Evening settled over Fort Dalen like a velvet shawl, casting a deep indigo hue across the keep's courtyards and halls. Lanterns were being lit in the lower corridors, their glow soft and flickering. Inside their shared quarters, Liora had not spoken much since their walk through the garden. She had offered Veyra a quiet, worn nod as she slipped past into the chamber, arms crossed tightly around herself.
Veyra had lingered only a moment before she withdrew, closing the door behind her with careful hands.
The collar hung from her fingers.
Still warm from Liora's skin. Still laced—unbearably—with the scent of him.
Her jaw tensed.
She didn't speak a word as she made her way through the keep, boots striking with muted resolve. The passage to the blacksmith's wing was a narrower one, typically used by servants and guards. It suited her fine. She didn't care to be stopped tonight. She didn't want to explain the knot in her chest—or the thing clenched tight in her fist.
The smith's forge was tucked beneath the eastern wall, partially exposed to open air to allow the heat and smoke to escape. Sparks spilled from the hearth like fireflies as she entered, and the heavy scent of iron and soot clung to the air.
The woman working the bellows looked up.
She was older, broad-shouldered and lined with the creases of decades spent near flame and anvil. Her graying hair was tied back under a worn leather wrap, and her hands bore the telltale strength of long labor. She froze when she recognized her visitor—and then stiffened further when her nose caught the scent clinging faintly to the object Veyra carried.
She straightened, wiping her hands on a heavy cloth. Her keeper—a silent Alpha clad in neutral browns—watched from the far side of the forge, tense but still.
"...My lady," the smith said, her voice gravel-rough. "That's not a piece of armor."
"No," Veyra said, stepping closer. She held out the collar, fingers curled tightly around the strip of reinforced leather and silverwork. "It's a claim-collar."
The woman's jaw tightened, gaze flicking toward the Alpha keeper, then back. "You want it reforged?"
"I want the clasp changed," Veyra said, voice calm but brooking no argument. "Something she can unbuckle herself. A front-fastening loop or twin hooks. Not the kind that locks behind the neck out of reach. I'm not interested in making a chain. Just... a symbol. Nothing more."
The Omega looked at the collar again, and her nostrils flared faintly. The unwanted scent lingered on the leather like a bruise. Her eyes hardened. "This was placed on her by someone else."
"Yes." Veyra's voice dropped lower. "Without permission."
The older woman said nothing for a moment. Her gaze was steady—piercing, even—but not unkind. Perhaps she remembered, as so many older Omegas did, what it felt like to have no say. Perhaps she could smell that Veyra's scent was nowhere on the collar.
"...I'll do it," the smith finally said, turning toward her tools. "But I'll need a few hours. The leather's not raw, and the metal's delicate near the joints. If I work fast, I can have it by dawn."
Veyra gave a quiet nod. "Thank you."
The Omega's keeper shifted slightly, but did not interfere. There was a delicate understanding in the air now—one that came from deeper places than protocol or caste.
As Veyra turned to go, she hesitated. Then said, "Let me know when it's done. I'll come myself to pick it up."
She left the forge in silence, the glow of the firelight behind her casting long shadows as she returned to the keep.
The clang of steel on steel echoed faintly as Veyra stepped away from the blacksmith's side alcove, the new collar's specifications committed to memory by the older Omega artisan, who eyed the thing—obviously irritated by the faint scent clinging to it—and gave a small, tight nod. Supervised from a distance by her Alpha keeper, the woman hadn't dared question aloud, but her gaze had lingered too long on the mark of House Halvarin.
She descended the stone steps back into the lower courtyard and nearly walked straight past Kellen, who stood waiting in the shadow of a pillar, arms crossed and watching her approach with that quiet, perceptive calm that had always irritated and grounded her in equal measure.
"You always did like brooding corners," she muttered.
"Comes with the job," he said easily. "I heard you storming the forge."
"I did not 'storm'."
"No, of course not." He raised an eyebrow. "You just made a formal request to alter a claimed Omega's collar. That's not going to raise any whispers at all."
She gave him a sharp look. "The clasp was faulty."
Kellen didn't challenge the lie, but his eyes sharpened. "Is she alright?"
There was a pause—too long a pause. "There was... an incident," she admitted. "In the garden. A noble's son. He approached her while she was alone."
Kellen's posture tensed subtly. "Did he touch her?"
"He surrounded her. Forced her to submit. Took the collar and fastened it around her neck himself. Scent-marked her."
Kellen's face darkened, the tension in his jaw visible now. "Bastard. Did you catch which house?"
"I recognized the scent," she said. "He wanted me to. As to which house... I'll need to check to be sure. But I suspect..." She trailed off ominously.
