes… all these signs… It reminds me of what they say about the civil war. The anger in the villages, the pack divisions, the rumors, the resistance… Don’t you think it feels the same ?”

“It does,” the merchant admitted plainly. “But that’s how it always starts. History tends to repeat itself when no one bothers to learn from its mistakes.”

Lily-Ari looked up, troubled.

“What hasn’t Konrad learned ? What did he do wrong ?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Cassandre said, shrugging. “Ruling after a war is never simple. You rebuild, yes, but you also have to reconcile. And some wounds in the kingdom never truly healed.”

“Then… is there really nothing I can do to protect Konrad ?” the Omega asked miserably.

A brief silence.

Then, in a softer, more insinuating voice, Cassandre answered :

“There is. You don’t have to just sit here and watch the pack tear itself apart. If you truly want to help Konrad… There might be something you can do.”

Lily-Ari sat up with a sudden jolt, sending her cutlery clattering to the floor. She stared at Cassandre, her eyes bright and full of excitement.
"Really ? And how ?"

"Because of your nature as an Omega," Cassandre began, "you don't raise suspicion. People trust you more easily. And you sense what others don’t. You see what others overlook. You hear things. You notice the smallest details. And believe me, that’s valuable."

"Valuable how ?" the Omega asked, frowning.

"You don’t realize it yet, but you have the perfect profile to be a double agent."

Lily let out a disbelieving laugh.
"A double agent ? What are you talking about ?"

Cassandre leaned in slightly, her voice dropping.
"I’m not talking about espionage in the traditional sense. No plots, no betrayal. I mean information. The kind the powerful never hear, because it doesn’t leave taverns or markets. The kind that travels through villages, along the edges of forests, between stalls and whispers."

Her voice dropped even lower, becoming a murmur beneath the banquet’s instruments.
"I need someone who can move without being noticed. Someone who can bring me back everything they hear, everything they see."

Lily-Ari swallowed, a little thrown.
"And you think doing that would change the kingdom’s situation ?" she croaked.

"Yes. It changes everything," Cassandre said with quiet conviction. "In times of peace, we call it gossip. In times of unrest, it’s warning signs. And when war is near, it becomes a weapon. Knowing what the people truly think, where dissent is growing, which nobles are starting to question the king... that can make all the difference. We still have the power to change history."

She paused, studying the young woman.
"And you, Lily-Ari, you can access all of that. No one would pay you any mind outside the castle walls. You’re a quiet Omega : polite, unthreatening on the surface. But that’s exactly the kind of person who goes everywhere, who observes without being seen."

Lily-Ari looked down, thoughtful.

The Beta crossed her arms on the table, her gaze unwavering.
"You’ll be my eyes and ears in the provinces," she said seriously. "You’ll travel to unstable regions. You’ll listen. You’ll observe. You’ll record everything that might reveal where the cracks are forming. Not to betray your brother or the king. But to protect them — before the cracks become fractures."

The Omega stared down at her plate.

"Even if I wanted to, I won’t be able to travel much in the coming weeks," she said softly. "My heat is approaching. I’ll have to stay confined, and I can’t afford to take risks."

Without missing a beat, Cassandre discreetly pulled a small fabric pouch tied with a dark ribbon and slid it onto Lily-Ari’s lap.
"Take this. Heat suppressants. Enough to last a few weeks."

Lily-Ari went pale at the feel of the pouch between her fingers. She looked down, as if the cloth might scald her skin. Suppressants were illegal in the kingdom. Anything related to contraception was deeply taboo.

"Cassandre…" she whispered, worried. "You know this is forbidden. If someone sees me with this…"

"Then don’t let anyone see," the merchant cut in.

Lily shook her head, uneasy.
"What if it makes me infertile ? So many Omegas already can’t conceive. Unmarried women like me are already looked down upon. If people find out I took this…"

Cassandre leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her amber eyes glowing with a hard light.

"Do you really believe your biology should dictate your life ? That having a womb means you should stay locked away while the world fractures ? This isn’t about comfort or desire, Lily. This is about survival. Strategy."

Lily-Ari opened her mouth, but Cassandre went on, relentless :

"They’re afraid of Omegas being free. That’s the truth. Because if we start deciding for ourselves when and with whom to bear children — or if we don’t want to at all — their entire order collapses. And that terrifies them."

"Cassandre… If someone heard you say that…"

"To hell with them !" Cassandre burst out. "You have no reason to be ashamed of taking control of your own body. It belongs to no one but you. So take that pouch, and never let anyone stop you from defending your values."

Lily-Ari stared at the little bundle, feeling the shapes inside shift under her fingers. She parted her lips, hesitant.

"And if I agreed to work for you," she breathed, "what would I get in return ?"

"In return, I’ll provide you with more hormone suppressants," Cassandre said. "Enough to keep your freedom wherever you go. I’ll teach you how to travel unnoticed, how to make people talk without them realizing it, how to disappear when you need to. You won’t be alone. But you need to be ready."

She added, her tone softening :
"This is a real responsibility. But I believe in you, Lily. I believe you can do this."

Lily-Ari remained motionless for a moment, the pouch clenched in her damp palm. A chill ran down her spine. No one had ever offered her something like this. No one had ever seen her as anything beyond her rank, beyond her designation as an Omega.

She nodded slowly, without a word.

Cassandre gave her an approving, almost gentle smile, then turned her gaze back toward the bustling room.

"Very well. We’ll begin soon. Don’t speak of this to Konrad, Jean, or even your brother Erik."

But before Lily-Ari could ask another question, a sudden clamor rose from the far end of the hall. Tense voices. Rushed footsteps. A heavy silence fell over the room, eerily similar to the one that had greeted Ravok.

All eyes turned toward the banquet entrance, where a man had just appeared, flanked by two heralds whose faces were drained of all color.

A long black cloak swept across the stone floor behind him, trailing like a living shadow.
Emblazoned on the fabric was a grim and ominous crest : a black raven clutching a sword in its beak, against a blood-red background.

His heavy boots struck the stone with methodical slowness.

Lily-Ari felt her heart skip a beat.

"That’s him," Cassandre whispered, her gaze locked on the chilling figure advancing.

"Who ?" Lily asked, her voice barely audible.

Cassandre inhaled deeply, as though the name itself carried weight.

"General Alkan. Konrad’s mentor. The kingmaker."

Chapter Text

General Alkan, commander of Konrad’s kingdom’s armed forces, a brilliant military strategist and seasoned warrior, had just entered the hall.

An imposing Alpha, stern and authoritative, he wore his sixties like a battle scar, his brutality undimmed by time. His broad shoulders spoke of years spent in combat, his frame still that of a fighter. His steel-gray eyes matched the sharp-edged gray beard that framed his weathered face.

Many in the room knew him and respected him deeply. Before becoming a general, Alkan was a combat instructor, a master-at-arms. He taught swordplay, spear techniques, and battlefield tactics. He forged men from their youth as others forged iron : with pain, pressure, and fire.

He was the one who trained Erik and Konrad in their youth, before Konrad was taken under his wing during the civil war, preparing him to rule with the same ruthless discipline a general uses to shape his successor on the battlefield.

This earned him the title : the kingmaker. For it was largely through his influence and maneuvering that Konrad had ascended the throne. He was the one who had built the Wolf King — shaped him in his own formidable image. And from his fortress in Mérovie, he still controlled the armies stationed across Konrad’s provinces.

The general made no pause to greet anyone. His gaze swept the room with the cold pragmatism of a strategist surveying a front line, barely lingering on the highest-ranking dignitaries, and dismissing the lesser entirely.

When his eyes met Konrad’s, he gave a brief nod — a gesture far too minimal to befit a king.

He didn’t even bother to acknowledge Ravok or Prince Darel. Instead, he stared at the Enigma from afar, studying him long and hard, like a hunter sizing up a beast he hasn’t yet decided to strike down.

Ravok, true to himself, didn’t look away. A defiant smirk, barely more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth, played across his face.

Then Alkan turned on his heel and beckoned to Konrad :
“I want to speak with His Majesty. In private.”

Konrad barely raised an eyebrow. He had expected as much. He nodded and followed the general out of the hall, leaving behind a trail of tension and whispered speculation.

*****

The two Alphas stepped into the antechamber. General Alkan closed the door behind them, sliding the bolt into place. Then, the men faced each other.

Konrad, standing tall before his former mentor, was tense. And yet, some part of him — despite everything — still straightened under that icy gaze.

“You’re not staying at the banquet ?” Konrad asked evenly.

“I didn’t come here to drink your wine or stroke your ego,” Alkan replied, his voice cold as stone. “You know exactly why I’m here. Because I refuse to believe what I’ve heard about you.”

Konrad clenched his jaw. He’d expected this confrontation from his old mentor — but hearing it still cut deep.

“You’ve shattered years of loyalty,” General Alkan began bluntly.

“Because I made an alliance with Ravok ?” Konrad challenged. “It was a calculated political decision.”

“Calculated ?” the older Alpha spat. “That alliance is doomed to fail. You’ve thrown open your gates to a foreign mercenary. You’ve legitimized a presence no one wants. You’ve betrayed your own homeland, Konrad.”

Each word hit like a blade, slicing into Konrad’s skin. Alkan made no effort to soften the blow. He struck where it hurt most. He held no mercy. The coldness of his words dragged him back more than twenty years, to when he was just a boy, blindly devoted to his weapons master.

The Wolf King gritted his teeth, voice rough with restrained emotion :
“I signed the treaty with Ravok to save my kingdom. To stop villages from burning, to keep our young from dying in battle, to prevent families from being torn apart once more. What else was I supposed to do ? Order my people to march to slaughter ? Order them to sacrifice themselves in a war we had already lost before it even began ?”

He locked eyes with Alkan, demanding an honest answer.

The general’s face remained impassive. He let a heavy silence settle before replying, his voice icy :
“Yes.”

Konrad swallowed hard, bile rising. He recoiled, his stomach twisting.
“You would have rather I died — and dragged the entire pack down with me to the grave ?”

“If that’s what it took to keep your dignity intact, then yes.” Alkan said. “Better to fall standing, to die with honor, than to suffer such humiliation. Right now, you’re a laughingstock. A joke. You disgrace me.”

“Shame belongs to kings who fail to protect their kingdom’s peace and believe war is the only answer.”

The general’s face hardened further, if that was even possible.

“Peace ?” he snapped. “You talk about peace. I see nothing but a man who trembles the moment his authority is challenged. When your people needed you most, you gave them a warlord as a proof of your weakness !”

A cold fury flared inside Konrad. Alkan was right — he had been afraid. Afraid for his pack. Afraid for his people. He swallowed down the bitterness.

Alkan didn’t hold back. He pressed on, relentless, without missing a beat :
“You dare sit at the same table as your enemies. You play games, making deals with them, bargaining away your throne. Do you have any pride ? Any self-respect ? Any honor for yourself — or at least for your pack ?”

Konrad lowered his gaze. He wanted to respond, to fight back, to find the perfect words, the argument that would shatter this ruthless logic. But nothing came. His throat tightened painfully.

“You’ve never worn a crown,” he said quietly. “You’ve never known what it is to carry this weight. You judge me, but you don’t understand what I’ve had to bear.”

Alkan didn’t answer immediately. His eyes narrowed, his expression unyielding.
“You sound like a child making excuses for not being strong enough. As if you never truly grew up all these years. I didn’t raise you this way. You’re not the man I forged. And just when I thought you couldn’t disappoint me any more than you already have, you manage to prove me wrong again."

The blow landed hard. The words struck deep. Konrad stepped back half a pace, breath caught, wounded by the man who had once been his guide.

“Perhaps I made a mistake in choosing you," the general went on. "Perhaps I failed to see that the man I entrusted with power was this weak, this cowardly, this indecisive. It’s not you who’s the disgrace, Konrad. It’s me.”

Konrad faltered inside, the weight of the words like iron pressing against his chest, the poison of doubt seeping into his mind. Alkan was cornering him, pushing him to the edge. He closed his eyes and drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

“That power isn’t yours, Alkan,” he said at last. “I built this kingdom. I’m the one who rules it now. I’ll do whatever I deem necessary to preserve the peace. You were my mentor once — back then, I answered to you. But now, you serve as my general. It’s no longer your place to tell me what to do.”

Alkan studied him in silence, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face — as though faced with a defiant student who’d learned nothing.

“That’s your choice, Konrad. But never forget : the people will always judge a king by his deeds. That’s all they’ll remember. And they will never forgive the humiliation you’ve inflicted upon them. If this kingdom falls, don’t pretend you weren’t warned.”

The general’s words were cruel, like sharp thorns laced with venom, like poisoned barbs.

“I will bear the consequences,” Konrad whispered, barely audible.

General Alkan stepped forward slowly, deliberately, a menacing shadow looming over him. He came so close that Konrad could feel the heat of his breath, almost taste the bitterness in his words :

“This is your first warning, Konrad. And it will be your last. If things spiral out of control, I won’t stand idly by watching you tear down everything we’ve built.”

“You’re threatening me ?” Konrad asked, voice lower, tinged with disbelief.

“No,” Alkan said. “I’m informing you. Next time I step in, it won’t be over tea.”

A chill crept up Konrad’s spine, as if the words themselves had clawed their way beneath his skin.

The general turned and walked to the door. He unbolted it, then paused, speaking without looking back, his voice like cold steel :

"I am not your enemy. But I will do what must be done to protect this kingdom. Especially if its current king no longer deserves the crown."

And without waiting for a reply, he stepped out, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound echoed off the stone, leaving the stunned servants in the hallway speechless. Konrad was left alone, with the silence, with himself.

He stood there for a moment, motionless. As if hoping Alkan might return, might take it back. But only the muffled sounds of the banquet carried through the heavy walls, distant, faint, meaningless.

He reached out and placed a hand against the cold stone, steadying his breath.

Something in him had twisted during that exchange — a deep, familiar tension. Alkan’s cold gaze had taken him back to when he was just seven years old, standing for the first time before his weapons master. Back when speaking out was forbidden. When obedience was survival.

At his core, he was still that same orphan, still craving his mentor’s approval, still chasing after something that had never been freely given.

He inhaled deeply, but it wasn’t enough. It felt like his own ribs were crushing him from the inside.

Alkan hadn’t looked at him like a king. He hadn’t even looked at him like a man. Just a misplaced piece on a game board. A mistake to be corrected. Disposed of.

Konrad leaned back against the wall, just for a second. It wasn’t exhaustion, not really. It was something else. A weariness without name, etched deep into his bones. He bore no visible wounds. And yet, he hurt.

He closed his eyes.

He’d held the line for years — fought wars, ruled, negotiated, buried soldiers, lost lands, sacrificed sleep, and time, and parts of himself. He’d accepted the treaty with Ravok the way one accepts an amputation to stop the gangrene. Not out of pride. Out of necessity.

And still, to Alkan, that made him a disgrace. A failure. Like a father watching a son he could no longer recognize.

He wished he could talk to Erik. Or Jean. Or Lily-Ari. Anyone. But he already knew what they’d say. They’d support him because they loved him, or because they respected him. But not because they understood.

And he didn’t want their comfort. Not tonight.

A sound behind him — a door slamming somewhere, distant voices — snapped him back to the present. He straightened. He couldn’t stay here. Not like this.

He needed air. Silence. And without thinking, his feet carried him toward the balcony.

*****

The banquet was in full swing, carried by lively music and the coarse laughter of nobles drunk on wine and self-importance. General Alkan’s appearance had swept through the room like a sudden winter draft, but just as quickly, the warmth of celebration resumed. Once he’d disappeared into a side chamber with Konrad, the guests turned their attention back to the next round of dishes.

At a long table reserved for Ravok’s soldiers and mercenaries, Guo and Oya stared at the elaborate feast before them, eyes wide with poorly concealed hunger.

“Look at that monstrosity,” Guo muttered, arms crossed over his chest. “Who the hell needs dessert taller than a horse ?”

Oya, already chewing a cream-filled pastry with delight in her eyes, shrugged.

“I think I kinda love it here,” she said, grinning. “The ground’s dry, the walls are stone, there’s a roof over our heads, and nobody’s tracking mud in with their boots. Beats the hell outta camp.”

Guo threw a skeptical glance around. Thick carpets, gold-chained chandeliers, silverware polished to a mirror shine.

“It’s too clean,” he grumbled. “Too shiny. Can’t trust people who live in houses bigger than the entire damn camp.”

“But the food’s good,” Oya replied, popping another dainty cake into her mouth. “And did you see the meat ? It’s so tender it practically slices itself.”

“If it doesn’t fight back and require two daggers to bone, it’s not real meat.”

Oya burst into a sharp, ungraceful laugh, nearly choking on her bite.

