Three weeks had passed since the Festival of the Moon, three weeks since Aveloria's name became the center of every whisper, every gaze, every silent prayer. The ritual that aligned her spirit with the Moon's light had not brought her peace; instead, it had amplified everything: the pull between her four mates, the court's scrutiny, and the quiet storm brewing in her heart.
The King's summons for a royal dinner had gone through every province, every faction, and every bloodline tied to her fate. The High Priestess's decree left no room for avoidance: the mates must dine under one roof, to honor the Goddess's will.
That evening, the palace buzzed with heavy preparation. Servants rushed through the marble halls, carrying trays of wine, roasted meat, meals, and fruits. The air was heavy with spice and tension. It wasn't just a dinner; it was the night the king would host all four of her mates under one roof.
Aveloria had been sitting before her mirror for nearly an hour, watching her reflection while her handmaid laced her gown. The deep red silk trimmed with gold embroidery made her look every bit the heiress she was supposed to be. But inside, her stomach churned.
"Do you want me to pin your hair, My Lady?" Alin asked quietly.
"Yes…something simple, please." She didn't care how she looked tonight. No gown or gem could hide how uneasy she felt.
She hadn't spoken to Lucien since the night at the mountain. His warning still haunted her; The Wanderers are coming for you, Heiress. Marek had been pestering her daily with flowers and apologies she didn't ask for. Theron sent warriors from his pack to guard the palace gates, a gesture that only made her father question his motives. And Galen? he had been her quiet refuge, the one person who didn't try to own her. But their kiss still left her unsettled, unsure of what it meant.
A knock at her door pulled her back to the present. "Your Highness," said a guard. "The dinner is about to begin. The King has requested your presence."
She nodded, straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to breathe. "I'll be there."
The Royal dining hall glowed brighter than usual. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings, bathing the room in warm light. The long tables stretched across the room, covered in silver and gold dishes, laden with fine wines and royal meals.
Aveloria walked down the top of the grand staircase. King Alaric sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Beside him was Queen Eirene, looking elegant, and her daughter Rowena sat next to her, too close to the throne for Aveloria's liking. The council of elders filled the seats on either side of the other tables, whispering among themselves.
The first to arrive was Alpha Theron Duskbane; he didn't need to announce himself. His presence commanded attention. He was tall, broad, and dressed in a dark warlord outfit. His cloak bore the sigil of the Moonveil Pack, and every step he took echoed discipline. His relatives followed, carrying beautifully crafted weapons.
"Your Majesty," he said, his tone formal but warm. "The Moonveil Pack sends strength to Lycanthria. We bring a token of alliance." Two guards set down an armory box; one opened it, and the hall filled with gasps. Inside lay a collection of handcrafted armory blades with moonstone hilts, engraved with protective runes.
The King nodded stiffly. "May your loyalty remain unshaken."
Theron's eyes found Aveloria. They softened, only slightly. "My Lady," he said.
She inclined her head, her lips barely curving. "Alpha Theron."
"For the Heiress," Theron said, his voice loud enough for the room. "A hairpin forged from pure silver once belonged to my mother." He stepped forward, offering the delicate pin shaped like intertwined wolves.
The hall feels quiet for a moment. The gift was too personal for formality.
Aveloria reached out slowly, taking the pin in her hands. "Thank you, Alpha Theron. It's beautiful," she said softly.
His gaze lingered a bit too long before he nodded. "You deserve nothing less."
The king gestured for him to sit.
Then, Marek Thaleborn and his father, Elder Eldric, entered. Their entrance was loud, and servants rushed to help them carry several chests of gold and precious stones. Marek was all smiles, his arrogance filling the room before his words even did.
Where Theron was measured, Marek was storm. The son of the Highmoor Clan carried arrogance like a weapon. His cloak trailed in black fur, his jaw sharp with defiance.
He bowed his head. "Your Majesty," he said with a grin that was almost a smirk.
"My king," Eldric began, bowing dramatically. "May the moon bless your reign. We bring gifts from Highmoor Clan, gold, silver, and rare stones from mines beneath the southern hills."
Alaric nodded slightly. "Your generosity is noted, Elder Eldric."
Marek cleared his throat. "My king, Gold doesn't bend, but it shines."
The King's gaze hardened. "And yet, it melts easily in fire," he said coldly.
Marek laughed. "Then may your Kingdom burn bright." He gestured, and his men bowed in unison.
Aveloria bit her lip. Marek caught the motion and smiled as if only she existed. "And for the Heiress," he said, pulling from his pocket a chain of molten gold, its pendant shaped like a crescent. "To remind you that even in darkness, someone sees you."
"Thank you, Marek." She gestured to the servant to collect it and put it in the crest.
"Please sit." The king said.
Theron's jaw tightened, feeling like he should have presented more to the king.
A new presence entered, Galen Ravencourt, the Fenricson heir. He didn't come adorned in jewels or fine silk; his armor was plain, his bearing humble yet steady. Behind him trailed a group of the Fenricson elders and his father, Beta Trovald, the King's right hand, freshly returned from his extended mission.
They led a massive, chained but unbroken jaguar, its golden eyes wild as it prowled the marble floor.
The King's brows lifted. "Fenricson tradition," he murmured. "A beast offering."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Trovald said, bowing. "A gift of respect and strength, not for trade, but loyalty. The beast will kneel to no one but its chosen mistress."