"Then let me follow it."
Veyra didn't move for a long moment. The scent still clung faintly to her skin where she'd held the collar. She looked down at it, frowning—then shook her head.
"No," she said. "Beta scenting isn't precise enough. You'd catch the trail, but not know if it was his or another Alpha's. I'll do it myself. I can follow it directly."
Kellen's brow furrowed, but he accepted the decision. "Then I'll keep to my side. I've already been tracing threads in the council's movements. There are discrepancies in the logs surrounding the Vale. I'll dig deeper."
Veyra nodded. "Good. I trust you with that."
His voice lowered, more personal now. "And what about her? Liora. You claimed her in front of the Circle. You never even entertained a bond before."
"I didn't want to," she said softly. "The laws are a noose. But when I saw them looking at her like—like a prize to be passed around—I couldn't stomach it."
Kellen gave a slow nod. "Then you'd better be ready for what comes next. If he scent-marked her in front of the whole fort..."
"He didn't. But he made sure I'd notice."
"And she?"
"She ran to me," Veyra said, the admission quiet, but something about it sharpened her tone. "I don't think she even realized it. But she was trembling. And she came to me."
For a moment, there was only silence between them.
"She's under your protection now," Kellen said at last. "Which means she's under mine too."
She nodded, then looked back toward the corridor leading to her quarters. "I should return to her."
"I'll keep watch from the outside," he offered. "Let me know when you're ready to share what you find."
She clasped his shoulder, briefly. "I will."
——
Moonlight slid over stone and clipped hedge as Veyra stepped silently back into the garden. She lifted her hand slightly, the back of her knuckles still carrying the faintest trace of a scent she hadn't yet let go of. It clung stubbornly to the edges of her palm, subtle but distinct.
She followed it like a hound would a thread of blood in the snow.
The sharp bite of male pheromones tugged her senses forward, not enough to sway her, but enough to direct her. The air thickened the closer she came to the low row of blue-flowered groundvine where Liora had been kneeling.
Here.
Veyra crouched low, hand hovering just above the dirt. Her mind flicked back to the way Liora had looked up at her, eyes wide and ashamed, the collar fastened tight against her neck — wrong, foreign, invasive. Violent.
She'd smelled it then too — the bastard's intent. Not just territorial. Possessive.
Predatory.
The scent had settled around the base of Liora's neck in a way that made Veyra's teeth grit even now. Whoever he was, he'd gotten far too close. And he'd done it on purpose.
Her expression darkened.
What kind of imbecile would provoke a bonded Alpha the day after a formal claim? Not just any noble brat would be that reckless.
Only one who believed they could get away with it.
She rose slowly, scanning the path beyond the hedgerow. The scent led east—faint and thinning, but she knew its direction now. She stopped a servant girl sweeping the path, keeping her tone low.
"Did a noble youth pass through here earlier?" Veyra asked, not bothering to hide the steel in her voice. "Midday. Tall. Dark hair. Fine clothes." She recounted details Liora had whispered to her on the way back towards the quarters earlier. "Did you notice where he came from?"
The girl hesitated, but nodded. "From the east hall, milady. I—I thought he was a courier. But he was laughing when he left."
Not the guest wing.
The east hall was adjacent to the Circle chamber — used only by councilors, or those they allowed inside.
Her heart beat harder in her chest.
She circled around the garden in the direction of the east wing, pausing just long enough to check the entrance to the garden.
So she hadn't been mistaken.
She caught it beneath the ivy—the scent of dried sage and parchment, old authority wrapped in dust and pride. Not the heir who had marked Liora, but the one who had likely ordered it. Lord Alric Serren, Councilor Serren's eldest son. He hadn't set foot in Fort Dalen in months, not openly. But his scent lingered in the garden like a command whispered to a subordinate. Veyra stilled, jaw tightening. He was too careful to act alone. If Alric had a hand in this, then it wasn't just a petty insult—it was strategy.
Her thoughts circled to Castian Thorne, younger but no less venomous. That had been whose scent she'd been tracing. And it fit. He had once walked in Alric's shadow, studying his cold tactics like a pupil studies a blade. Now the two moved in tandem, heirs to the old guard, testing her defenses not just in council chambers, but in her own grounds. Veyra rose slowly, eyes narrowing on the broken path ahead. If they were moving pieces together, she would need to strike first—before whispers turned into scandal, before hands reached again for Liora.
Councilor Serren's son had always been an arrogant little shit, but this wasn't some random encounter. He'd come from the inner wing. That boy had walked into her garden like it was a chessboard, knowing exactly where the queen stood.
And someone had helped him place his piece.