“Gods, you were born grumpy, Guo.”

The man, built like a brick wall with a mustache to match, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin corner, grumbling under his breath. His gaze drifted across the room to where Garron leaned against a stone pillar nearby, arms crossed. As always, the one-eyed Alpha neither ate, nor spoke, nor smiled. He watched.

“You think he’s enjoying himself ?” Oya whispered, nudging Guo with her elbow.

“Garron ? That man doesn’t do fun. He’s mentally ranking who to kill first if shit goes south.”

No sooner had Guo said it than the Alpha slowly turned his head their way. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But that single eye lingered on them just long enough to drain the color from both mercenaries’ faces.

“Shit,” Oya whispered, elbowing Guo again. “He hears everything.”

“Swear to the gods, man’s got the ears of a hunting hound,” Guo muttered.

Garron turned back, indifferent, as if their very existence bored him.

The duo’s antics stood in stark contrast to the rest of the room. While others sipped wine with stiff posture and hollow smiles, Oya and Guo continued their squabbling like unsupervised children — elbowing each other, bickering over bites of pâté, snorting into their cups with barely stifled laughter. At one point, Oya started eating roast meat with her fingers while Guo fought a losing battle with an overcooked pheasant that refused to cooperate.

A few guests cast them sideways glances, some annoyed, some amused, but no one dared say a word. After all, they were Ravok’s people — and loud as they were, it was clear they knew how to fight. Seasoned warriors, not to be scolded over table manners.

Their moment of reprieve ended with the sound of boots scraping across stone. At the far end of the hall, a unit of black-armored soldiers moved through the crowd with quiet precision, escorting a gray-bearded man with a closed-off expression. The same one from earlier : the one in the black cloak marked with a blood-red crest : a raven clutching a sword.

“Not him again,” Oya muttered, squinting.

But the moment passed quickly. The grim-faced man exchanged a few quiet words with some officers at the far end of the hall before turning on his heel. With a single sharp motion, he ordered his men to follow. He exited the room as he had entered : without ceremony, without farewell, without a single backward glance.

“These settled folk are weird as hell,” Guo grumbled. “All this luxury, all this food, music, — and they barely stick around five minutes.”

“Maybe they just don’t like cake,” Oya added, clearly more invested in the dessert tray than in political theatrics.

Without further concern, the two of them returned to their meal, grabbing whatever they could reach with the shameless appetite of those who knew none of it truly belonged to them.

Across the hall, tucked into a shadowed corner of the banquet chamber, Erik stood alone, leaning back against a cold stone wall. The heavy air, cloying with perfume, spiced wine, and the scent of roasting meat, was giving him a pounding headache.

Jean joined him without a word, wearied by the endless hum of voices and laughter. He wore his advisor’s brooch prominently on his chest—something he rarely did, unless he wanted to be seen.  

Both Betas had witnessed General Alkan’s arrival... and his abrupt, silent exit. He hadn’t acknowledged either of them. Not a nod, not even a glance.

But Erik didn’t take it personally. He knew better. He too had trained under Alkan, side by side with Konrad. The old master-at-arms never offered recognition or warmth — not to anyone. Courtesies, public decorum... those things didn’t interest him. He was cold. Ruthless. Brutally efficient. But he’d been one hell of a teacher.

Erik’s gaze drifted toward the high table, where Ravok sat comfortably, a silver goblet in hand, at ease in the gilded hall as if it were built for him. Around him, a carefully curated cluster of nobles leaned in, hanging on his every word, nodding too eagerly, smiling too often.

Among them was Prince Darel, Alpha by blood and governor of the Deleskar Mountains, easily identified by the long brown hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. He was seated at Ravok’s right, far too close, speaking with animated gestures. His smile never faltered, though it wavered on the edge of nervousness, and his fingers fidgeted restlessly with the stem of his goblet.

His whole body leaned toward Ravok, almost unconsciously. Everything about his posture reeked of submission : shoulders slightly slumped, neck occasionally bared when he laughed too hard or leaned in for a private word. Subtle signs, insignificant to most. But not to Erik.

He saw them all.

And it disgusted him.

To watch a prince — heir to one of the oldest Alpha bloodlines — grovel at the feet of an Enigma, and worse, a mercenary… It was laughable. Pathetic. Nearly obscene.

And he wasn’t the only one. The other nobles at that table joined the conversation, yes — but only to agree, only to nod along, to keep themselves in Ravok’s good graces. The Enigma’s words were treated like prophecy. No one dared contradict him.

The sight made Erik feel sick.

*****

The cool night air brushed against Konrad’s face as he stepped through the tall open doors onto the balcony. The din of the banquet hall, the laughter, the lilting strings of a lute, the clinking of cups, they all faded behind him, muffled by the stillness that reigned outside.

Before him, the vast plains of his kingdom stretched endlessly into the dark, cloaked in a fine silver mist under the pale gaze of the moon. It was a quiet kind of beauty, haunting in its stillness, but it did nothing to lift the weight pressing on his chest.

A few small groups lingered on the wide terrace : whispering couples, nobles in need of fresh air, servants gliding silently by with trays and decanters. But none lingered near him for long, out of courtesy, or fear, or perhaps because they sensed the energy that clung to their king like a storm held barely in check.

Indeed, there was nothing in Konrad’s presence that invited conversation that night.

Inside, the dancing had begun. The musicians played an old waltz, soft and graceful. Earlier, while trying to make his way to the balcony, Konrad had been stopped more than once. Smiling young women, radiant with hope, or ambition, had approached to ask for a dance. Each invitation had been declined, politely but firmly.

His mind was still clouded by General Alkan’s words — sharp as blades, bitter as venom — echoing in his head, refusing to let go.

He needed air. He had no desire to go back inside. He had neither the strength nor the will to play the games of court.

Leaning forward against the stone railing, he placed both hands on the cold, smooth surface and closed his eyes for a moment. He knew he couldn’t stay away forever. A king can’t vanish from his own celebration for too long without stirring whispers.

But for now, he needed the silence.

Behind him, a door creaked softly.

He felt her presence before he saw her. Light footsteps, a shift in the air, and then that scent.

Warm, sweet, perfectly calibrated to awaken buried instincts. The unmistakable fragrance of a healthy Omega, dosed just right to trigger a reaction in any Alpha.

Any Alpha but him.

Konrad stood motionless as she approached.

A few steps away stood an Omega woman, striking, flawless in a gown tailored to emphasize every curve. She was beautiful — almost too much so. Draped in a dress that clung with deliberate elegance, her presence was designed to draw the eye. Her gaze rested on Konrad, playful and coy, a spark of mischief inside.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Every movement, every smile had been calculated, designed to flatter an Alpha, to catch his attention, to pull him in.

But instead of desire, all she awakened in Konrad was caution.

Ever since reaching adulthood, he had long since grown out of whatever fascination he once held for Omegas. In truth, he avoided them. Because whenever he was near one, that pull returned : the sudden tension in his gut, the stray thoughts.

It wasn’t attraction. It was chemical. A reflex. A biological trick wired into his blood. A manipulation, an illusion spun by pheromones and scent markers.

Being drawn to an Omega wasn’t a choice. There was nothing genuine about it. No truth. No love. Only programming. He loved the body before he ever saw the soul. He feared losing himself to his instincts. Feared giving in to the basest part of his nature as an Alpha.

He hated that feeling.

That’s why he’d always preferred Betas. With them, there were no heats to anticipate, no pheromones to fight off. No traps. No hormonal chains. With Betas, he was in control. Instinct didn’t decide — he did.

He liked conversation. Building a connection. Laughing with someone, getting to know who they truly were.

Not some illusion distilled from scent glands.

“Your Majesty,” the young woman said, offering a graceful curtsy. “I am Maëla, daughter of Count Ygor of Port-Bleu.”

Her voice was soft, clear as glass.

“I hope I’m not intruding, but I would like to ask you for a dance.”

Konrad studied her for a moment. She was stunning. Enough to turn any Alpha’s head, with her flawless neckline, the curve of her hips, and that dazzling smile. And that scent. His sharp nose could tell she was nearing her heat.

“I prefer to stay outside,” he answered, with a polite, courteous smile.

“We don’t have to go back inside,” the Omega added quickly, reading his refusal before it came. “The music carries well, the balcony’s wide enough, and the moon is generous tonight.”

A beat of silence passed. Then Konrad straightened, schooling his discomfort behind his usual mask : composed, proud, faintly charming.

“Very well,” he said, offering his hand. “One dance.”

She beamed, radiant, taking his fingers lightly as if she’d been waiting for this exact gesture all evening.

Their steps fell into rhythm easily. Konrad had known court dances since childhood, and his body still remembered every move. He guided Maëla with practiced precision, steady and controlled. His hands, strong and calloused, rested at her waist, keeping the proper distance. She, on the other hand, pressed against him every chance she got. She brushed his chest, leaned in to inhale his scent, marking him subtly with her own.

He felt his shoulders tighten as the Omega’s pheromones crept into his system, but he didn’t react. He held her gaze, smiling politely, exactly as one is taught to do at diplomatic balls.

Maëla followed his lead with effortless grace, light on her feet, smooth in every turn. Together, they were a striking sight. They made a beautiful pair. From inside, a few eyes had turned to the balcony to watch them through the glass.

The Wolf King, dancing under moonlight with a highborn Omega. It was a picture-perfect scene. One the court would gossip about for weeks.

And yet—

Konrad felt nothing. No warmth, no pull.

His inner wolf was silent. Dead.

He half-expected that inner voice to whisper : She’s fertile. She’s ready. Take her.

But nothing came. Only silence.

As the dance came to a close, Maëla lingered in his arms a heartbeat longer than etiquette allowed, her fingers trailing along his shoulder.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, tilting her head up to meet his eyes, “we could continue this dance... in your chambers ?”

Konrad didn’t respond right away. He looked at her, his expression calm. Two months ago, he might have said yes without hesitation. Especially with the telltale dampness he could now scent between her thighs.

But that was no longer the man he was.

Behind them, the tall glass doors creaked open, followed by slow, measured footsteps. Konrad turned his head.

Ravok had stepped onto the balcony. He wore a black, fitted tunic, simple but sharp, every line shaped to his broad shoulders.

A little farther away, the conversations dulled. One by one, the remaining guests slipped quietly back inside.

Even the Omega bowed her head and stepped back, her gaze flicking between Konrad and Ravok. She knew, without being told, that her presence was no longer welcome.

With practiced elegance, she turned and walked away.

Ravok watched her go, hands clasped behind his back.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t have let her walk away,” Ravok murmured. “She’s nearly ripe, isn’t she ? Two days at most before her heat kicks in.”

Konrad turned slightly, a flicker of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I thought you couldn’t stand the Omegas at my court,” he said, teasing. “Too soft, too delicate, too full of lies. Isn’t that what you said ?”

A smirk tugged at Ravok’s lips.

“Must be getting soft myself,” he replied, stepping closer to the balustrade beside Konrad. “Or maybe it’s the wine.”

Silence settled between them for a moment. The night wind tugged gently at the edges of their cloaks. Before them, the plains stretched wide and silver under the moonlight.

“Running from the party too?” Konrad asked.

Ravok shrugged.

“Darel talks a lot,” he said, shooting the Alpha a sideways glance, half bored, half annoyed. “Too much, actually.”

“He’s a prince. They all talk too much.”

“He’s particularly gifted. You truly set me up by introducing us.”

Konrad allowed himself a short, knowing laugh.

“My fault,” he admitted. “I thought you’d scare him off. Instead, you captivated him.”

“I’m used to both reactions.”

The Enigma then let his gaze slide over Konrad. He scanned his body with his eyes : from the epaulets, to the jewel-adorned belt, down to the polished boots.

“This attire does not suit you,” he remarked, his tone sincere. “You look like a commoner dressing up in aristocratic clothes. Like a costume.”

Konrad raised an eyebrow.

“Have I solicited your opinion ?”

“You may do as you please, Your Majesty,” Ravok replied, adding a hint of irony to the title. “But dressed like that, you look fragile. Weak.”

The Alpha frowned, unsure of what Ravok truly meant. He briefly looked down at his own attire.

“This is traditional royal ceremonial wear,” he pointed out. “It is what is expected of a king. I cannot very well receive foreign delegations clad in armor and mud-stained boots.”

“You could,” Ravok stated evenly. “You have done it before. And the people followed you regardless.”

Konrad didn’t answer right away. Ravok was referring to ten years earlier, when the Alpha had led an uprising, overthrown the throne, killed the former dictator, and seized the crown in a warrior’s armor, soaked in blood and dust.

So in a way, the Enigma wasn’t wrong. Yet Konrad was also aware of the cost of rejecting courtly expectation. This kingdom, its nobility, this court — they relied on appearances, on pageantry, on spectacle. And they required a king who embodied that ideal.

“You looked more like yourself the first time I saw you,” Ravok said quietly. “Covered in dust, two blades strapped across your back. Back then, we were looking at a true king.”

There was no mockery in his voice. No sarcasm. Just a plain truth, stated as fact.

Ravok continued, his voice low, unwavering.

“The first time we met, that was the real you. The one even my pheromones failed to bend. I had the power to kill you, to wipe out your army, to burn your country to the ground… but you never stepped back. You looked straight at me. Like I was just another obstacle in your way.”

Konrad clenched his jaw. He remembered that moment. Too well. He remembered the weight of tension in the air, the cold steel of his blades on his back, the dragon’s roar, and the hundreds of terrified men standing in line behind him. And Ravok’s stare — burning, unreadable.

“That day,” the Enigma added, “I understood why even your own people were willing to die for you. At your core, you were still raw. Not yet polished by gold or aristocratic manners. You were untamed. It was rare. And… it was beautiful.”

Konrad turned his head slightly, avoiding direct eye contact. He wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was going. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest.

Yet Ravok pressed on, voice lowered to a near whisper.

“I used to think the waterfall in your forest was the most beautiful thing this land had to offer. The only place that ever truly struck me. But I was mistaken.”

He paused, his eyes gleaming in the night. Then came an almost imperceptible sigh :

“You never cease to surprise me.”

Something tensed inside Konrad. Defensively. A confused reaction he couldn’t quite name. He was used to flattery. Even to seduction. But this… this was something else. It wasn’t coming from an Omega or a Beta.

It came from an Enigma.

From Ravok.

The conversation was taking a turn far too personal. And he didn’t like it.

Now, the Alpha no longer had any doubt. Ravok was courting him, here, in his own castle. His wolf had sensed it before he did. So far silent — even in front of the beautiful Omega who had asked him to dance — his inner instinct was now growling with animal confusion.

This is not how it’s supposed to go.

His wolf's voice was unsettled.

You’re the hunter. You’re the one who’s supposed to stalk, to choose, to take. Not the other way around.

Konrad remained impassive. His self-control was absolute. He would not let any of his inner struggle show. Not in front of Ravok.

Perhaps, a few weeks earlier, he would have been offended by the Enigma’s advances. He might have responded with scorn or anger. Taken the seduction as an insult, a provocation, another ploy to unnerve or dominate him.

But tonight… tonight, something had shifted.

And for the first time since wearing a crown, he felt seen. But not judged. Just seen for who he truly was. Beyond the mask, beyond the titles, beyond the crown.

With Ravok, everything felt simpler. More natural. More real. He didn’t need to weigh every word. Did not have to perform the role of king. Fewer façades to maintain, fewer masks to wear.

And that gaze — the raw, naked sincerity — struck something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time. Perhaps never.

It was a strange feeling. Uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and yet… somehow soothing. He found himself wanting to spend more time in the company of the Enigma. But he couldn’t let himself grow used to it. Couldn’t let himself grow attached to that feeling. That would be dangerous. It was just another weakness.

“You should be careful with what you say, Ravok,” Konrad warned, voice low, still refusing to meet his gaze. “You know exactly what your words imply.”

“I do,” the Enigma replied.

“You’re speaking to an Alpha. Not an Omega.”

“I am perfectly aware of that.”

Konrad crossed his arms, gaze fixed on the plains shrouded in darkness beyond the balcony, jaw tight.

“Then why these insinuations ? These compliments ? You’re flirting with boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“This isn’t a game,” Ravok said simply.

“Then why are you acting like none of this has consequences ?”

The Enigma studied Konrad for a moment before responding in an even voice :

“You speak of consequences… for whom ? For you, or for me ?”

In this kingdom, an Alpha had to have an Omega partner. Or a Beta, in the case of a male-female pair. For reproduction. To carry on the bloodline in a sterile world. And as king, Konrad had to set the example. Even at the cost of his crown. Or his life.

