They summon me to the King’s council chamber at dawn like I’m some disobedient child being called to the principal’s office. Except the principal’s my father, and instead of detention, I’m facing political execution.
The obsidian table stretches between us like a battlefield. Morning sun slices through stained glass, landing across the room like judgment day in technicolor. Toren’s crown tilts forward—more warlord than king—and his glare could freeze hellfire.
I stand at the opposite end. Don’t bow. Never do. Hands behind my back, chin up, torn court cloak still stained with blood from last night’s supernatural shitshow.
Through the bond, I feel Lucy somewhere behind the tapestries. Smart girl. Dangerous girl. Should’ve known she’d find a way to eavesdrop on her own trial.
“Your reign is not inevitable, Prince.” Toren’s voice cuts through silence like a blade. “Your blood may be Dire—but it is not divine.”
No flinch. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
“You would risk centuries of peace,” he continues, “for a curse-touched Omega?”
Curse-touched. Right. Because surviving my psychotic episodes makes her the problem.
General Horne speaks up, voice dripping with military certainty. “She’s dangerous. We’ve seen it. The beast inside you bows only to her voice. That is not a mate—it’s a weakness.”
Some lord near the window scoffs like he’s commenting on bad theater. “You think the Western packs will kneel to a prince who cowers in an Omega’s arms during a blood moon?”
Cowers. Jesus fucking Christ.
An elder leans forward, knuckles white on obsidian. “You cannot rule if the people believe you’ve been bewitched.”
“I’ve not been bewitched,” I say, jaw flexing with the effort of staying civil.
Low murmur ripples through the room. One general mutters like I can’t hear him: “He speaks as if we’re fools.”
“She walked into your chamber unscathed,” someone else adds, “and walked out with the beast on its knees. What else would you call that?”
My voice drops low, razor-sharp. “I’d call it mercy. Not weakness.”
“No?” Toren snaps. “Then prove it. Marry Lady Vaela. Seal an alliance the West will respect. Restore the dignity of your line. And send the Omega back to Valen.”
Through the bond, I feel Lucy’s hands fist in fabric. Her rage spikes, bitter and raw. Back to Valen. Like she’s damaged goods being returned to the store.
“Let the West see,” Toren says slowly, deliberately, “that you know how to choose loyalty over lust.”
Lust. That’s what they think this is. Political strategy wrapped in pretty words about tradition and bloodlines.
“You think this is about lust?” My voice goes dangerous. “You think I would bind myself to her in front of gods and wolves alike for desire alone?”
“She is not a wife,” some noble snaps. “She’s a political liability.”
“She’s a miracle,” I shot back. “You just don’t understand her.”
“You sound mad,” one of the old priests says, leaning on his cane like judgment incarnate. “You kneel for her like a starving dog.”
My eyes flare. “I kneel to no one. I chose her. That bond is sacred.”
“Sacred,” Toren scoffs. “You use that word while defying every law of blood. She was raised without name, without land, without mark. You forget what power demands.”
“I forget nothing,” I growl. “I remember every night she was locked away. Every lie you let them tell. Every bruise on her skin. And I remember the way she held me when my bones shattered under your cursed moon.”
Stunned silence drops like a stone. Chairs shift. Eyes narrow. Truth has that effect on people—makes them uncomfortable when they’d rather live with convenient lies.
Lord Varrick stands abruptly. “Do you expect us to accept an Omega as our future Queen? What would that say to our sons? Our daughters?”
Another barks, “It would say that tradition is dead.”
Toren’s voice turns to cold steel. “And now you spit in the face of tradition. For what? Love?”
The word hangs in the air like an accusation.
“If love is a threat to this court,” I say slowly, letting each word land, “then maybe it deserves to be ruined.”
Gasps. Audible and sharp. Someone curses under their breath. The priest drops his cane in shock. And still I stand, unmoved, shoulders squared like a wall refusing to fall.
“Her presence in this castle is a disgrace,” General Horne says, slamming his palm on obsidian. “We are asking for sanity, not sentiment.”
“No,” I say. “You’re asking me to lie.”
Toren leans forward. “Lie, then. Like every ruler before you. Choose what is necessary.”
“I already have,” I say.
A tremble passes through the Elders. Someone hisses, “He’s gone.”
Through the bond, I feel Lucy’s forehead pressed against cold stone. Every word is a lash. Every silence worse. She’s listening to them dissect our future like it’s a business transaction.
The silence stretches. They expect me to fold. To choose crown over heart, politics over truth.
Instead, I say, clear as a blade:
“No.”
The room explodes.