Chapter 9: Etiquettes
The hallways of the once-forgotten estate pulsed with life.
Nyrielle's slippers made the faintest sounds against polished stone as she moved, the soft rustle of her skirts brushing the sides of her legs. Voices drifted from corridors she passed—laughter, hushed gossip, the shuffle of boots. She heard the low rumble of wolves in their furred forms, growls not of threat but of anticipation, running loose through the outer courtyards like they were stretching limbs long confined. Her father's estate—no, not his estate—but the ancestral Veyne Hall, had become a den of restless preparation.
She didn't miss the way some of them turned away when she passed. Some wolves ignored her entirely, their gazes sliding over her like she was invisible. Others—maids, a few younger pack wolves—offered quick nods, a shallow "Lady Nyrielle" with forced smiles or quiet nervousness.
She kept walking. Head high. Shoulders straight. Just like Renna had told her.
The study doors were already open.
Elenys Veyne stood by the wide window, back straight as a lance, her silver-blonde hair twisted into a braid that crowned her head. The Queen Consort of the Western Territories needed no introduction—her presence filled the room before a word was spoken.
"You're late," she said without turning. Her voice was cool, smooth, cut with the faintest edge of disappointment. "To your very first class. How appropriate."
Nyrielle inhaled. "I'm sorry, Mother."
Elenys turned now, lips drawn in a firm line. She studied Nyrielle like one might examine a battlefield from a hilltop—searching for weak points. "Sorry won't keep you alive where you're going. But let's begin."
She gestured toward the long table laid with parchment, sealed scrolls, and a large territorial map hand-painted in deep reds and earthy tones. The Veyne insignia—a crescent wolf—glinted on the corner of the map.
"You were meant to have been formally trained from the age of ten," Elenys began, her tone clipped. "But alas—your little rebellion interrupted that. So we begin now, with the basics you should already know."
Nyrielle didn't argue. She simply took her seat across from her mother.
"The High Packs," Elenys said, unrolling a scroll with practiced ease. "There are nine, not including our own. Each holds a corner of influence. Each follows its own laws—unless overridden by Kael."
She tapped the map.
"Riverra—mountain wolves. Aggressive. Traditional. They breed war chiefs like ants. Keep your chin down and voice soft around them, especially in gatherings."
Nyrielle nodded silently.
"The Mournshade—coastal. They're ruled by matriarchs and drunk on their own mysticism. Their women will test you. Don't give them an inch."
Another point on the map.
"The Vireling Pack in the highlands. They're closest to Kael in temperament, though smaller in number. Keep an eye on their youngest Alpha—he wants a seat closer to the throne."
She moved faster now.
"Greyhollow. Redmar. Fenros. Whitecrest. You don't need to know them intimately, but know their sigils and what matters to them. You will be watched when you speak their names."
Nyrielle kept up, though her pulse was pounding.
Finally, Elenys circled the largest mark on the map—dark, jagged lines branching like veins from a singular mountain peak. The ink shimmered black.
"And then there's Dravaryn—Kael's Pack. The Blood Sovereigns."Vast territory. Rigid hierarchy. Absolute loyalty to their alpha—your future husband. They have no tolerance for weakness, disobedience, or dishonor. Understand that."
Her mother's tone cooled further, voice like frost on steel.
"Their structure is rigid. Alpha-King at the top—Kael. Then his Inner Circle, made up of battle-kin and blood-sworn generals. Then their bonded mates. Below that, Commanders, Sentinels, and the wolves who survived the Third War."
She paused.
"They are not court wolves. They are war-born, claw-wed. You'll find no kindness in their etiquette, only expectation. You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not meet the Alpha's gaze without permission. You do not contradict a commander in public."
Her gaze sharpened.
"And you never, ever, mention the War."
Nyrielle's brow furrowed slightly, but she didn't ask.
"You are to be his bride. You will sit beside the monster who destroyed half the Southern Fringe. Smile, when he expects it. Kneel, when he commands it. And if he calls you pet—you respond."
Nyrielle swallowed, throat dry.
Elenys tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "Do you understand what's expected of you, Nyrielle?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good," Elenys said, and turned back toward the window. "We'll begin with the bloodlines next. I suggest you memorize every symbol before lunch."
Nyrielle swallowed. "And you think I'll survive there by learning how to bow and speak softly?"
Elenys's gaze cut to her. "I think you'll survive if you stop thinking like prey."
There was a beat of silence.
Nyrielle drew a breath, then asked quietly, "Is this really necessary?"
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "Do you think I do this for my amusement?"
"No," Nyrielle said. "I just… don't understand why I have to be paraded, prepared, and handed off like some offering."
"You're not an offering," Elenys replied. "You're a weapon—one sharpened late, but not beyond use. We're buying our family's place in this new order with you. Either you adapt or you die. There is no in-between."
Nyrielle's chest tightened.
"I know it's cruel," Elenys added, almost like a concession. "But kindness won't keep you alive in Dravaryn. Understanding their structure will."
She gestured again to the map.
"You will call your husband 'Alpha' in public at all times. His second-in-command, Dagon, is as dangerous as he is loyal. You will never speak over either of them. Their enforcers—seven in total—form the inner ring. If you disrespect one, you disrespect the Alpha."
Nyrielle tried to memorize every word, but they slid around her like water. Still, she forced herself to nod.
"And their customs?"
"Brutal. Ancient. A mix of rites and territorial law. You'll learn more from Kael himself than from me, but I'll teach you enough to avoid public disgrace."
Nyrielle's mouth felt dry. "Sounds… welcoming."
Elenys gave her a glance that was neither amused nor sympathetic.
"This isn't about welcome. It's about survival. And if you think this is hard, wait until you disappoint your husband in front of his pack."
Nyrielle looked at the map again.
Kael's pack loomed like a shadow across half the parchment.
And it was waiting.