“You seem to forget that I am a king,” the Alpha growled. “That I have an image to maintain. A legacy to uphold. What you’re doing — what you’re suggesting — it’s unnatural. So yes, there will be consequences. For both of us.”

“You think that’s enough to stop me ?” Ravok asked. “I didn’t take you for someone so naïve, Konrad.”

There was no mockery in his tone. No smirk. Just quiet certainty.

“You Enigmas…” the Wolf King murmured, voice cold. “You’re unstable. Twisted. Deviant. You live to test boundaries, to disrupt order. You thrive on defiance.”

“And have I succeeded ?”

Ravok’s expression was now amused, clearly indifferent, as if defying Konrad were a game whose outcome he already knew.

The Alpha tensed further, feeling a surge of anger rising. The Enigma’s provocations never missed their mark.

“You’d do well to remember your place, Ravok,” Konrad growled, voice like iron. “And the laws that govern it.”

“And you truly believe I’m subject to any human law ?” the warlord retorted, his tone edged with challenge.

Konrad clenched his fists, knowing this conversation would lead nowhere. He simply shook his head, refusing to stoop to the level of continuing this verbal duel.

Through the wide windows opening onto the balcony, Konrad noticed some of the guests beginning to take their leave. A few stumbled slightly, faces flushed from wine and indulgence, pleased with the night’s excess. They were ushered out by stewards, servants, and even Jean himself — making sure no one got lost in the darkness, guiding them back safely to their rooms or waiting carriages.

Without warning, a black raven landed silently on the balcony rail. Ravok’s gaze shifted immediately to the bird, following its movement. Then, as if the sight had triggered something, he changed the subject without warning.

“Who was the man that stormed out earlier ?”

“General Alkan,” Konrad said, his voice flat. “My former mentor.”

The Alpha sighed and leaned against the balcony rail. He deliberately avoided looking at the Enigma.

“He disapproves of our alliance,” he added under his breath.

Ravok turned away from the raven, locking eyes with Konrad with a blade-sharp coldness.

“And yet, if that alliance had never happened, believe me, I would’ve killed you the day our armies crossed paths. And I would’ve crushed every last one of your people if they had refused to kneel.”

He let the words linger in the space between them, heavy with quiet menace.

“And now look at us,” he went on, voice calmer but no less pointed. "No matter what decision you made back then, you would’ve been judged regardless. Whatever your choice, you never would’ve escaped criticism."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something almost intimate.

"But the fact that you didn’t back down, that you followed what you believed was right, that you remained loyal to your own principles… that puts you far above the others. You’re doing better than most. They aren’t worthy of you."

The words struck something deep within Konrad. More than he would ever admit.
The Alpha stood frozen for a moment, unable to untangle the meaning behind what he had just heard. He didn’t know whether to accept those words or see them as yet another cunning trap to beware of.

In the throne room behind them, the last guests were quietly slipping away, awkwardly escorted by the valets. The servants had begun to clear the dishes and clean the tables.

A silence fell between them, dense with new tension. Ravok slowly placed his hand on the railing, his gaze momentarily lost in the night that enveloped the landscape. Then, without looking away from Konrad, he took a step closer, breaking an invisible distance that had until now kept them apart.

Konrad almost took a step back.

There was something new in Ravok’s eyes. A dark, feral glint of possessiveness burned in them.

“There’s something that’s been bothering me,” The Enigma said, his voice low, almost threatening.

Before Konrad could respond, he continued, stepping forward :

“I’m not leaving until it’s dealt with.”

One step. Then another. Ravok wasn’t asking for permission. He advanced like crossing a border. Like someone taking.

And without another word, the Enigma leaned in and began to scent Konrad openly. This time, there was no restraint, no attempt to hide the gesture. He inhaled against Konrad’s skin, his nose brushing the sharp angle of his jaw, then down to the curve of his throat, slowly, deliberately.

The shock hit Konrad like a blow. Anger surged — violent and immediate. Fast and unforgiving. A low, dangerous growl escaped his throat. In one swift motion, he seized Ravok by the collar, gripping hard enough to bruise, in a fierce, brutal grip, dragging him close and locking eyes with burning intensity.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing ?” he snarled.

Ravok didn’t flinch. He met his gaze head-on, something burning in his pupils : a flicker of challenge, but also something else. Something like admiration. His predatory smile widened.

“You reek of her,” he said, voice rough, almost contemptuous. “The Omega you danced with. Her scent is all over you. And I couldn’t leave without washing it off.”

Then, with a sudden, brutal motion, Ravok grabbed the back of Konrad’s neck. His fingers searched for the scent gland, sliding with unnerving precision to the spot just beneath the ear — where the skin pulsed, vulnerable and exposed. He immediately found it, pressing his palm against that ultrasensitive spot. Hard.

Konrad’s body jerked like it had been struck. A sudden, uncontrollable wave of heat shot down his spine, ripping through him like lightning. But Ravok didn’t stop.

With a firm, almost punishing motion, he rubbed into that tender spot with firm, grinding pressure, forcing his scent into Konrad’s skin — in a possessive, primal way.

The contact burned. It was an aggressive caress, charged with raw possessiveness. It was a claim. Ravok’s musky, feral scent spread over Konrad’s skin like wildfire. It was pure dominance.

Each movement was proprietary, screaming : He’s mine.

Konrad felt his body respond to the forbidden touch of the Enigma. Heat surged through him, low and deep, radiating all the way to his loins. His breath caught. His muscles tightened. His legs threatened to buckle.  

He wanted to lash out. To strike back. Every nerve screamed at him to retaliate, to throw Ravok against the stone wall and remind him what it meant to cross an Alpha.

Inside, his wolf was raging, torn between fury and desire.

With a vicious snap, he grabbed Ravok’s wrist. His fingers dug deep, hard enough to crush tendon and muscle. Something cracked beneath the pressure. A little more force and he would’ve shattered the bones. He’d done worse for less. Normally, he wouldn’t have hesitated. In any other moment, he would’ve broken that hand without a thought. He would’ve smashed the bones, torn the joint from its socket, delivered the punishment with no mercy, like one erases an offense.

But something stopped him. Something deeper. Instinctive.

His grip loosened.

And he let go of the hand.

Konrad took a step back, his breath unsteady, eyes clouded, as if he was struggling to grasp what he had just allowed to happen.

His scent was no longer his own. It was tainted now, mingled with Ravok’s. He had been scent marked. Claimed.

For an Alpha, it was an insult. A humiliation.

But what truly enraged him wasn’t the mark itself. It was the fact that he didn’t hate it.

Konrad rose slowly. His eyes were hard now — cold, carved from stone, devoid of warmth. His expression had turned to ice. That wasn’t a man standing there. It was an Alpha. A king whose word alone could condemn someone to death.

“Get out of my castle. Now.”

He used his Alpha voice : sharp, commanding, absolute.

“Before I break your neck with my own hands.”

No rage in the tone. Just the calm clarity of a threat that would be carried out without hesitation.

Ravok didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. His scent had shifted — thick now with satisfaction, with something smug. He radiated the calm pride of a predator who had just claimed what was his. His pupils were dark, wide, glowing with something feral.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He dipped his head, just slightly.

“You’re the only one I’d ever let do that,” the Enigma murmured, that same provocative tone in his voice, yet touched now with something almost tender.

Then he stepped back. One step. Then another. Eyes locked on Konrad’s until the last moment — before turning and disappearing into the castle.

His scent still hung in the air, musky and wild, even after he was gone.

Konrad stood alone on the balcony, jaw clenched tight. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to steady the erratic thud of his heart. Drew in a deep breath — a mistake. The smell was still there. His, tangled with Ravok’s. His temples pulsed hard. Gods, let no other Alpha, no other Omega still be lingering in the hall.

He glanced back through the tall glass windows. The nobles had long since disappeared, their laughter and chatter gone with them. Only the Beta servants remained, clearing tables, sweeping away the remnants of the feast.

Without a word, the Wolf King turned from the balcony. His boots struck the stone floor with heavy steps. When he reached the grand entrance, he stopped cold.

There, on the stairs leading out into the night, stood Garron, Ravok’s second, descending with that same calm, hulking presence. A one-eyed Alpha, always unreadable. Always more composed, more contained than any of this other mercenaries.

Their eyes locked.

Then Garron drew a breath. And froze.

His one good eye widened instantly, sharp with realization. His face — usually as blank as stone — twisted in open shock. He understood immediately. The scent clinging to the king’s skin was unmistakable. It wasn’t his. It was Ravok’s. His chief’s.

Instead of the brief nod one Alpha would normally offer another — a simple, almost imperceptible dip of the chin — Garron bowed lower. Slower. His brows were furrowed, his lips slightly parted, and confusion flickered in his one good eye, sharp and unguarded.

He said nothing. Didn’t ask a single question.

He simply turned and walked out into the night, following the last of the mercenaries already vanishing beyond the city gates.

Konrad remained still in the echoing silence of the hall, alone in the hush that followed Garron’s departure, his thoughts spiraling in silence.

He should have seen it sooner. That Ravok wasn’t just hungry for land, or power. He had begun to crave something far more dangerous : the king himself.

*****

Lily-Ari was following Cassandre through the grand hall, already deep in conversation.

“I’m leaving the capital at dawn,” Cassandre murmured. “I’ll be back on the road.”

“So soon ?” Lily-Ari asked, surprised. “And… how will I reach you ?”

“Carrier pigeon. Never on foot,” Cassandre replied. “If anyone’s tailing you, pigeons can’t be intercepted. They don’t go through servants. No human contact, no risk. You write a message, roll it up, seal it in a brass ring, tie it to the pigeon’s leg, and release it. Simple. Fast. Untraceable.”

The Omega frowned.

“But how does it know where to go ?” she asked.

“Carrier pigeons are trained from birth to return to one place only,” Cassandre explained. “They always come home. I have several lofts across the kingdom and even beyond the borders. My pigeons always find their way back, even through storms. Don’t worry.”

Lily-Ari nodded solemnly.

Just then, Konrad appeared at the far end of the corridor. He looked worn down, his shoulders heavy as if bearing a weight no one else could see. Cassandre raised her eyebrows in surprise, then offered him a warm smile and a respectful nod.

“Thank you again for the banquet, Konrad. Truly unforgettable. I’ll leave you to your night — I should get some rest myself.”

With that, the Beta turned and disappeared down a side hallway. Lily-Ari was about to follow, to thank Konrad herself, when something stopped her cold.

A scent.

She frowned. She could smell Konrad, his usual woody Alpha scent. But something else was tangled in it. Something darker. Raw. And it didn’t belong to an Omega. Or a Beta. Not even to another Alpha.

Which left only one possibility…

Konrad slowly lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes met hers for a fleeting moment, tired, heavy. Then came a faint smile, worn and almost apologetic. His voice was low, hoarse.

“Go to bed, Lily. It’s late.”

She nodded, obedient, and turned without a word. But her mind was already racing and spinning with questions, each one laced with the same growing sense of dread.

*****

Konrad slammed the door to his chambers shut, breath ragged, jaw clenched. He paced the room in long, restless strides, unable to keep still. Ravok’s scent was still there on his skin, in his hair, clinging to the back of his neck. It had seeped into his own, tainted it.

The Alpha in him was snarling, seething with rage. His neck still burned where the Enigma’s fingers had claimed him. It should have been an act of dominance. Of humiliation.

But a raw, deep fire was burning through him from the inside. His body reacted in ways he couldn’t control — primal, instinctive. His blood pulsed hard in his temples, in his throat, in his gut. Thinking straight had become impossible.

Inside him, rage and repressed desire tore at each other in chaos.

All he knew was that he had to shut it down. Silence it. One way or another.

In a sudden, violent motion, he snapped the buckle of his stone-studded belt, letting it clatter heavily to the floor. Then, with an almost primal urgency, he tore off his trousers and kicked his boots into a corner without even bothering to remove his shirt. He was panting, sweat slicking his skin, muscles taut like coiled steel.

He looked down, and what he saw only fueled his frustration further.

Hard against his lower abdomen, his cock was already swollen with desire, purplish, glistening. The head was burning, a furious red, stretched taut to its limit, veins standing out sharply. At the base, his Alpha knot was already beginning to swell.

Konrad growled through clenched teeth. Just seeing himself like that was enough to make him lose the little control he had left.

The fire coursing through his veins wasn’t the simple thrill of need : it was pure, unfiltered rage.

He grabbed his cock with a firm hand. Pleasure struck him sharp and searing, and he surrendered to it. A slick bead of fluid already welled on the swollen head, sticky, coating it slick and making his grip easier, more slippery.

He fucked his own hand roughly, harshly, until he felt the tension building deep in his lower back. The strokes were jagged, almost violent, like he was trying to force the pleasure out of himself. His back-and-forth grew faster, more urgent. He thrust his hips in time with his hand, feeling every swollen, pulsing vein beneath his fingers. His palm slid effortlessly over his own burning skin, slick with pre-cum.

He was jerking off hard, muffling his moans between clenched teeth. A rising heat pulsed through his lower belly. Growling, his other hand gripped his thigh, digging his nails into the flesh.

He kept pumping his cock, breathing hard, feeling it grow heavier with every throb. His knot was swollen and aching, but not yet ready to lock — he wasn’t in rut. Konrad squeezed it between his fingers, panting harder, sweat beading on his forehead. His hips bucked uncontrollably, chasing release with raw, frantic need. He was right on the edge, unable to wait, consumed by a primal need to come.

A harsh, guttural groan tore from his throat.

He came in a sudden burst, hot seed splattering over his fingers and lower abdomen, while his hand instinctively clutched his knot, unable to let go.

He stayed there, breath shallow, fists clenched, his body still tense despite the release.

His fingers were slick, his cock still throbbing between his thighs.

But his instinct wasn’t satisfied. He knew exactly what it craved : to reassert dominance, to crush that imbalance, to put Ravok back in his place.

Yet he couldn’t act on anger. Not now. Not with the whole kingdom watching.

He rang the bell. A servant’s voice called from beyond the door :

“Do you require anything, Sire ?”

Konrad’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding :

“Have a bath drawn. At once.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Konrad sat still, muscles wound tight. All he wanted was to sink into the water. To wash away the scent. To scrub Ravok from his skin. From his thoughts.

Or at least… try.

End of Arc 1. 

Chapter Text

Lily-Ari had waited two full days before daring to touch the pouch.

It was hidden in the lining of one of her corsets, tucked there the night of the banquet. A small linen sack, tied with a dark ribbon, barely bigger than a quail egg. Inside were a dozen or so coarse tablets—pressed from shaved bark, bitter roots, and other unidentifiable bits. It smelled like damp soil and wilted herbs. The scent alone would’ve been enough to raise suspicion.

Suppressants. Or heat suppressants, to be precise. Illegal. Unspeakable. One careless word in the wrong hallway, and she could be exposed, judged, cast out.

She hadn’t told a soul. Not Konrad, not even Jean. And especially not Erik.

She didn’t sleep for the next two nights. Every footstep outside her door, every creaking hinge made her heart skip. Her mind kept spiraling into worst-case scenarios : loyal maids tipping off the Crown, a surprise search of her chambers, a letter intercepted. And her, forced to lie with the incriminating pouch still warm in her hand.

On the second day, she took one. Swallowed the tablet without water, and the bitter taste hit immediately, spreading through her mouth. It burned going down. A dull heat settled low in her belly. Then came the cold sweats, the dizziness. She spent the evening slumped in a chair, too foggy to read or write. That night, she woke drenched in sweat, sheets clinging to her skin.

But she kept going. One tablet a day, always at the same time. No witnesses.

By the end of the week, she was already near the bottom of the pouch, and panic started to creep in. But then, an unfamiliar servant—someone she’d never seen before—left a plain wooden box among her toiletries. Inside : a large stash of identical tablets. Enough to last two months.

Most likely another of Cassandre’s associates. Paid to ask no questions. Just do her job, quietly, blindly.

Lily-Ari locked the box tight and slid it into a hiding spot beneath the floorboards, behind a loose plank. Her heart was pounding.

She kept taking the tablets.

And then, ten days after the first dose, she realized her heat wasn’t coming. No cramps, no early signs, no fever creeping in. Nothing. Just... absence. And yet, her cycle was never late. It had always followed a near-religious rhythm.

The suppressants had worked.

She’d braced herself for failure. She hadn’t expected them to work this well.

Lily-Ari might have cried from relief—if she hadn’t been so afraid.

She’d never heard of suppressants actually working for an Omega. Not really. And now that they had, she wasn’t sure if she should be grateful… or wary. Her body felt empty. Neutral. As if it had stopped expecting anything at all. For an Omega, it was a kind of freedom.

Week by week, the pouch grew lighter.

And Lily-Ari gained a little more control.

*****

The weeks passed.

