The doors burst open with a sound like a crack of stone splitting in half. Every voice in the room fell silent. Celine froze mid-breath as the echo rolled through the hall.
The guards entered first. Black and silver armor clanked with each step. Their helmets bore the mark of the Royal Line—a snarling wolf's head, fangs bared, flames curling above its crown. They moved in formation, no words, no wasted motion, their eyes fixed forward.
Then he walked in.
The Lycan King.
He wore no crown. He didn’t need one. Heavy furs draped his shoulders over dark blue robes, the kind reserved for old blood and higher ranks. He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t look concerned. He looked like he already owned the room.
His steps were even. Calm. His build was solid, his posture loose but watchful. Nothing about him shouted. He didn’t have to.
The room tensed under his presence.
His hair was chestnut brown, thick and falling just past his collar, and it shifted slightly with his stride. The torchlight made it look soft, but the rest of him was anything but. His eyes scanned the room—amber, sharp, and unforgiving.
Celine didn’t need anyone to tell her what was happening.
He hadn’t come for ceremony. There had been no herald, no summons sent ahead, no chance to prepare.
The King never came without notice. He didn’t walk into pack halls without weeks of planning and protocol. This wasn’t formality. It was a warning.
She didn’t look for Lilith. She didn’t need to. She already knew. This had her sister’s fingerprints all over it.
Beside her, Leon moved. Celine followed his lead, both of them lowering into deep bows. Across the hall, the crowd did the same—some quick, others stumbling into it with wide eyes and shaky hands.
“Rise,” the King said, his voice smooth, polished. “Let’s not interrupt your mate bond any longer than necessary.”
The guests stood, hesitant. The air was thick with uncertainty.
“Congratulations,” he said, his eyes now on Celine. “A White Wolf. A fated union. Rare gifts indeed. Not something the realm sees often.”
He turned to his attendant. Two velvet boxes were brought forward—one small, one large.
“For the bride,” the King said, motioning toward Celine. “A sapphire, cut from the royal mines. It sees clearly… as I hope you will.”
Inside the box, nestled in black velvet, lay a dark sapphire necklace—deep as midnight, shining like water in moonlight.
“For the Alpha,” the King continued, presenting the larger box to Leon. “A cup of gold. May you drink only wisdom from it.”
The crowd offered polite, awkward applause. The King smiled thinly. But Celine could feel the undercurrent beneath the ceremony.
Then his voice changed—cooler, quieter.
“I would speak with you both,” he said. “Privately.”
The room stilled again.
Leon stepped forward, ever composed. “Of course, Your Majesty.”