Councilor Tareth had ample reason to rattle her. His faction resisted every reform she proposed, and he'd already orchestrated the delay that nearly got her killed. But if he and Thorne were working together... and with Lady Serren?
Then this wasn't about Liora at all.
This was a strike against House Halvarin.
A claiming meant consolidation. Strength. Bloodline. Loyalty. And the moment she staked her right, someone had tried to foul it.
And if all of this was connected to the missing scout party—
Her stomach twisted, the implications sharp.
What were they trying to cover up in Karsen Vale? Trade? Smuggling? A military buildup across the border? Whatever it was, it was worth silencing an entire patrol. Worth provoking her in plain sight.
Her palm curled slowly into a fist.
They'd made their move. Now it was her turn.
——
- (Fort Dalen – War Room, Dusk) -
Dusk settled like a shroud over Fort Dalen, the air hushed and sharp with the scent of cooling iron and the distant smoke of evening hearths. Inside the high-ceilinged war chamber, torches had already been lit along the stone walls, their flickering light dancing across the great map table at the center.
Veyra stood at its head, arms folded, posture taut as a drawn bow. Her uniform bore fresh creases from the day's movements, and a thin smudge of soot still clung to her right wrist—residue from her visit to the smithy. Her jaw ticked as the heavy wooden doors creaked open behind her.
Captain Lorne entered first, followed by Lieutenant Deyla and Captain Ryven. All three saluted crisply before circling the table.
"You called for us, Commander," Ryven said, voice low but alert. "Word from the Vale?"
Veyra didn't answer immediately. Instead, she gestured toward the map, where a pin marked the Karsen route and another had been placed at the old foothill path the scouts had taken.
"We haven't received word back from the new team yet," she said, glancing to Lorne. "I assume they've stayed off the main road."
"They have," Lorne confirmed. "We picked the quietest pair we had. Both Betas, neither chatty. They left a trail only you or I would think to follow."
"Good," Veyra muttered. She turned her attention back to the others. "There's more. I followed a trail this afternoon—one left behind in the garden. An Alpha from House Serren."
Ryven raised an eyebrow. "Serren?"
"Yes," Veyra agreed. "Their heir was in the garden earlier. And he made a point of interfering with someone under my protection."
Deyla's brows furrowed. "You think this wasn't just posturing?"
"I think he was sending a message. And I think it wasn't his message to send."
She took a breath and then stepped closer to the table, placing both palms on its edge. "I've been thinking about Tareth again. We already knew his runners were on shift the day of my ambush. That the Karsen patrol went missing under his jurisdiction. That something about the schedule Kellen gave me didn't match the official log. And now we have House Serren making a move—blunt and reckless."
"You think he's connected to Serren?" Ryven asked. "That he sent the heir here?"
"Or he's trading something," Veyra said grimly. "The Vale's location would be ideal for smuggling. Remote, high terrain, easy to conceal movement—especially if the patrols are... conveniently missing."
Lorne exhaled slowly. "You think he's in league with outsiders."
"I think," Veyra said, voice like flint, "he's planning something bigger than a mere land grab. Maybe funding a coup. Maybe trading access for support once the council fractures."
A beat of silence passed among them.
"We need proof," Deyla said softly.
"I know. That's why I sent the scouts."
Ryven looked uneasy. "If the patrol was silenced, what's stopping it from happening again?"
Veyra met his eyes. "Nothing. Except that this time, they're mine. And I trained them for this."
Another pause. Then Lorne cleared his throat. "There was one thing... a courier passed through from the southern range. Said there was movement near the Dalen border—a caravan detour that wasn't declared. Might be unrelated, but it came from the west. Near the Vale."
Veyra's jaw clenched. "Mark the route. Send it to Kellen. I want cross-checks on all movements from that region in the last two weeks."
Deyla hesitated, then spoke. "And the other matter, Commander? The collar?"
She meant Liora. News was already traveling.
Veyra's expression didn't shift. "Being handled."
"Handled," Ryven echoed. "Because the whispers aren't quiet anymore."
"They won't be," Veyra said. "Let them talk. I don't serve the council's comfort. I serve what's right."
They bowed their heads slightly, not in fear—but in allegiance.
Veyra straightened. "Keep me updated. Any word from the scouts—day or night—I'm to hear it first."
"Yes, Commander," they said as one.
The war room fell silent again as they departed, the flickering light casting long shadows behind them.
Veyra stayed where she was, staring down at the map.
Karsen Vale.
House Serren. Councilor Thorne..
And Tareth.
She traced the triangle between them with one finger, then clenched her fist.
Something was rotting. And she intended to carve it out, root and marrow.