The air hung heavy with the thick warmth of summer. Lily-Ari moved without a sound, her boots barely brushing the stone floors of the castle.

She’d woken early—again. Insomnia had been eating at her for days. The suppressants made her head feel foggy. But the side effects were starting to fade, little by little.

She knew Konrad had been isolating himself, avoiding not just her, but most of his court. He buried himself in papers, or vanished into the training yard, or rode out alone.

Erik had become unbearable—constantly pushing her to leave the castle (always with an escort, of course) and return south to stay with their mother in the village. But Lily-Ari refused, claiming she still had shopping to do in the capital, and that she preferred the cold stone walls of the castle during the worst of the summer heat.

And Jean… Jean seemed buried under mountains of administrative work.

She found him by accident, rounding a corner she didn’t usually take.

In the map room.

At the center stood a wide table of solid wood, covered in parchment, ink quills, and small stones used as paperweights. Jean was hunched over it, alone, his shoulders slumped, a letter in his right hand.

He didn’t hear her enter.

She watched for a moment. He was reading the letter aloud, under his breath.

Then he burned it—tossing it into a small fire he’d built, despite the summer heat. The paper curled inward with a faint whine as the flames devoured it. Jean stared at it until only ash remained. The bitter scent of burned parchment clung to the air—faint, but stubborn.

Lily-Ari stepped forward without hiding.

Jean jumped, but didn’t try to conceal the documents spread across the table. They were already out in the open, well within the Omega’s view.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

A long pause. Jean straightened his back, hands clasped behind him, eyes fixed on the ashes.

“Cleaning,” he said at last, his mouth tight.

Lily-Ari stepped closer to the table and glanced down at the stack of letters—some still sealed, others opened, crossed out, folded into quarters. A few were stained with black wax. Others, with dried blood. The handwriting was never neat, always rushed, full of errors and scratches.

"These aren’t official reports, are they?" she asked softly.

Jean barely shrugged.

"No. Just meaningless letters, with no military value. Nothing worth keeping. They belong in the fire," he said, with a forced nonchalance.

"They’re threats, aren’t they?"

Another silence. She’d hit the mark. Jean closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

"Yes," he admitted with a weary sigh. His voice was thick with tension. "All anonymous. No names, no signatures. No way to trace them. But they’re all addressed to Konrad."

Lily-Ari lowered her gaze to the papers.

"What do they say?"

"Oh, nothing pleasant," the Beta replied, waving a hand as if to brush the words away. "Death threats. Promises to overthrow the throne. To rise against the king."

"Since when?"

Jean let out a long breath. The light made him look older somehow.

"Since the banquet," he muttered. "Maybe even before. At first, they were just complaints. But now… they’re getting more aggressive. More organized. I’m starting to think the people behind them are far more coordinated than we assumed."

He gestured to another pile, set off to the side.

"All anonymous. What’s worrying is… some of these may have come from noble families. And they could be from anywhere in the kingdom."

"And you’re burning them?" the Omega asked, frowning.

"Not all of them. Just the ones that lead nowhere. The ones without seals, without weight. The ones that—if they ever ended up in the wrong hands—would do more harm than good."

The Omega picked up one of the letters between her fingers. She gave Jean a sideways glance.

"Are you going to tell Konrad?"

"No," he said at once.

Lily-Ari turned to him, her face tense with anger.

"Jean… You told me you’d talk to him after the banquet. You can’t keep this to yourself. It’s too much."

Jean grimaced and ran a hand over his face. He looked utterly worn down, years older than he had just moments ago. The dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened. He leaned against the table, his back slightly hunched.

"You have no idea what those words would do to him. You don’t see what state he’s in. He’s barely sleeping, training himself into the ground, speaking only in commands. He’s got Alkan breathing down his neck, Ravok in his thoughts, and now you want me to tell him his own people want him dead? That they’re calling for his downfall?"

The Omega didn’t flinch.

“He’s the king. He has a right to know he’s in danger,” she said firmly.

Jean shook his head.

“He already knows he’s in danger. But if he learns that the court itself is fracturing… that he can’t trust his nobles, his soldiers, even his own walls… I don’t know how he’ll react.”

“And you think he doesn’t feel it already?” Lily-Ari shot back. “You think he’s blind? That he doesn’t see the looks, hear the whispers? Whatever you’re trying to hide will come to light, no matter what you do.”

Silence settled between them. The fire cracked softly in the brazier. Lily-Ari’s eyes fell on an unopened letter with a broken seal. A raven was pressed into the wax. She reached out and brushed her fingers across it.

“What about this one ? It looks official,” she said.

Jean hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he nodded for her to read it.

She slowly unrolled the parchment.

“General Alkan demands the immediate withdrawal of all foreign forces from royal territory.
He requires the king to quell the ongoing uprisings and dispel any doubt concerning his loyalty.
Failing that, he will be forced to act according to his own prerogatives.”

There was no signature. But the seal was unmistakable: a raven, its beak clamped around a blade.

Only one scribe ever used that mark—General Alkan’s.

Lily-Ari felt her neck tighten.

“It’s not signed… but we know it’s him,” she murmured, her throat closing up. “He’s giving Konrad an ultimatum.”

Jean gave a weary nod.

“It’s a direct threat, wrapped in a warning. Alkan’s always been calculated. And ruthless.”

“What… What was he to Konrad, exactly?” she asked, lips pressed thin. “A mentor? That’s what people say.”

Jean turned to the window, staring out across the landscape.

“Not just a mentor. He shaped him.”

Lily-Ari frowned.

“Shaped him?”

“Yes. Alkan taught him to wield a sword, to read and write, to command and strategize. He didn’t train soldiers—he crafted human weapons.”

The Omega said nothing, watching him closely. Jean’s voice dropped lower.

"Konrad didn’t come to the throne by inheritance. It was with Alkan’s help that he overthrew the former king, rallied the people, and crushed the rival factions. To be honest, Alkan simply found a young Alpha—charismatic, skilled in war, clumsy in politics—and turned him into a king. In his own image."

Jean added bitterly,
"To Alkan, Konrad is just another piece on the board. Replaceable. Disposable. But to Konrad, Alkan is the only father figure he’s ever known."

Lily-Ari felt her throat tighten. She knew Konrad was an orphan. That he had never seen his parents. That he had been a prodigy with a sword in hand. That before becoming king, he had known only the training yard and the battlefield.

"And you?" she asked Jean quietly. "Did Alkan train you too?"

"No," he replied, with a humorless laugh. "Just Konrad, Erik, and the elite units. I wasn’t as good in combat as they were. I found my place in politics."

"And do you think Alkan will carry out his threat?"

Jean looked at her. His gaze had gone cold.

"Most likely. He’s capable of it."

Lily-Ari stepped back slightly, as if the air had grown heavier.

"You have to tell him, Jean."

"Not yet."

"You have to tell him."

"Not now. Not until I have a solution. An escape route. Some leverage."

"And if you don’t find one?"

The Beta didn’t answer.

Lily-Ari straightened, her expression steely.

"Then I’ll tell him myself," she said firmly.

She turned on her heel, throat tight, leaving behind the glowing brazier—and Jean, standing alone in the ash.

*****

The days passed quietly, stretched out beneath the summer sun that warmed the stone walls of the castle and weighed heavily on the shoulders of the peasants. The bustle of the banquet felt distant now, already swallowed by the rhythm of daily life.

Each morning, Lily-Ari made her way to one of Cassandre’s aviaries, located in the castle’s western wing. They remained in constant motion, even when the wealthy merchant was away.

Rumor had it that the businesswoman had agents scattered across the entire kingdom. Quiet, efficient agents.

One of them was waiting for Lily-Ari one morning, just beyond a corridor turn. Without a word, he slipped a small envelope into her hand.

Inside was a map. Rolled tightly and smelling faintly of old parchment, it had been drawn by hand with a fine brush. It showed a rough sketch of the kingdom, marked with tiny symbols. Aviaries scattered across the land. Colored arrows indicating routes and paths. Pigeon names, composed of letters and numbers.

It was a network of carrier pigeons. An invisible web spanning the entire country.

She spent the following days studying it—trying to understand the map, decode it, and commit every detail to memory.

The old falconer, a quiet and weathered man, let the Omega into the cage corridors without ever saying a word to her.

She used that time to note the colors of the leg bands on each pigeon, along with the numbers engraved into the metal. She memorized a few of the useful ones:
Red band – North Aviary.
Green band – Port-Bleu Market.
Black band – Fortress of Mérovie.

Each bird had only one return point. That was the secret of the messenger pigeons: they were trained for a single location. Once released, they would fly straight back to their home roost—no matter how far, even across dozens of leagues.

Lily-Ari practiced on her own at first, using small scraps of paper: dummy messages, harmless and tightly rolled, tucked into the brass rings. She would leave the castle early in the morning, release a pigeon into the fields, and every time, without fail, the bird returned to its aviary.

She kept track of flight times. Distances. Behaviors. Some birds hesitated before taking off. Others soared high, then shot off like arrows.

When pigeons went missing from an aviary, they were regularly replaced. Cassandre’s couriers brought in fresh birds, trained elsewhere, and slowly acclimated them to their new nests. They would be released only when ready to carry a message. It was constant, invisible work. Lily-Ari came to understand that each pigeon sent was a loss. She began counting them each morning. And she stopped releasing them without good reason.

The Omega had also learned to read a basic compass—left for her by another of Cassandre’s agents. It was a small metal disk balanced on a thin stem, with a needle that pointed north. She practiced keeping it steady, learned to trust her instinct, to rely on her own sense of direction.

With every new skill she learned, something of the old Lily-Ari faded. The one who waited to be told where to go, when to speak, how to stay quiet, how to please others. Now, she was taking initiative. Marking her own map. Following pigeon routes, crossing them with trade roads, with villages where unrest was brewing, with regions Cassandre had asked her to keep an eye on.

She wasn’t brave. Not yet. The unknown still scared her, and on some mornings, her hands trembled as she took her suppressants or unrolled the map. But she kept going.
Not to be bold. Not to defy anyone. But simply to exist differently. To help the people she loved. To help Konrad, whom she saw as her brother—perhaps even more so than Erik.

Each pigeon she released, each symbol she learned to decipher, each decision she made on her own pulled her further away from the version of herself others had always seen.

She didn’t know yet where this path would lead. But she was no longer ashamed to walk it.

*****

Two months after the banquet, the hoof of the deer gifted by Ravok was still there.

Mounted on a base of dark wood, it sat on the shelf between two military treatises. Konrad had approached it without thinking. His fingers brushed against it, almost absentmindedly. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t gotten rid of it.

He should have. In the first days. He should have ordered it burned, or locked away in some storeroom with the rest of the meaningless trophies. It had no value. Just a fragment of a dead animal. Nothing more.

And yet, he had kept it. Even had it preserved. Without thinking. As if on instinct.

He had accepted Ravok’s offer just as instinctively. And he couldn’t forgive himself for it.

The past two months had been sleepless. His nights were short, fragmented, often completely without rest. He rose to read reports, hear grievances, sign emergency decrees. Servants whispered when he passed. Advisors waited on his decisions.

The unrest in the northern villages hadn’t eased. The people remained bitter, angry over the occupation of their lands by Ravok’s mercenaries. Some merchants had refused to supply the markets near the nomad camps, afraid of being associated with “foreigners.” He had to intervene personally to secure protection for the convoys. Even so, the granaries emptied faster than expected. Famine loomed.

Konrad had tried to ease tensions with pardons, tax relief, promises. But promises didn’t fill stomachs.

And now, new problems were rising in the South.

Over the past few days, a strange illness seemed to have struck several villages. Crops rotted in the fields. Fruit split open before harvest. Some rivers, according to witnesses, had turned black. Children were falling ill. Animals refused to drink.

There was no explanation. No cure. No known cause. The elders spoke of a curse. Others whispered of divine punishment, or a wrath rising from the earth itself. Some claimed it was a message sent to the Wolf King.

Konrad believed none of it. He wanted facts. Causes. Solutions. But he didn’t have the time. Or the means.

There were too many things to handle, too many threats to watch.

And as if Konrad’s mind weren’t already burdened enough, Ravok kept slipping back into his thoughts. A part of him wanted to summon the man—if only to erase the humiliation of the banquet. To remind him who wore the crown, who set the rules, who decided how an insult was answered. He felt an instinctive need to put Ravok back in his place, to restore the order.

He didn’t understand this new fixation. But it was eating at him.

He stepped away from the shelf where the deer hoof still rested. He had no reason to be there. He didn’t even know why he kept circling the room.

Without a word, he turned and walked out. Shoulders straight, jaw clenched.

The physician was waiting.

*****

The room smelled of dry wood and the herbs strung along the beams. The royal physician, an austere man with a graying beard, rose from his bench the moment Konrad entered. He gave a brief bow.

"Your Majesty," he greeted calmly. "Thank you for coming so early."

Konrad nodded, glanced at the chair that had been indicated to him, but remained standing.

"I'm listening."

The physician did not protest when he saw the king refuse the seat. He simply stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back, studying Konrad with the practiced care of a man who had seen too many nobles ignore the signs until it was far too late.

"I’ve reviewed my notes, and gone over the readings you allowed me to take these past months. There’s no indication of any imminent hormonal activity. No spikes, no stable temperature shifts. Your body is blocking the process. It’s resisting, refusing to initiate."

"In plain terms?" Konrad interrupted.

"In plain terms, Sire: you will not enter rut so long as your system remains in this heightened state of tension. Not under these conditions."

A sharp silence followed. Konrad clenched his jaw, then finally took a seat.

"When was my last rut?" he asked.

"According to the records, it was nearly a year ago. That is... a very long time for an Alpha of your age, Your Majesty. Under normal circumstances, a healthy Alpha experiences at least four ruts a year. Often more."

Konrad’s jaw tightened.

"You think I’m ill?"

"No, Majesty. Not in the traditional sense. Your vitals are stable. Your bones are strong. You show exceptional physical resilience. No fever. No signs of trauma. But your system is responding as if it must protect itself."

The physician straightened, arms still folded behind his back. He continued:

"You are overtaxed, Sire. Under constant pressure. There’s a buildup of stress and frustration causing the block. Your body has entered a state of continuous alert. It’s diverting all its resources toward survival—not toward reproduction. In other words: you are at your limit."

The Alpha clenched his fists.

"I'm just not sleeping enough. That’s all."

"You’re not sleeping at all, Sire. And you eat only out of necessity, not from appetite. You are exhausted. This is not a sustainable strategy. Not for a king, and not for a man."

The physician paused, then added in a lower voice,

"If you continue like this, Your Majesty, it could have serious and irreversible effects on your health."

Konrad looked away. He rested one hand on the table, fingers digging into the wood.

"There's nothing to be done?" asked the Wolf King.

"There are certain draughts… but they cause fever, spasms, and sometimes hallucinations. I would not recommend them, Sire."

"Then I’ll endure it," Konrad murmured.

"Or you could learn to release some of the pressure," the physician replied as he closed his canvas satchel. "What you truly need is rest. Quiet. Relaxation."

A bitter smile passed over Konrad’s face.

"I'm not sure I can afford that luxury."

"You must, Sire," the physician insisted. "Otherwise your health will continue to decline. There is still time to act."

A long silence followed.

At last, Konrad stood. Slowly. He drew in a short breath, then turned on his heel.

"Thank you. You are dismissed."

The physician bowed respectfully.

"As you wish, Your Majesty."

But just as Konrad reached the door, the physician called out to him, his voice no longer professional but gentler, more human.

"Konrad."

The Wolf King stopped. The silence grew heavy.

The physician continued.

"I saw you as a child, as a teenager, and then as a young warrior. I treated your first wounds. I stitched your side before you were ever crowned."

He stepped forward, letting go of all protocol.

"This throne cost you dearly. Don’t let it destroy you. Yes, you’re a king now, but you are still a man first. You have the right to care for yourself. To ask for help. To not carry this alone."

He paused one last time, his gaze softened.

"Take care of yourself, my son."

Konrad didn’t answer. He simply closed the door behind him.

And he would never admit just how deeply those words had shaken him.

*****

In the training yard, at the center of a cleared circle, Konrad moved slowly around a leather dummy, both sabers drawn. Crossed over his back, he had unsheathed them in a single fluid motion, precise and practiced.

With each pass, he struck—swift slashes, angled cuts, sharp thrusts. His body moved with speed and control, every motion exact. He had been training nonstop for over an hour, his shirt soaked through with sweat, muscles taut with effort.

The scar across his left palm, inflicted by Ravok four months earlier, no longer hurt. Only a black streak remained, stained by Morndra sap.