The jaguar snarled, pacing until it stopped at Aveloria's feet. It stared at her, then impossibly lowered its head. The hall murmured.
The King looked moved, though he tried not to show it. "Your gift honors us, Trovald. And your son?"
Galen stepped forward, his eyes finding Aveloria's. "My offering is simple," he said quietly. "I bring no gold or steel. Only my oath that no harm will reach her as long as I breathe."
For a heartbeat, silence blanketed the hall. Almost everyone nodded in satisfaction at his words.
A moment later, the sound of chains reverberated through the hall again, this time heavier and more metallic. A chill swept through the hall, the energy shifting immediately. The guards at the entrance stiffened as Lucien entered.
He didn't stride like royalty. He wasn't dressed like a noble. He wore dark overall leathers, and his animal skin cloaks clung to his back. He moved like a shadow. Behind him came a group of rogues, strong men with scars and sharp eyes, broad and cloaked in animal skins that still smelled faintly of blood. The Rogue King, Lord Aurembrae of Aurewulf Lands, is at the center. He is gray-haired, sharp-eyed, radiating power that didn't need crowns to command.
The air thickened, the room went stiff, and the King's guards subtly tightened their grips on their weapons.
Lucien didn't bow, nor did his father or any of the rogues. "Your Majesty." The rogue king said, his tone low and steady.
"Lord Rogue Orion Aurembrae of Aurewulf Lands. Welcome to Lycanthria." Alaric said.
"Thanks for having us, King Alaric Valenor of Lycanthria." His tone was respectful but detached, almost testing. "We come bearing peace and tribute from the Aurewulf Lands."
The Rogue King gestured, and his men brought pelts of white fox, and bear, the finest furs ever seen in the kingdom. "We offer these as symbols of alliance," he said. "And as a father's courtesy to his son's mate." His words were calm, but the unspoken message was clear. We have power too.
A ripple of gasps went through the hall.
Aveloria's chest tightened. Her father's hand slammed on the armrest. "Your son? He is my daughter's mate?!" Alaric thundered in shock as he stood up.
The Rogue King's gaze didn't waver. "Yes, Lucien, my seventh son. The Moon marked her, Your Majesty. We have come to claim the bride who is now in sync with our own. Now before you raise objections, they already shared a kiss." He blurted.
The King turned toward Aveloria, his voice low but heavy. "Is this true?"
Her throat went dry. The way he mentioned the kiss made several elders exchange uneasy looks. Every eye was on her. Theron, Marek, and Galen are all frozen. She opened her mouth, but no words came. The memory of Lucien's touch, his breath against her skin, the pull that defied reason was all real. And that silence was enough.
The King exhaled sharply and sat back, fury barely contained. "Then the Goddess mocks us."
Lucien's eyes flicked toward Aveloria. Calm. Steady. Dangerous. "The Goddess doesn't mock," he said softly. "She reveals."
"Alliance is earned, not claimed, so let me earn it, your majesty." The way he said it was quiet and unwavering. He had the kind of confidence that didn't need volume; in his eyes, it was the kind that promised danger.
Aveloria's heart beat faster. The words cut through the air like smoke and steel. The council murmured among themselves, tension unraveling fast.
"Please sit, Lord Orion." Aveloria managed to say.
When everyone was seated, the king raised his cup. "Tonight, we dine not as rivals but as allies. The Goddess has chosen a strange path for us that binds four powerful men to my daughter. We will see what destiny intends."
Servants began to pour wine and serve food, but no one truly relaxed.
Marek leaned back, swirling his drink. "A toast, perhaps," he said, smirking. "To fate…and to the strongest bond winning her heart."
Theron's hand stilled on his cup. "You think this is a competition?"
"It already is," Marek replied. "You can pretend all you want, but only one of us can have her."
Lucien's quiet voice cut in. "You assume the choice is yours."
The tables went still again.
Eldric scowled. "Watch your tongue, rogue. You stand in the presence of royalty."
Lucien looked at him, unflinching. "And yet your words reek of fear."
Aveloria nearly choked on her drink. "Enough," she muttered, voice sharp. "This is supposed to be peaceful."
But peace was already slipping away.
Theron leaned forward. "Perhaps we should settle this like leaders. Not with gold or words, but by what each of us can offer her."
The king's brow rose. "Then speak."
Marek was the first to stand. "My clan holds the richest mines in the kingdom and lands beyond. With me, she would rule beside wealth and influence. I can give her a life free of fear and no need to stain her hands with war."
Theron followed. "My pack stands as the strongest military power. She would command armies with me, and none would dare threaten Lycanthria again."
Lucien chuckled under his breath. "And yet both your riches and armies couldn't keep her safe when she wandered to Bitterlands and almost got killed by the dark."
Eldric slammed his hand on the table. "You dare—!"
Lucien rose slightly, calm but dangerous. "I dare speak truth."
The room tensed again; even the guards shifted uncertainly. Aveloria's pulse pounded. She couldn't take her eyes off him, the steadiness in his voice, the challenge in his gaze.
Before her father could intervene, Galen stood too, his voice firm but calm. "Enough. This isn't about who can boast louder. She doesn't need to be claimed. She needs support, stability."
Marek scoffed. "You think she'll find that with you, Beta? You were raised in her shadow."
"And yet," Galen said evenly, "I never once tried to use her to rise higher."
The jab landed hard. Even Aveloria felt it. Marek went silent, gripping his cup tightly.