——
The halls of Fort Dalen were quiet at this hour, torches flickering low in their sconces, their flames dancing like restless thoughts. Veyra's boots made no sound as she crossed the stone passageway that led to her private chambers—now, to their quarters, in the eyes of the court.
The scent of night jasmine drifted faintly through the open slats of the high windows, but it didn't quite mask the bitter curl of memory at the back of her throat. The memory of Liora's collar clenched in her fist. The scent that had clung to it.
Her jaw flexed. She forced herself to breathe slower as she reached the heavy door, hand resting briefly on the wood before she pushed it open.
Inside, the lanterns were dimmed but not out. A single flame burned on the low table by the bed, casting soft shadows over the room.
Liora was awake.
Not standing—no. Curled instead by the long-cushioned bench beside the bathing alcove, dressed in a loose tunic she'd likely pulled from one of the folded stacks Veyra had left for her. Her rose-hued hair was damp, curling at the edges, and she had clearly bathed... but not gone to sleep. Not yet. She hadn't even drawn the covers on the bed.
She was holding something in her hands. A small cloth, perhaps, or one of the old oilbrushes Veyra used to polish her armor—something to keep her fingers moving.
She looked up when the door closed behind Veyra.
Her copper eyes reflected the lamplight.
Veyra paused, letting her lean against the doorframe for a beat longer than necessary. Assessing.
Liora's scent was steadier now. Clean. Her own. But still faintly threaded with distress, like bruised lavender under sunlight. She hadn't cried—but her body was still holding something inside. Still processing.
"I didn't know if you'd be back before morning," Liora said softly.
Her voice didn't waver. But it searched—not just for confirmation, but for reassurance.
Veyra crossed the room slowly and unbuckled her sword belt, setting it on the stand near the hearth. "I didn't want to wake you. But I hoped you'd still be up."
"I was," Liora murmured. "It was hard to rest."
She looked away then. Down at her hands.
Veyra followed her gaze. The collar was gone—left with the blacksmith—and yet the skin at her throat was subtly red, rubbed raw around the edges. It made her blood prickle beneath her skin.
"The smith is making adjustments," she said finally, voice low. "It'll be returned to you in the morning. And the clasp will open from the front this time. Only when you decide."
Liora's brows knit faintly. "You changed it?"
Veyra nodded once.
"Why?"
She could have said because it was wrong, or because I hated seeing it on you, or because he touched you.
But she said instead, "Because you should be able to take it off."
The silence after stretched, thick as the air before a storm.
Then Liora asked, almost hesitant, "Was that why you left? To fix it?"
"In part." Veyra didn't sit, but she moved closer, resting her hand lightly on the back of the bench beside Liora. "There are other matters I needed to handle."
Liora looked at her sharply. "Was it... about what happened?"
Veyra's expression didn't change. She didn't lie—but she didn't give Liora everything, either. "It won't happen again. You won't be left alone in the garden without protection. I swear it."
Something flickered behind Liora's eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or doubt.
"But he was someone important," she said quietly. "You recognized his scent."
"Yes," Veyra admitted. "He's a son of a councilor. One of the lesser houses, but emboldened. Too brazen. Possibly sent."
"Sent?" Liora's voice dipped, alarm in her chest now.
"Not by the council," Veyra added quickly, catching the tension rise. "Not officially. But I suspect... someone wanted to make a point."
Liora's fingers curled slightly. "What point?"
Veyra's mouth tightened. "That a claimed Omega can still be touched. That the reforms I speak of are a fantasy. That I can't even keep my own house in order, let alone challenge the kingdom's hierarchy."
Liora went still.
But her voice was quiet. "They're wrong."
Veyra looked down at her.
The girl's face was shadowed, but unwavering.
"They're wrong," Liora repeated, and this time, her fingers reached—almost unsure—and touched the edge of Veyra's coat.
Veyra didn't move.
Not for a long moment.
Then she reached her hand down, brushing Liora's wrist. Gentle.
"I'll make sure they know that."
They stood in stillness for a beat. Outside, the wind sighed through the garden stones. The moon had climbed high.
Then Liora blinked and looked away, sheepish. "I... should sleep."
Veyra nodded, stepping back to give her space. "I'll take the chair."
"You don't have to," Liora said, eyes flicking to her. "It's a large bed."
And though Veyra said nothing, her heart stuttered once in her chest.
"Only if you're comfortable," she said quietly.
Liora said nothing back—but she climbed into the bed, this time curling on the side closest to the window.
Veyra watched her for a moment.
Then slowly crossed the room, unbuckled the top of her coat, and slipped off her boots.
The moonlight spilled through the slats, catching in her dark hair as she moved to lie on the opposite edge of the mattress.
They did not touch.
But they did not sleep apart.