On the stone ledge nearby, three captains watched in silence. Their eyes followed his every movement with focused respect. None of them would have dared to interrupt. Speed, agility, strength, balance—it was all there.

He launched into a final sequence of strikes—chest, throat, abdomen, flank—then pivoted and cut clean through the air behind him, as if dispatching a second foe.

The dummy collapsed in pieces.

One of the captains murmured, unaware he was speaking aloud.

"Incredible..."

Konrad sheathed his sabers across his back with a single sharp movement. He straightened. His breath was steady.

He was still one of the finest fighters in the realm. Perhaps the finest. And not only with a blade—on horseback, in hand-to-hand combat, with throwing weapons, he still outmatched most of his generals. But it brought him no pride. To him, it was necessity. Expectation. He could not afford to be anything less.

He was about to call for another dummy, heavier this time, when the sound of fast hooves broke the silence. A horse burst into the yard. Its rider leapt to the ground before the animal had even slowed.

"Your Majesty! It's urgent. Message from the southwest. The city of Marnay."

Konrad stepped forward and took the rolled note from the rider’s hand. He read it as he walked. Few lines, but clear.

A Beta had been rousing the crowds for several days. A former officer, people said. Well-spoken, confident, composed. He spoke of betrayal. He denounced a silent pact between the crown and Ravok’s mercenaries. He defamed the king.

"Is he alone?" Konrad asked, without looking up.

"No, Sire. He’s accompanied by soldiers. In uniform. They stepped in when the local guard tried to silence him. There was no fighting. But the crowd is... attentive. Far too attentive."

Konrad calmly folded the message and tucked it into his belt.

He said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

He gave a short nod to the nearest captain.

"Saddle my horse."

*****

The ride to Marnay was short—barely an hour at a steady gallop. Konrad brought only a small escort with him: a dozen seasoned riders, dressed in dark leather and plain cloaks, bearing no banners or insignia. He himself wore a simple tunic, the harness of his twin sabers hidden beneath a dark drape.

In towns beyond the capital, few had ever seen the king in person. His face appeared nowhere. Without his royal attire, Konrad was unknown—anonymous within his own kingdom. And he knew how to use that to his advantage. He could slip into a crowd like any ordinary officer, observe, listen... and strike when the moment came.

By the time they reached the outer houses, the sun was already high. A dense crowd had gathered in the village square. An overturned cart served as a makeshift platform. Standing atop it was a man with arms outstretched and voice ringing clear. A Beta, broad-shouldered, wearing an old military coat reminiscent of the former royal guard. His eyes shone with conviction.

Konrad and his men dismounted at a distance. He gave a gentle pull on the reins, letting his horse retreat into the shadow of a porch. Then he crossed his arms and stood still, listening.

The Beta’s voice carried far.

"The king? What king?" he cried. "The one who makes pacts with savages and lets our roads crumble? The one who sends soldiers to guard forests while the granaries in the North lie empty? This king protects nothing—except his own image. But image doesn’t feed the hungry."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Men, women, even children. All listened without speaking. A few armed soldiers stood beside the Beta, but none intervened.

"You know who deserves to be heard?" the speaker from Marnay continued. "General Alkan. He never fled a battlefield. He never bowed to foreigners. He never betrayed the foundations of this kingdom. He is a man of principle, of integrity. He shaped our army. He trained the king himself. And now, he sees what we all see: that the throne is shaking, that the court is rotten, that power lies in the hands of mercenaries and outsiders."

Shouts of agreement broke out. Others shook their heads, dismayed. A frail woman cried out,
"And who brought peace, if not him? You forget too quickly!"
But her voice was drowned in the rising noise.

Konrad remained still. He scanned the faces. Some nods of approval sent a chill down his spine. Part of the crowd seemed enthralled, pulled in by the clarity of the Beta’s words.

On the cart, the Beta raised his arm.

"We must no longer bow. The king has forgotten his people. So let us remember the one who once put him on that throne. General Alkan’s work is not done. He will guide us once again."

The soldiers standing near him exchanged nervous glances. One of them spotted Konrad’s figure among the recent arrivals and turned pale. He whispered to the man beside him. The others tensed, eyes searching for an escape. The identity of the man with the twin sabers on his back was no longer in doubt.

Konrad stepped forward, silently, cutting through the crowd like a blade. He wore no insignia. No gold or crimson marked him as royal. And yet, with each step, a natural authority radiated from him. Villagers moved aside without knowing why, as if pushed by an unseen current.

In that moment, he embodied pure charisma. The immaculate pride of an Alpha. A leader. His presence was absolute, and every step was sure.

"You," Konrad said, his voice quiet and cutting as steel. "Step down."

The Beta flinched. His mouth opened to reply, but no sound came. Konrad did not shout. He didn’t need to. His voice, low and steady, cut deeper than any speech. The Beta looked to the men around him, expecting them to defend him. They did not move.

Konrad took another step forward. His eyes were ice, his words deliberate.

"You are no prophet. You are no hero. You hide behind pretty words, but the only traitor to the crown here is you."

Then he turned to the soldiers around the speaker.

"And you. You stood here and let him speak. You protected him. Do you serve the king’s army, or the first traitor who comes along?"

The men hesitated. Two stepped back. One moved awkwardly toward Konrad, dropping to one knee. The others quickly followed, ashamed.

The Beta recovered, his cheeks flushed, still not realizing who stood before him.

"I only spoke in the name of honor," he protested. "The king consorts with outsiders, starves his own people, and—"

He never finished the sentence.

Konrad moved.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the man by the collar and threw him violently off the cart. The speaker from Marnay hit the ground with a grunt, his knees scraping against the dirt.

"Do not mistake cowardice for honor," Konrad said, his voice low and cold as he leaned over him. "And I’ve had enough of men who speak boldly only when they think the king can’t hear them."

He straightened, eyes hard, and turned to his riders.

"Bind him. And his accomplices. They’ll stand trial in the capital."

The Wolf King's men obeyed without hesitation. The crowd, frozen in place, began to murmur. An old man, hunched and pale, whispered in a strained voice,
"It’s him… It’s the king."
And with that, the silence shattered.

Faces tensed. Some bowed quickly, others dropped to their knees, while a few slipped away into the edges of the crowd. A wave of fear, respect, and confusion rippled through the square.

But Konrad didn’t linger.

He cast one last glance around the square—at the townspeople whose faces now looked stricken, as if just being there had made them traitors to the crown, worthy of the noose. Then he turned, the weight of his twin sabers tapping softly against each other with every step.

"Bring this town back to order," he said to his men. "And secure the roads to the North. It’s time they remember whose kingdom this is."

*****

The six prisoners were escorted through the southern gate of the capital just as the sun began to sink. The clatter of hooves and the rattle of chains broke the quiet of the narrow streets, drawing cautious glances. A few passersby stopped, but none dared get too close. Children were pulled back with sharp gestures, eyes lowered as soon as they met another.

Konrad rode at the front, flanked by his personal guard. No ceremonial cloak, no royal insignia, no banner. Only his twin sabers strapped across his back, and a fixed, hard gaze that offered no warmth.

The prisoners walked behind on foot, their hands bound. They looked weary, dust-covered, but unharmed. The Beta from Marnay kept his head high, face unreadable, as if he had accepted the consequences the moment he was taken.

The central prison stood on the heights of the city, cold and imposing. A black stone staircase led up to its main gate. The portcullis was raised, but two lines of guards were already waiting.

Jean and Erik stood in the courtyard, visibly tense. Jean gave a brief nod as Konrad approached, then wiped his damp palms on his cloak without thinking.

"No trouble on the road?" he asked.

"None," Konrad replied, without slowing.

Erik stood nearby, silent. He hadn’t spoken a word since the Alpha arrived. His gaze rested on the prisoners, unreadable.

The jailers came forward and began leading the six captives inside, one by one.

Jean eventually turned to Konrad.

"What are you planning to do with them?"

Konrad stared at the steps leading to the prison entrance. He waited a moment before answering.

"They will stand trial," he said. "In a few days."

Jean nodded slightly, but his eyes avoided Konrad’s. His voice carried a quiet unease when he spoke again.

"And… the sentence? Have you decided?"

"No," Konrad replied. "But they won’t be tried for armed treason. Only for insubordination and sedition."

"And if they do it again? Once they’re released?"

Konrad paused before answering.

"They won’t be released. Not right away. I’m considering assigning them to public works. The North needs labor—bridge repairs, road maintenance, clearing flood barriers."

No one responded.

Behind them, the heavy prison doors closed with a dull thud. The chains had fallen silent. Jean gave a slow nod. He seemed to search for something to say—perhaps a word of protest—but thought better of it.

"I want their testimonies on my desk tomorrow," the Alpha said, stepping down the stone steps. "And bring me the list of citizens who supported them in Marnay, if we can identify them. They’ll have their trial too."

Erik remained still, hands clasped behind his back, as Konrad mounted his horse once more.

Jean didn’t speak. He simply watched as Konrad rode off at a swift gallop, as if something urgent awaited him. Only once the king vanished beyond the horizon did Jean allow himself to breathe.

*****

The next morning, an unusual stir rose in the castle courtyard.

Konrad stepped toward the window, placed a hand against the cold frame, and looked down.

A crowd of around thirty people had already gathered at the gates. Others were arriving in small groups. There were peasants, craftsmen—some holding bundles of clothes, others with children in their arms. A loose line had formed near the main gate. The public audience wasn’t scheduled for several hours, but the tension was already thick.

At the center of it all, one woman stood out.

She was standing on a toppled pile of wood, arms raised, screaming at the top of her lungs. A fire burned at her feet—old cloth, oil-soaked rags, and charred papers smoldering slowly. She held a torch and waved it like a weapon.

"This is your king?" she shouted. "A man who hides his face while our granaries sit empty? Who surrounds himself with beasts and liars while our children starve?"

Two soldiers moved cautiously toward her, hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

"Don’t touch me! I don’t owe you a damn thing!" she screamed again, hurling stones at them.

The crowd stepped back, but no one left.

"Where is he, your fucking King Konrad? Let him come tell me why my village is dying while his men fatten their horses! Why his advisors sleep warm while we have to sell our own children to survive!"

She pointed straight at the castle above.

"He won’t come, will he? He won’t leave his tower. He hides like a coward. Maybe he’s ashamed—or maybe he knows he wouldn’t last a minute among us without his guards!"

A man in the crowd nodded in grim approval. But others kept their arms crossed, mouths tight, eyes lowered.

Konrad swore under his breath. Two outbursts in two days. This was getting out of hand.

Behind him, he heard hurried footsteps on the stairs. Jean appeared, breathless.

"What is it now?" the Wolf King asked his advisor.

"A woman from Harnesse. Northern village. She lost two children this spring. She’s blaming the road closures and the presence of the mercenaries. She’s not alone. The crowd’s larger than expected."

"And?"

Konrad shut the window with a snap.

"She’s burning things at the gate. Threw rocks at two guards. No injuries, but… people are watching. And they’re listening."

"How many?"

"About thirty. But it could double by this afternoon."

Konrad let out a slow breath. He was still in a simple tunic, his face heavy with unrested sleep. He shook his head, frustrated.

"The public audience this afternoon is canceled," Konrad said.

"Canceled?" Jean repeated, caught off guard.

"Not today. I’m tired, Jean. And I don’t have time to answer every angry citizen. They always have something to say."

He motioned toward the window.

"Silence her. Disperse the crowd. Calm them down, and don’t hesitate to use force if they try anything."

Jean nodded without argument and turned quickly down the corridor, two guards following close behind. But just as he passed the doorway to the royal study, he stopped dead.

Lily-Ari stood there. Still, arms crossed over her chest. She wasn’t wearing her usual dress, but trousers, her hair tied back hastily. Her eyes locked onto Jean with a frozen intensity.

"You still haven’t told him?" she asked quietly.

Jean paled. He glanced at the guards, who instinctively stepped aside and kept walking.

"Lily-Ari, not now," he muttered. "You don’t understand. He’s at his limit. He doesn’t need this. Not right now."

"You think he doesn’t need to know that half the kingdom is turning against him?" she shot back. "That there are letters, formal complaints, garrison reports, petitions from the bailiffs? That you’ve been burning the evidence in the map room fireplace for the past two months?"

She shoved him lightly in the shoulder, her voice trembling.

"Two months, Jean. And now what—you're just going to keep scattering crowds until when? Until one of them comes back with pitchforks?"

"You think I haven’t been trying to find the right moment?" he snapped, his eyes avoiding hers. "He doesn’t listen anymore. He barely sleeps. He trusts no one. If I walk in with this kind of news now, he’ll spiral. You know what he’s like under pressure."

"Exactly," she replied. "That’s why someone needs to tell him. With the right words. Otherwise, he’ll start seeing enemies everywhere. Even among us."

Jean clenched his jaw, caught between fear and shame. He wanted to stop her, to find another excuse. But she was already stepping past him.

Lily-Ari knocked twice on the office door and entered without waiting for an answer. Konrad was still standing, both hands braced against the table, eyes cast over documents he was pretending to read.

He looked up and frowned when he saw her.

"Lily," he said, his voice low and tired. "If you’ve come to tell me I should listen to the woman outside, you can turn right back around."

She stepped forward slowly, stopping just a few feet from him.

"It’s not about her," she said.

Konrad narrowed his eyes, curious.

"I’m listening."

She pulled a scroll from her sleeve and laid it on the table in front of him.

"This is everything I’ve gathered over the past two months. Reports from provincial officers, messages from local couriers, complaints from the clergy in the West… even letters from merchants in the North. They all speak of the same thing: anger. Food shortages. Blocked roads. Silence from the palace. Rumors."

Konrad unrolled the parchment slowly, scanning the first lines without a word. He didn’t react right away. He read in silence for a long while.

Then, calmly, he rolled it back up, placed both palms flat on the table, and closed his eyes.

"I suspected," he murmured at last. "I knew the kingdom was angry. I just didn’t realize it had gone this far."

He paused, let out a slow breath, and rubbed his forehead.

"They don’t trust me anymore, do they?"

He stepped back, moved around the table, his eyes distant. He stopped near a bookshelf and absentmindedly touched the wood of an empty box. Then he turned back toward her.

"Jean knew?"

"He was trying to protect you," she answered carefully. "But yes, he knew."

"And you. How long have you known?"

"A few weeks. I wanted to be sure it wasn’t exaggerated. That it wasn’t just rumors. But it’s not. These are facts. People are suffering. And they’re looking for someone to blame."

Konrad said nothing. He stood frozen, as if searching for a path on the floor. For a voice. A clear decision. But none came.

Lily-Ari took another step forward.

"Konrad… you need to act. Before this becomes irreversible."

He lifted his gaze to her. He looked taut, like a bowstring stretched to its limit.

"I know," he muttered through clenched teeth. "You think I haven’t been trying from the start?"

Lily-Ari was taken aback by his tone. He had never spoken to her like that—never with anything but gentleness, with warmth. The Wolf King looked as though he might say more, but the door opened without a knock.

It was Jean.

"Konrad…" the Beta began, guilt in his voice. "You need to come see this."

The Alpha turned slowly, his expression closed.

"You're quick to show up after the damage is done, Jean. Is that your new role now? Warning me when it’s already too late?"

Jean hesitated, then clenched his jaw.

"It’s about General Alkan. He sent a letter a few days ago... an ultimatum."

Silence dropped over the room like ice.

"A what?" Konrad asked, his voice flat—dangerously flat, every emotion locked beneath it.

"A message. Ten days ago. Officially addressed to the royal council. I received it… and I thought I could handle the matter before it reached you."

"You hid it?"

"I kept it," Jean corrected, trying to stay composed. "You didn’t need this—not in your state. Not with everything happening in the North."

"And who are you to decide what I need?"

The Beta winced and stepped back. Konrad moved toward him, slowly. Each step echoed in the room like a threat.

"Show it to me. Now."

Jean gave a slight bow, his face tight.

"Follow me."

They left the room. The corridor was silent. No guards, no servants in sight. Lily-Ari followed a few steps behind. Only their hurried footsteps rang against the stone.

The map room was empty. The chandeliers burned low, their flickering light casting shifting shadows across the parchment-lined walls. Jean crossed the space, opened a small chest in a low cabinet, and pulled out several scrolls.

He chose one and handed it to Konrad.

"This is the one."

The Wolf King took it and slowly unrolled the letter. His eyes scanned the lines, and his face hardened with every word. His hand tightened around the parchment.

Lily-Ari moved closer, silent. Jean stood a few steps back, hands clasped behind his back.

Konrad read aloud, his voice low and steady:

"I demand the immediate withdrawal of all foreign forces from royal lands. You have allowed your kingdom to doubt your authority. You consort with mercenaries. You are afraid. You let yourself be walked on by the very people you hold in contempt. Know this : you inspire pity, not obedience."

He clenched the parchment in his fist, jaw tight.

"If you refuse to act, I will act in your place. I will not sit idly by while this kingdom burns in your weakness. You have one month. After that, I will consider myself free to act under my own prerogatives, no longer bound by your authority."

He snapped the scroll shut and slammed it down against the table.

Konrad’s voice was razor-sharp.

“How long ago, you said?”

Jean swallowed.

“Ten days,” he repeated, his throat dry. “There were others. Less direct. But the tone was the same.”

“And you decided, on your own, to keep them from me?”

“I acted for you, Konrad. For the good of the realm. Alkan is testing you. He’s looking for a crack. I was trying to prevent him from—”

“From what? From getting a reaction? From forcing me to act like a king?” Konrad roared.

Jean flinched. Lily-Ari instinctively stepped back. Konrad moved forward, fists clenched.

“You hide letters. You lie by omission. You speak to him behind my back. And now you expect me to believe it was all for my sake?”

“I never spoke to him directly,” Jean insisted. “I swear. He’s acting on his own. He wants power. You know what he’s capable of—better than I do.”

“Oh, I know,” Konrad snarled. “I know exactly what kind of man he is. But I thought you, at least, were loyal.”

Jean lowered his eyes. He had nothing left to say.

“And now what?” Konrad continued. “You think I still have any hold left on this kingdom after what you’ve done? How many other messages have you filtered? Or are you planning to take my place altogether?”

“Never,” Jean whispered, broken. “I’ve served you since the beginning. I’m not your enemy.”

Konrad stared at him. The gaze was cold. Measuring. There was no trust in his eyes. Only suspicion.

“Maybe you’re not my enemy. But you are no longer my advisor.”

Jean blanched.

“What? Konrad—”

“Don’t call me Konrad,” he snapped, the voice formal, glacial. “You’ll remain where you are, for now. But I want another man in the council room. Someone who tells me everything. All of it. Not just what he thinks I want to hear.”

Then he turned to Lily-Ari.

“And you. You knew about this too?”

She nodded slowly.

“I found out a few days ago. I was waiting for the right moment… I should’ve told you sooner.”

Konrad didn’t reply. His expression was hard as stone. He picked up the letter again, read it once more in silence, then threw it onto the table with disgust. The slap of parchment made Lily-Ari flinch.

“That dog thinks I’ll kneel. He still believes I’ll obey—like I did when I was his student.”

He let out a hollow laugh.

“He knows nothing of fear. Not yet.”

Then, lower, almost to himself:

“But he will.”

The room turned ice-cold. Neither Jean nor Lily-Ari dared to speak. Because in Konrad’s voice, there was nothing left but fury.

He spun toward Jean, his tone like steel.

“You think this is how you hold a kingdom? By filtering letters? By managing my reactions?”

Jean opened his mouth, but Konrad cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“I’m done with your excuses. I’m done with your condescension, wrapped in caution.”

His eyes flicked to Lily-Ari.

“And you. You knew. You chose silence. That makes you complicit.”

She didn’t flinch. She met his gaze, unwavering. Konrad looked away.

He moved toward the window, staring out over the empty courtyard.

“Alkan wants to test me? Then let him see what it means to defy a king. Let him learn how a rebellion dies before it draws breath.”

A guard passed in the corridor. Konrad turned sharply, his voice slicing through the silence:

“Bring me my personal guard. Now.”

The soldier bowed quickly and vanished down the hall. In the silence that followed, Konrad walked slowly back toward the table. His stance was rigid. His shoulders taut. His stillness was not composed—it was coiled.

Jean, as a Beta, couldn’t sense it. But Lily-Ari brought a hand to her face. The room was thick with Alpha pheromones. Konrad was losing control.

“I should’ve seen the signs,” the Wolf King muttered—more to himself than to the others. “The Beta in Marnay. His speech. His uniform. That didn’t come out of nowhere. And that woman outside… she knew exactly what she was doing. This is Alkan’s work. That bastard is turning my own people against me. One by one. He’s testing how far I’ll bend. He’s sending pawns.”

He slammed his fist onto the table. The candelabras rattled. Jean jumped.

“What exactly did you think would happen when you hid those letters from me? That I’d just sit here and read his insults without reacting? That I’d accept his threats like he still had some claim over me?”

Bootsteps echoed in the corridor. Konrad’s personal guard had arrived. He turned to the soldiers entering the room, his voice cracking like a whip.

“The Beta who stirred the crowd in Marnay and the men who shielded him. Bring them to the capital. Immediately. Let the people see what happens to those who defy the crown.”

He turned, gaze sharp as a blade.

“And the woman in the courtyard. The one who shouted at my gates, who thought she could shame me in front of my people. Find her. And arrest everyone who gathered around her. Anyone who cheered, who repeated her words. I want names. I want faces. I want lists.”

Jean had gone pale.

“Konrad, this is madness… you can’t—”

“Silence.”

The king’s voice was icy, merciless. He didn’t even look at him.

“You betrayed my trust. Don’t presume to give me lessons.”

He turned his gaze toward Lily-Ari. She said nothing. Frozen in place.

“You think I’ve gone too far too,” he asked, his voice sharp but controlled.

She hesitated.

“I think what you’re doing won’t calm anything,” the Omega said carefully. “You might be proving them right—the ones who fear you. You may even be walking straight into the trap Alkan’s laid for you.”

Konrad took a slow breath. For a moment, his eyes drifted toward the flickering flames of a nearby candle. Then he shook his head, as if trying to push something away.

“Maybe so,” he muttered. “But there must be an example. A clear one. Let them understand what defiance costs. And let that lesson leave no room for doubt.”

The Alpha turned back to his soldiers, his voice calm and cold as ice.

"At dawn. The capital square. I want gallows built. Heavy ropes. Armed guards. And silence. Not a single whisper from the crowd."

A chill swept through the room. No one spoke.

"Make the scaffold high. Make it visible."

He locked eyes with his men, his gaze like sharpened steel.

"The orator from Marnay. The woman from this morning. Every voice raised against me. Every mouth that dared echo Alkan’s name. Round them up. Chain them. Put them on display."

A pause. Then, with a voice stripped of all warmth, just the frost of a death sentence already sealed:

"Hang them. All of them. It will be a public execution."

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped at dawn, but the cobblestones were still slick with moisture. The capital was shrouded in a heavy mist, silent, as if holding its breath.

A lone figure moved quickly down the alleys. A black wool cloak concealed her face and shoulders. Beneath the hood, Lily-Ari kept her chin low. She had taken care not to cross paths with the guards at the castle gate, avoiding the main streets and sentries. She hadn’t told anyone.

In her room, Erik had left a maid tasked with watching her. A timid, naive woman — the kind who couldn’t imagine anyone defying orders. Lily-Ari had thanked her for the tea, then waited for her to turn her back before slipping out. She wasn’t proud of it. But she couldn’t stay locked up.

Ahead, the capital’s central square began to take shape through the haze. Preparations had already begun. Carpenters were mounting a central beam atop a freshly built platform. A hammer struck at regular intervals — dry, expressionless blows. A few paces away, soldiers stood in silence, helmets low, faces unreadable. Barricades had been set up to contain the expected crowd.

The scaffold was rising slowly, a grim silhouette of dark beams looming in the middle of the square.

Several ropes already hung in place.

Lily-Ari felt her stomach twist. There would be hangings.

By order of the king.

She drew a slow breath, trying to steady the tremor rising in her hands. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She hadn’t been given permission to leave. And yet, she needed to see it.

Soldiers patrolled the streets, their boots striking the wet stone with authority. Some shouted in harsh, clipped voices, rousing the townspeople without mercy.

“By order of the king! All citizens to the square! The execution will take place at the sixth hour! No absences will be tolerated!”

The doors were just beginning to open, pale faces peeking through the narrow gaps. Mothers held their children behind them, pushing them toward the back of the house, silently praying they wouldn’t understand. Fathers closed the shutters with trembling hands, whispering that no one should go outside. Not today.

The town criers had already arrived, perched on low walls with scrolls and quills in hand. They had come from every corner of the kingdom, sent by the great houses of information and the royal chroniclers. They recorded everything: every word spoken, every face seen, every movement made.

The entire city seemed cloaked in a grim haze, as if it already knew a macabre tragedy was about to unfold within its walls. That lives would soon leave this world at the end of a rope, bare and exposed for all to see.

*****

Konrad hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. The first hammer blows from the city below echoed all the way up to the castle windows.

From his chambers, he could see the courtyard below: the alleys teemed with armed soldiers and hurried servants. If the fog weren’t so thick, he might have been able to spot the gallows rising in the capital’s main square. But he didn’t need to see it. He could already feel its presence: cold and heavy. It hung in the air like a death omen, like a storm building on the horizon.

A guard passed silently through the doorway. Konrad turned his head. The man bowed quickly, eyes lowered.

"The scaffold is complete, Your Majesty. Nothing else to report."

Konrad didn’t answer. He would’ve preferred a lie. Someone to tell him the prisoners had escaped, that the crowd had risen up, that a sudden storm had torn the gallows apart. Anything. Something.

The guard lingered one second too long, frozen, then turned and left without another word.

Even they no longer met his eyes.

Konrad straightened. He was still wearing the same wrinkled clothes from the night before. His whole body felt heavy. Slowly, he stepped toward the window. Below, the preparations were nearly complete. Chains, barriers, benches for the nobility. A platform for the royal scribes. All of it coming together without him needing to speak a single word. The order had been whispered, and now it carried itself out.

No one wanted to face the wrath of the Wolf King.

The Alpha should have felt strong. Should have felt powerful. Should have felt the weight of his own authority.

But he didn’t. Not at all.

There was only a tight, dull pressure locked in his chest like an invisible vise. He couldn’t draw a full breath. His mouth was dry. An unseen weight pressed down on him.

Without warning, a thought crept into his mind.

What would Ravok think of this?

He inhaled sharply, as if to chase the name away.

Would Ravok have approved? Laughed? Or would he have simply judged in silence, fixing him with that burning, dark stare, a barely-there smirk at the edge of his mouth, wearing that eternal look of challenge?

Konrad forced himself to look away. This wasn’t the time. Wasn’t the place. The Enigma had brought him nothing but trouble since the moment he’d stepped onto royal land. He was the source of everything unraveling.

His thoughts turned to someone else.

Alkan.

Would the general be proud? Would he see this as a triumph, proof that his former pupil had finally broken? That brutality was the only way to keep a kingdom standing?

Is this what it meant to be king?

Konrad clenched his jaw. He didn’t know anymore. He was lost. And he feared he had acted in anger.

Just yesterday, he’d been convinced that punishing traitors was a duty. That death was the only answer.

Today… he wasn’t sure anymore. Was he punishing for justice? For the sake of an example? Or simply to remind the people that they should still be afraid?

But it was too late to reconsider.

The scaffold was built. The crowd was waiting.

There was no turning back.

It was now or never.

*****

The sky was still heavy with the remnants of the storm. Fog crept between rooftops, muffling sound and blurring the edges of the world. It was already six in the morning, yet the main square seemed trapped in a thick, sticky night.

The scaffold rose in the center like a funeral monument, massive, with nine hanging ropes swaying gently, lined up with morbid precision.

Nine ropes.

Nine final sentences.

No mercy.

All around, a dense crowd had been gathered since dawn. Hundreds of citizens, pushed from their homes by the guards, woken with fists pounding on doors and boots against the walls. And every single one had come. Out of duty? Or fear? No one could say anymore.

Their faces were pale. Children clung to their mothers' skirts, who tried in vain to cover their eyes. Men stood rigid, hands clasped against their chests, barely breathing. No one spoke. Soldiers formed a circle around the square, weapons drawn, expressions hard. If anyone dared whisper too loudly, a guard would step forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword—and silence would fall again.

The air was impossibly thick. A stillness frozen in dread.

Among the crowd, the scribes were already at work. They scrawled notes in frantic bursts, eyes flicking to the scene. Some whispered phrases under their breath, ready to report them word for word. Chroniclers of death, summoned from across the kingdom to witness the event and carry it back to the far corners of the realm.

And in front of the scaffold, surrounded by armed guards, the condemned waited.

Nine in total.

The orator from Marnay stood at the front, upright, hands bound behind his back, eyes fixed straight ahead. He did not tremble. He did not beg. He hadn’t spoken a single word since the night before. It was as if he had already accepted death and refused to turn it into a performance.

Behind him were the five soldiers who had supported him. Young men, no older than Konrad himself. One of them couldn’t stand—he’d been tied to a post to keep from collapsing. Another wept in silence, shoulders trembling, trying to hold onto some scrap of dignity.

The woman stood in torn clothes. She had resisted arrest. A gash cut across her cheek, still fresh. Her eyes sought no pity, but her lips trembled. She kept glancing around, as if searching the crowd for a familiar face. There was none.

The last two were the most jarring. A middle-aged man—a baker, some said—who had shouted alongside her, cursed at the soldiers. And a boy. Sixteen, at most. His arms were mottled with bruises.

He had thrown a single stone. Just one.

And now, he was going to die for it.

Hidden among the crowd beneath a hooded cloak, Lily-Ari kept her eyes fixed on the condemned. She could barely breathe. Her pheromones betrayed her: an anxious blend of fear, sorrow, and rage. She couldn’t understand how things had come to this. These people… they weren’t traitors. They weren’t conspirators. They were citizens. Ordinary faces. People who cried, who had families, who now stood in the cold morning air with a rope waiting above their heads.

She felt her heart twist. She wanted to look away. But she couldn’t.

The silence hanging over the crowd was no longer respectful. It was terrified.

One of the soldiers who had defended the Marnay orator finally broke. He dropped to his knees, hands bound behind his back, sobbing in panic. He pleaded in a fractured whisper.

"Please… I… I made a mistake… not the rope… anything but that… I’ll accept any other punishment, but not that, please…"

Next to him, the teenage boy said nothing, but tears ran freely down his dirt-streaked cheeks. He was biting his lip until it bled.

The baker stood trembling, his gaze hollow as he looked to the crowd. He stammered weakly:

"I never… laid a hand on anyone. I just… listened. Listened… and nodded… please, spare me… I have a child… please…"

His eyes searched the crowd for someone. But no one stepped forward.

"Tell my daughter I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed silent. I was wrong. I regret it…"

He couldn’t finish. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, overtaken by a silent sob. A guard pulled him back up, rough and indifferent.

And then, from the crowd, a small voice pierced the quiet. A child’s.

“Dad…?”

A shiver ran through the gathering like a blade of ice. The mother, pale as a ghost, pulled the child tightly to her and tried to cover his mouth. But it was too late.

The condemned man had heard. For the first time, he wept.

“My little girl…” he whispered through tears.

He took a single step forward before two guards seized him. He thrashed suddenly, his voice cracking.

“Let me say goodbye! Just once! Please!”

The child reached for him. The mother clung harder, now sobbing uncontrollably, unable to hide it anymore. The guards held the man fast. He struggled until his strength gave out.

“She won’t understand… She’ll think I abandoned her…”

His voice was lost in the rising murmurs. The child cried now, calling out her father’s name again and again, not understanding.

No one moved.

The woman among the condemned was gasping, fighting the straps, the ropes, everything that held her, like a wild animal caught in a trap.

"You’re nothing!" she suddenly screamed at the crowd. "Cowards! Every one of you! You’re letting us die like dogs, and tomorrow, it’ll be your turn!"

Muted cries rose from the crowd. Some lowered their eyes. Others began to whisper. People wept, hiding their faces in their cloaks. An old man fell to his knees, pounding the stone with his fists, mumbling,

"Not this… not this…"

And above their heads, the nine ropes still waited.

The clatter of hooves echoed like a funeral bell against the wet cobblestones. Every head turned, but not a single voice rose. The crowd froze, petrified. Konrad advanced slowly on his stallion. The Wolf King wore no crown, no royal cape. Only a black tunic, a leather belt, and perfectly fitted gloves.

His face was unreadable. Like stone. Smooth. No trace of anger, no crease of disdain. Only his steel-grey eyes swept the scene with a chilling calm. The Alphas and Omegas in the crowd could sense nothing from him. No pheromones, no scent of fury, dominance, satisfaction, or anxiety. Just a deliberate emptiness. As if the man no longer had a soul.

Lily-Ari, hidden beneath her hood at the edge of the crowd, felt her stomach twist. She had known Konrad as a child, as a teenager, as a soldier, and then as a king. She had seen him laugh, doubt, love, collapse. But never, never had she seen him like this.

She knew that beneath that mask, the Alpha doubted himself. That he regretted what he was about to do. But that he no longer had a choice.

She watched him dismount. His movements were precise, mechanical. He didn’t look at the crowd. Not at the condemned. Not at anyone. He climbed the steps of the scaffold, boots striking the damp wood in a slow, heavy rhythm. Then he stood at the edge, arms folded behind his back.

The soldiers brought the nine condemned forward one by one, in silence. They were lined up beneath the ropes, hands bound behind their backs. The orator from Marnay held his head high, but the others shook. Some still wept. Others stood only because fear held them upright.

Konrad didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, expressionless. But Lily-Ari, even from a distance, even without seeing his eyes, knew.

Konrad had already condemned himself.

Back straight, every inch of him composed, the Alpha spoke:

"Today, at the sixth hour, are sentenced to death by hanging: George of Marnay, for inciting rebellion, public defamation, and calling for insurrection against the Crown. Pierre, Daniel, Lucas, Thomas, and Peter—former soldiers of the realm—for aligning themselves with a traitor and defending his speech in defiance of their oath. Alicia, of the village of Harnesse, for disturbing public order, attempted assault against royal forces, and incitement of hatred toward the throne. Emile and Gabriel, subjects of the kingdom, for active participation in an unlawful gathering, violence against the Guard, and public support of a seditious movement."

He paused, letting the echo of his words settle over the crowd.

"Whoever acts against the Crown, through words, deeds, or complicit silence, betrays the pact that binds them to this kingdom. Whoever tramples royal authority forfeits its protection. And its mercy."

Another pause. His voice dropped, deeper now.

"If any of you dispute this judgment… If any of you still believe a king can be insulted without consequence…"

His gaze swept slowly across the crowd.

"Step forward. Speak. Face the throne."

A long silence fell. No one moved. No one dared to breathe. Konrad gave a small, near-imperceptible nod.

"Then so be it."

The Alpha slowly raised his hand.

The soldiers obeyed.

Methodically, deliberately, they looped the ropes around each neck. One by one. Nine ropes. Nine bodies, frozen in fear. The wood groaned beneath their steps. Whimpers, gasps, strangled sobs echoed in the tense silence.

Some cried out, eyes locked on the royal platform.

"Mercy, Your Majesty, I beg you!"
"Spare me! For my children!"
"I'm loyal! It was a mistake!"

The executioners stepped forward, dressed in black. One cracked his knuckles. Another adjusted a knot with clinical precision, placing it just beneath the jawline. The grind of rusted gears marked the preparation of the drop mechanisms.

Tension swelled. A woman fainted in the crowd. A child screamed. One of the scribes knocked over his inkwell.

Lily-Ari, frozen among the spectators, felt her heart slam against her ribs.

On the platform, Konrad remained motionless. Not a flicker in his scent. The Alpha in him seemed carved from stone.

He said nothing more. He gave only a small nod.

The executioner saw it. That was enough.

A sharp crack tore through the silence.

The platform gave way in nine places all at once. The trapdoors dropped.

Nine bodies fell.

Some died instantly, their necks snapping at a brutal angle with a sharp, final sound. But not all. Two began to convulse, legs twitching in frantic spasms. Their fingers clawed at nothing, their throats releasing a gurgling rasp beneath the strain of the rope.

Soon, silence crept back in. Only the creaking of the ropes remained, and the horrified sobs of the crowd. Someone vomited. A man fainted into the arms of another. A child wept.

The executioners stood still, watching the bodies sway.

The Beta from Marnay had died upright, proud, and unbroken. Hands bound, shoulders high, as if he had chosen to give the king nothing.

And all around them, silence hung like a shroud. Shattered only by stifled breathing, muffled cries, and eyes that could no longer bear to look.

Konrad, shaken but revealing nothing, inhaled slowly before addressing the crowd in a cold, steady voice:

"Remember their names," he said. "They chose defiance, but they were still ours. Let their deaths serve as a lesson, but let no one insult them. No spitting. No disgrace. No stones cast. They have paid their price. Judgment has been passed."

He paused, his frozen gaze fixed on the swaying silhouettes above the scaffold. Then he continued, his voice firm:

"Their bodies will remain exposed for a day. After that, they will be returned to their families, if any remain. They will be granted a proper burial. Let their loved ones grieve, if they must. But let all remember this: defying the crown comes with consequence."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. No one clapped. No one shouted.

Konrad stepped down from the platform and mounted his horse in one fluid motion. He turned it sharply. Hooves struck the stones like thunder. His royal guard immediately fell into formation behind him.

He rode away at a steady pace, the crowd parting before him like the earth splitting open.

In the distance, hidden beneath her hood, Lily-Ari fought back tears, her stomach lurching with grief.

*****

The road back to the castle was short, at least in appearance. The streets of the capital had yet to fill, but the scent of death and tears lingered in the air.

At a crossroads, Konrad raised a hand to signal the mounted guards accompanying him.

"Return to the castle," he ordered.

"Your Majesty?" one of the captains asked, surprised.

"Without me," he repeated. "I'll take another way."

The soldiers exchanged confused glances, but obeyed without question.

Konrad waited until they had disappeared. Then he dismounted, took the reins of his horse, and led it slowly out of the main roads, toward a narrow alley hidden from view. There, secluded and unseen, he leaned back against the cold stone wall.

And he threw up.

Violently. For a long time. As if his body were trying to purge something, to rid itself of a weight too heavy to bear. And yet, as a warrior, he had witnessed countless deaths on the battlefield. He had killed with his own hands, over and over. But this, this was different.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. His face remained a mask, but his hands trembled. With sickness. With shame. With self-loathing.

He sank to his knees, head bowed, palms pressed against the wet stone. The leather of his gloves scraped against the ground. He stayed there, motionless, unable to rise.

In his mind, the voices still screamed. The begging. The weeping. The little girl calling out for her father. Nine ropes. Nine bodies.

You had no choice.

His inner wolf repeated the words again and again, but they rang hollow. He had done it to show strength, to stand against Alkan—but at what cost?

Is this what it means to be king?

He rose slowly and stared at his horse, still and patient. He forced himself to move. Every step was an effort. He mounted again in silence and rode on, leaving his heart behind him, buried in the mud.

*****

The Grand Council Hall had never felt so cold.

Every step echoed sharply off the walls. Silence hung heavy in the air. The members of the Council, few in number that morning, took their seats one by one around the long table. No one spoke. No one acknowledged Jean.

He had arrived early, as always. Out of habit, he sat in his usual chair—then realized. That seat was no longer his. He slowly shifted to the next bench over, lower, farther from the center. No one seemed to notice. Or perhaps they pretended not to.

Since being removed from the heart of power, his presence was tolerated, but his voice no longer heard. The Wolf King spoke to him only with coldness now.

When Konrad entered, the silence deepened. Then, the new royal advisor—the man who had replaced Jean—was announced. An elderly figure with slow, hesitant movements. Many didn’t even know his name. He had been appointed two days after the hangings, in a decision made without consultation. A loyal noble, they said.

Jean glanced at Erik, seated a little farther down the table. He too looked tired, troubled. His gaze often drifted toward the window. A pile of unopened letters sat on his desk, but he said nothing. Jean knew him well enough to sense the silence he had withdrawn into, refusing even to ask for help.

"Take your seats," Konrad finally said, his voice calm and even. "We have much to address."

They obeyed. The Council began, and Jean—once the king’s shadow—was now little more than a spectator in his own hall.

Konrad broke the silence again. "Status report."

An officer stood up at once.

"Fear is well entrenched, Your Majesty," he declared, voice firm. "In the capital, the streets are calm. Markets are slowly recovering. Crowds are rare. Patrols haven’t had to intervene in over a week. No rebellions. No unrest. Not openly, at least."

Konrad gave a slow nod. He didn’t seem satisfied. Just... attentive.

Jean straightened slightly in his seat, hesitant.

"Konrad," he began. "If I may—"

"No," Konrad cut in, not even looking at him. "You no longer have a seat at this table. So stay silent."

The tone was sharp. No one dared to intervene.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Jean shrank back, visibly affected, and said no more. The discomfort was palpable. No one met his eyes.

Then Erik leaned forward slightly. His voice was steady and measured.

"We have another problem. People are afraid to leave their homes. There are no children in the streets. Yes, the citizens are keeping quiet, but not out of loyalty. Out of fear. There are families who refuse to speak at their own tables, afraid someone might overhear."

Konrad didn’t reply right away. He stared straight ahead, his face unreadable, nearly absent. But his knuckles were white on the armrest.

Another councilman, a bearded man, added cautiously,

"Even the town criers avoid saying your name, Sire. They speak of decrees, taxes, harvests... but you, they refer to only as 'the Crown.' When they do mention the executions, it’s in hushed tones. There’s... unease. Since the hangings."

"The people are afraid, Konrad," Erik said again, more directly now.

A ripple of unease moved across the benches.

"They fear the Crown," his brother-in-arms continued. "They’ve lost all trust in you. The ones executed... they were speakers. Soldiers. A woman. Elders. Young men. Not warlords. Not traitors. Just ordinary people."

Konrad remained silent for a moment. He turned toward the window, where pale light filtered through. He looked as though he weren’t listening. But his fingers tapped slowly on the armrest.

Jean, until then mute, finally broke the silence. His voice no longer carried the weight it once had, but he couldn’t help himself.

"We should have calmed the tensions," he said. "Not stoked them. We could have just sentenced them to forced labor, as originally planned, instead of—"

He didn’t finish. Konrad had shot him a dark glare.

The elderly advisor cleared his throat gently and tried to intervene.

"This may be temporary, Your Majesty. The people's fear can serve us if properly managed."

Konrad nodded, while Jean shook his head slowly, nervously.

Erik cast a sympathetic glance at Jean before speaking again, his voice low.

"Regarding General Alkan..."

Even the mention of the name caused some Council members to stiffen.

"We’ve made sure he received news of the public executions. Through several channels: messengers, criers, even military reports. And if he read it—and we know he did—he chose not to respond."

A heavy silence followed.

"Not a single word. That silence... it’s intentional. It’s deliberate."

"He’s measuring," Konrad muttered under his breath.

"Yes, or waiting," Erik corrected. "He likely wants to see how far the king is willing to go."

"It’s a power play," Konrad concluded. "He’s testing the ground."

Then, Konrad pulled a rolled parchment from beneath the folds of his belt.

"I’ve written a response to his ultimatum," he announced.

He unrolled it, his voice calm, but sharp as a blade.

"The King of these lands answers to no ultimatum. The throne of this kingdom bows to no threat, from within or without. Royal authority is neither rented nor shared."

He paused, then continued:

"Intimidation and orders have no place here. Anyone who believes they can dictate terms to the Crown forgets the very nature of monarchy."

He raised his chin slightly, then delivered the final blow:

"He who claims power above the king would do well to remember who appointed him and why."

He rolled the parchment again and handed it to one of the scribes.

"Have it delivered to Mérovie. Today."

His finger tapped rhythmically on the wooden table. He was thinking. Then, in a tone too composed to be casual, he declared plainly:

"Oh. General Alkan is hereby relieved of his duties. Officially. As of today."

A quiet ripple moved through the room, quickly stifled by averted gazes. No one dared speak.

"He will not be judged. Not yet," Konrad added. "We have no formal proof that he acted against the Crown... despite his insinuations and his ultimatum. He hasn’t crossed the line. Not completely. But he has spoken words no soldier of the realm can speak to his king without consequence."

He paused, his gaze hard as steel, sweeping across the assembly.

"What he wrote is enough. It is an affront to the Crown. A humiliation directed at his sovereign. And I will tolerate no further insult."

Jean opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

"He will be granted a limited window," Konrad continued. "Six months. Enough time to settle his affairs at the Mérovie fortress, to hand over his military files, restructure the troops, and appoint a successor to the command of the Royal Guard."

Then, almost offhandedly, but locking eyes with Erik, he added:

"I’ve been considering a new general. The position can’t remain empty for long. Erik... you’re one of the strongest candidates. You’re my brother-in-arms. You have my full trust. You’re a gifted warrior, and you were trained by Alkan himself. I believe you would be a worthy successor."

Erik straightened with pride, a solemn and honored light in his eyes. He nodded once.

Around the Council table, the silence grew heavier still. Everyone understood what this meant: the end of an era. The end of Alkan’s shadow over the throne. And the beginning of a kingdom in transition.

Konrad rose slowly.

"This decree will be written today. I want a messenger to deliver it alongside my reply to Mérovie before nightfall."

No one spoke. Some lowered their eyes. Others gave a silent nod.

Konrad hadn’t raised his voice, nor had he lost his temper. He had simply stated, calmly and clearly, that the kingdom belonged to no one but him.

And no one in the room was foolish enough to question that.

As the heavy atmosphere from the King’s declaration regarding General Alkan still hung in the air, the new royal advisor cleared his throat softly to draw attention.

"Your Majesty... Members of the Council... I would like to offer a suggestion."

"I'm listening," said the Alpha.

"If I may... It is never wise for a people to fear their sovereign too deeply. Fear is useful at times, as I’ve said before, but peace must be restored, and balance maintained."

Konrad raised an eyebrow. The old man straightened, clasped his hands in front of him, and declared:

"We need to draw the people’s eyes away from the gallows, and back toward the glory of the realm. To reconcile them with the Crown."

He turned his head slowly toward the other council members, as if inviting them into the thought.

"I would like to propose a royal tournament."

Surprised and some irritated glances were exchanged across the room. The advisor continued.

"A grand tournament, open to all subjects. With trials, duels, rewards. Villagers could attend the contests. Each region could send a representative. It would be a chance to show that the Crown does not merely punish, but also rewards. That it celebrates courage and loyalty."

He paused briefly.

"We could invite artisans, open markets, hold performances. It would be a moment of relief for the realm. A chance for the people to reconnect with their king. And for you, Your Majesty, to remind them that you are not a tyrant, but a just ruler."

A tense stillness. All eyes slowly shifted to Konrad. But the new advisor added:

"Give your people a reason to rise again. Give them back the right to breathe. Let nobles and commoners, villagers and merchants sit side by side in the stands. Show them that this kingdom can be united in celebration."

Jean, who had remained silent until then, furrowed his brow.

"Konrad," he said softly. "With respect... allow me to object."

The entire room turned to him, surprised by the interruption. Jean continued calmly, meeting Konrad’s gaze.

"To host games just days after nine public executions? It’s too soon. The tournament would be seen as an insult."

Konrad didn’t answer immediately. He stared at Jean, expression unreadable. Though the Beta had been dismissed from his official post, the Wolf King—by instinct—still weighed his words.

At last, the Alpha sighed and turned his attention back to the new advisor.

"I’ve heard your proposal," he said. "But I need time to consider it."

It was neither a refusal nor an agreement.

"The matter is postponed. We’ll revisit it later."

He stood. No one dared speak further.

The meeting was over.

*****

A few days after the Council meeting, Konrad was in the royal stables with the farrier, inspecting his stallion’s hooves. The craftsman’s gestures were expert, almost mechanical.

Suddenly, the sound of fast-approaching hooves echoed beneath the stone arches.

“Halt!” barked a guard.

But Konrad raised a calm hand to stop him. He had recognized the gait and the imbalance of the female rider.

It was one of Ravok’s mercenaries. Oya. She was alone, her mount caked in dried mud as if it hadn’t been washed in years. She dismounted with the grace and fluidity of a collapsing cart, nearly stumbling as she hit the ground. She straightened up, out of breath, her blond braids plastered to her face, and pulled out a leather-wrapped letter as she approached Konrad.

“For you, Konrad—uh, I mean, Mister King,” she corrected herself with absolutely no ceremony and not even a nod of respect. “From the chief.”

Konrad didn’t acknowledge the mercenary’s lack of etiquette. He simply extended his arm and took the letter. It wasn’t written on typical parchment. It was a thin piece of leather, roughly tanned, still slightly coarse to the touch. There was no seal. No sign of official protocol. Clearly not a letter from within the kingdom or any officer.

The Alpha turned it over in his hands. He wasn’t surprised. The nomads had their own way of doing things. They didn’t adhere to the same etiquette, nor to formal hierarchies. But their messages were always clear, and efficiently delivered.

Konrad read the contents:

" To King Konrad. Following observed signs in the southern territories—abnormal crop rot, water contamination—the pack of Ravok, for reasons of tradition and caution, will delay its planned departure. The withdrawal of forces will thus be postponed by several weeks. The camp remains stationed at its current location until further notice. This does not affect the terms of the original agreement."

Konrad stared at the leather for a moment, the supple yet slightly greasy material resting between his fingers.

Four months.

It had been four months since Ravok and his nomads had crossed into the kingdom and set camp on northern soil. They were meant to stay only for the birthing season—nothing more. That had been the agreement. A season of rest for the pregnant Omegas and females. A tactical retreat for safe delivery.

Konrad knew, though he wasn’t an expert, that the mercenaries should have begun moving on about four months after the birthing season began. By then, the pack’s newborns would have passed the critical early weeks. Their mortality rate would have dropped drastically. They’d sleep through the night, survive more easily, and be strong enough to travel. The pack, then, should have broken camp and resumed their journey.

The Alpha had truly hoped this day would come. That Ravok and his tribe would leave as abruptly as they had arrived. The sooner, the better. Their departure could have marked the end of unrest in the North, the return of quiet in the villages, the easing of his people’s anger. Konrad had believed, naively, perhaps, that once the nomads were off his land, everything would settle back into place. That the fury of his subjects would fade. That life would return to what it had been.

But no. Ravok was still here. And Konrad was powerless to do anything about it.

It was all because of that damned epidemic in the South. That strange blight rotting crops, blackening water. An illness even his healers couldn’t name or cure. And the nomads, with their age-old superstitions, had seen it as a sign. An omen. A warning from the spirits. These savages and their absurd traditions—always so quick to believe the earth itself speaks to them. So they stayed. Delayed their departure.

“Well, I mean, we’re kinda bored here anyway,” Oya muttered, without waiting to be addressed. “If it were up to me, I’d have left already. But whatever. Just a few weeks, right?”

She tapped her boot on the ground, clumsily hauled herself back into the saddle—it took her two tries—then let out a curse.

“Goddamn... bloody stirrups—ah! There. Later, Mister King.”

And with a tug of the reins and a cloud of dust, she rode off, nearly crashing into a rider arriving from the opposite direction, a scroll clutched in his hand.

Konrad frowned. He didn’t recognize the man. He wasn’t one of the palace messengers, nor anyone familiar from the royal routes. Yet he held himself with confidence. His black horse was well-controlled, unshaken by Oya’s hasty departure.

Konrad stepped forward, gaze sharpening.

The royal messengers had already come that morning. Their letters had been received, identities verified. No reply had been expected. Not so soon.

And then he saw it.

Sewn directly onto the man’s travel cloak, bold against the dark fabric, was a crest Konrad knew all too well: a jet-black raven clutching a sharp blade in its beak, set against a field of blood red.

The crest of General Alkan.

Konrad’s chest tightened, subtly but unmistakably. A cold, creeping dread settled in his gut.

The rider dismounted smoothly, approached, and offered a brief bow—just shallow enough for Konrad to notice—then extended the scroll.

“Message from General Alkan,” the man announced, voice even. “By his direct command. For His Majesty.”

Konrad stared at the scroll as if touching it might burn his skin. He inhaled deeply, then took it between his fingers.

Alkan’s messenger didn’t bother to wait for the Wolf King to open it. He climbed back onto his horse with practiced ease, gave a curt nod, and disappeared without another word.

Konrad, tense, read the dark ink across the hide:

“To His Majesty King Konrad,
I have received your decree.
You have chosen to relieve me of my duties. So be it. I will take the necessary steps to organize the transition, as you require.
I do note, however, that you are keeping foreign mercenaries on royal soil while stripping your oldest officers of their titles.
I see.
It seems you have chosen your side.
Very well.”

Konrad stared at the letter. He didn’t blink. His jaw clenched, veins taut in his neck. He reread every word—once, then twice. There was nothing excessive. No overt insult. No confession. No clear threat. Just that line, looping through his head like venom:

“It seems you have chosen your side.”

That was it. The contempt. The judgment. And Konrad couldn’t do a damn thing.

He couldn’t incriminate him. Not with a letter so clean, so carefully worded. There was no legal ground. Nothing solid enough to drag him before a tribunal. Nothing that clearly proved Alkan was turning the people against him, undermining his rule, pushing him toward a misstep. But he knew.
He knew those words were a veiled threat. A trap. A way of saying that Alkan would not sit idle.

Konrad slowly crushed the parchment in his fist. He was breathing hard. Controlled. But each inhale carried rage. It pulsed through him.

His hands trembled. He wanted to scream, to lash out. To send his cavalry galloping to Mérovie, surround the Alkan’s fortress, drag his former mentor through the mud, humiliate him, chain him up, throw him to the dogs. But he couldn’t.

Because he had no proof.

And that was what was killing him.

“Bastard…” he growled under his breath.

Footsteps echoed through the stables, light, casual. A figure approached, sword slung over one shoulder, shirtless and slick with sweat. Erik. His brother-in-arms. His companion for over two decades.

He walked in, shaking his dark hair, looking carefree.

“You won’t believe this,” he said, grinning. “Some girl from the capital stopped me earlier. And guess what? I’ve got a date tonight. Probably a working girl, judging by the place, but hey… not the marrying type, sure, but I’m not gonna complain about a bit of fun. It’s summer, gotta live a little, y—”

He stopped short. Eyes on Konrad. On his clenched fists. On the crushed scroll. On the silent, blazing fury radiating from him.

“…What the hell..? What is it?”

Konrad didn’t answer right away. He stared ahead, as if addressing a ghost.

“‘I’ve chosen my side,’ huh?” he muttered, with bitter cynicism.

He lifted his gaze to Erik. And this time, there was no hesitation in his eyes. Just the cold resolve of a king. The dominance of an Alpha.

“Fine. He wants to know where I stand? He’ll find out.”

Erik’s brow furrowed, catching up quickly.

“Are you talking about him? Konrad…”

“I’ve made my decision,” the Wolf King cut in, curt.

There was no hesitation. Not in his voice, not in his movements. He took a step. Then another. As if each word spoken solidified his resolve.

“I’m organizing this tournament,” he declared, voice resonating with conviction. “Not to please the crowd, not for show. But to remind everyone where authority lies. Who rules, who decides. And to show those still doubting that I am surrounded by allies. True partners.”

His eyes burned with determination.

“Ravok is one of them.”

Erik stepped back, startled. “What? Ravok? That savage outsider?”

Konrad growled under his breath.

“Like it or not, Ravok is no longer a foreigner. He’s been on my land for months. He’s followed my laws, defended my borders. He’s never raised a hand against the Crown. So I’ll do what any responsible king should: recognize his status.”

He crossed his arms, his tone hardening.

“He will be treated as an ally of the throne. Just like Prince Darel of the Deleskar Mountains, the Port-Bleu twins, or the Sultan of the Savage Desert.”

He paused.

“As long as he remains on my territory, Ravok and his pack are under the protection of this kingdom. And if he’s to take part in the tournament, then let it be public. Let him compete in the trials. Let everyone see what he’s worth. I want Alkan to see it too.”

Erik stepped closer. His expression had lost all trace of lightness, replaced by growing concern. He could feel the weight of what Konrad was about to set in motion.

“You want to provoke Alkan,” he murmured.

“No,” the Alpha replied. “I want to strip him of legitimacy. I want the entire kingdom to see that I’m not afraid to surround myself with outsiders if my own generals turn their backs on me. I want him to feel that with each day he hesitates, I’m building a wall around him.”

A heavy silence settled in. Erik looked like he wanted to object, to say something that might challenge Konrad, to tell him he was wrong. But no sound left his lips.

At last, the Alpha concluded, his gaze sharp as steel:
“If Alkan believes I’m isolated, if he thinks the kingdom is wavering, let him watch this tournament. Let him count the banners. Let him see how many allies I still have.”

He threw the parchment to the ground with force. The wind caught it, sending it tumbling through the dust.

“Prepare the invitations. The tournament will take place in two weeks. Raise the stands. Alert the provinces. The nobles, the clergy, the common folk… I want them all here.”

He turned away, but added in a cold, measured tone:
“And send a messenger to Ravok’s camp. Make it official. With the royal seals. Let him know he is invited. Let him know he was chosen.”

Erik opened his mouth, ready to speak. But one look from Konrad silenced him.

The decision was made.

The king had chosen his side.

*****

The next morning, as the sun struggled to rise behind a stormy veil, a captain of the royal guard knocked at the door of the king’s private chambers. Konrad, already awake, opened it himself.

“Your Majesty... the messenger was unable to deliver your letter to Lord Ravok. We eventually questioned the northern road sentries.”

The king frowned and straightened up. “And?”

The captain hesitated a moment before answering, visibly uneasy.

“Lord Ravok’s pack turned away all envoys. None were allowed near. They drove them from the outskirts of the camp. Fiercely. No injuries, but the message was clear: no contact without your direct presence.”

A long silence followed. Konrad took a slow breath, his eyes drifting toward the horizon.

He had expected this. Of course. The nomads were not vassals. They were a proud, territorial people, bound by tribal codes. Only a fool would believe they’d accept an official missive without condition—especially now that the young had been born.

He ran a tired hand over his face.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll go myself.”

The captain looked at him, startled.

“Sire?”

“Prepare my horse. No banners. No escort. I won’t risk a diplomatic incident.”

“But—”

“That’s an order.”

*****

Konrad rode alone, the wind pressing the folds of his cloak against his legs. The first light of day had yet to pierce the ceiling of clouds. The air smelled of damp earth.

He left the marked roads, crossing hills and dark woods. No guards followed him. He preferred it that way. One more presence could have been seen as an armed intrusion. Ravok would not have appreciated that.

The ride to the nomadic camp took three hours at full gallop.

Through the trees, he caught sight of the first tents: massive, dark, methodically clustered.

Figures were already patrolling—silent, quick. Nomadic mercenaries, armed to the teeth, bare-chested, covered in scars, tanned hides, and ancient tattoos. None of them spoke. But all had seen him coming.

Konrad dismounted, his boots sinking into the soft ground. Without a word, he tied the reins of his stallion to one of the circular posts marking the edge of the camp, among dozens of other nomad horses tethered in a messy line. The animal snorted, uneasy, agitated by the foreign scents.

Eyes turned to him immediately. A few mercenaries stopped talking. Others straightened, a hand resting on the hilt of a blade. Once they recognized the newcomer, no weapons were drawn.

They watched him pass. And while there was suspicion, there was no challenge. Ravok had made things clear from the beginning: Konrad was one of the few outsiders tolerated within the camp. Not as a guest, but as an equal. One who deserved the same respect as Ravok.

And here, Ravok’s word was law.

So Konrad walked. Upright, steady, head held high. He didn’t rush, nor did he slow. He walked like a king, especially here. Every step between the thick, dark tents of the nomads echoed with certainty.

Some mercenaries nodded at him in silent greeting. Others simply followed him with their eyes, their faces unreadable beneath their hoods.

The layout of the camp hadn’t changed. Still that same surface chaos masking a precise, almost ritualistic order. Here, weapons were always visible. Even the children carried knives. The nurses bore daggers at their sides. Konrad saw young mothers with infants strapped to their chests, eyes dark, gaze sharp as steel. The older children, already awake, watched him in silence.

Suddenly, a soft whinny broke through Konrad’s thoughts like a blade through cloth.

He stopped, heart thudding against his ribs for no apparent reason. He turned his head. And he saw her.

She approached slowly, with a smooth, graceful gait, almost otherworldly, slipping between the tents like an apparition. A golden champagne mare, her coat light as honey, her mane pale as if dusted with snow in the height of summer. Even without sunlight, her hide shimmered. And her eyes… a blue so pale they seemed to see straight through the soul.

Seraya.

Ravok’s mare. His equal, some said. His other half, others whispered.

And there she was, walking toward Konrad. Alone. No saddle. No reins. No master.

He didn’t move. Didn’t show a flicker of emotion.

She stopped a meter away. Studied him for a long moment. Then stepped closer. Konrad slowly extended a hand.

“Hey, beauty,” he murmured. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

His palm brushed the bridge of her nose. He felt the warmth beneath her skin, the softness of her coat. But the mare didn’t flinch. On the contrary she leaned in. Her warm breath grazed his fingers. He stroked her gently, in silence, like one might greet an old friend after a long absence.

“Do you understand me?”

He felt ridiculous as he said it. He was speaking to an animal. But Seraya wasn’t like other creatures. The Alpha could have sworn there was something more behind those eyes—something near-human. A kind of intelligence that defied explanation.

A deep, gravelly voice came from behind him.

“She’s done it twice now.”

Konrad turned around.

It was Garron. The one-eyed Alpha. A silent wall of muscle, reserved, impenetrable. One of Ravok’s most loyal men. He wasn’t smiling. But there was no hostility in him either.

Seraya, graceful beyond words, turned away and glided noiselessly up toward the camp’s highest point, to the largest tent. As if she had decided the exchange was over.

Garron stood still, only his gaze trailing the mare.

The Wolf King asked, puzzled, “What do you mean?”

Garron finally looked him in the eye.

“She’s let you touch her. Twice.”

Konrad frowned, unsettled by the remark.

“She never lets anyone near her,” Garron went on, voice flat. “No one in the pack. Except Ravok.”

Konrad slowly nodded.

“Out of curiosity,” the king asked, “where is she from?”

Garron was silent for a moment.

“No one knows,” he finally said. “One day, she was just there.”

“A wild mare?”

“Probably.”

The two Alphas watched as Seraya disappeared between the tents.

“But then…” Konrad continued, “she’s never been trained?”

“No.”

“Then how can Ravok ride her?”

“She chose him. She doesn’t allow anyone else.”

Konrad didn’t respond right away. It was… beyond him. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Ravok and Garron were lying about Seraya. But after all the strange, unexplainable things he’d witnessed lately, nothing surprised him anymore.

Garron was watching him closely. There was a trace of respect in his gaze. Maybe even a hint of deference. And Konrad, still, wasn’t used to seeing that from the one-eyed warrior.

“I came to deliver an invitation,” Konrad said, regaining his composure. “For Ravok, and for every member of his pack.”

Garron gave a slow nod. He didn’t extend his hand.

“He’s not here.”

“Gone?”

“This morning. Alone.”

“Will he return?”

“Always.”

The exchange triggered a strange sense of déjà vu in the Wolf King. With a quiet sigh, Konrad held out the letter in his hand.

“Can you give him the message?”

Garron nodded silently, accepting the parchment with care — making sure not to touch Konrad’s fingers.

As Konrad turned to head back to his horse, Garron’s deep voice stopped him mid-step.

“Ravok has changed.”

The Wolf King froze. He turned slowly, raising a brow, surprised that Garron would speak up on his own—and especially to say that.

“He’s not the same anymore,” the mercenary added.

“Ravok?” Konrad echoed, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “What, has he softened up? Grown fond of royal banquets and ballroom dances? Tapestries and gemstones?”

No reaction from the one-eyed Alpha.

Konrad pushed further, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Or has he finally developed a taste for the court’s Omegas? I remember him calling them too powdered, too obedient, too... polite. Has he changed his mind?”

Garron remained silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze.

“He refuses them all.”

Konrad’s smirk faded. His expression darkened.

“His wolf doesn’t respond anymore,” Garron said. “He turns them all away.”

There was no mockery in his tone. No derision. Just a simple, quiet truth.

“What…?” murmured the Wolf King, guarded, unsure what to make of it.

“He’s not the same,” Garron repeated, “since he met you.”

A breeze whispered through the camp, making the tent ropes tremble. Distant voices echoed from beyond the ridge.

Konrad held Garron’s gaze, saying nothing. A part of him understood already. Or didn’t want to. Confusion stirred beneath his composure.

"One more thing," the one-eyed man added.

Still calm. Arms folded. As unmoving as a cliff. Konrad looked at him, slightly taken aback by how much the man had spoken today.

“I don’t know what you want from him. Or what you’re after. That’s none of my concern.” Garron paused, his words quiet but weighty.

“But if something ever happens to the chief…because of you, directly or not…”

A silence fell.

“…then it’ll become my business.”

Konrad didn’t move. A cold chill crept down the back of his neck. Garron stepped back — just once — a silent signal that the conversation was over. No more words. No further explanation.

Konrad gave no reply. No parting nod. He simply turned and walked away, head high, posture unyielding, retracing his path through the heart of the nomad camp, untouchable, unwavering.

Every step he took met the quiet stare of mercenaries watching him pass, with a gaze that held both caution and something close to respect.

He reached his stallion at the camp’s edge and untied the reins. His eyes, despite himself, drifted back one last time toward the clustered tents, the thin smoke rising from cooking fires. Toward that place where nothing followed his rules.

He didn’t see Ravok. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

But he knew the man would come to the tournament. Of that, he had no doubt. Ravok was not one to ignore a challenge thrown before the eyes of a kingdom.

Konrad mounted. With a sharp pull, he turned the reins and sent his horse into a steady trot, leaving the camp behind without a glance back.

But Garron’s words still echoed in his chest.

Maybe… maybe he had missed Ravok after all.