Chapter 3 The Shamed And The Crowned

The night air in Celeste's home felt heavier than usual, as though sorrow itself had seeped into the walls, pressing down on the low wooden beams of the roof until the very house sagged with its weight. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, with its warmth unable to chase away the chill that had settled over the room.

Her father, a man once known for his strength and unshakable presence, now seemed older, worn by years of hard labor and the emotional weight of watching his family splinter. His calloused hands, which were cracked and rough from tending fields and chopping wood, trembled slightly as he crouched before his daughter, Celeste, who sat curled up on the worn rug like a broken bird.

He reached out, gently cupping her tear-streaked face, the pads of his thumbs brushed her cheeks with the kind of care only a father could offer. Then, wordlessly, he pulled her into his arms, holding her as tightly as he dared without breaking her further.

"My sweet flower," he murmured against her hair, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with tenderness and quiet desperation. "None of this... none of this is your fault."

But Celeste couldn't accept the words. She shook her head fiercely, her long hair brushing against his chest as her shoulders heaved. The sobs that tore through her chest were too violent for speech, raw, strangled gasps that felt like her lungs were collapsing with each breath.

From the narrow doorway behind them, Harper stood rigid, her posture was stiff and sharp like a blade. Her green eyes flashed with something darker than grief, something angrier, and more corrosive.

"Isn't it, though?" she snapped, her voice trembling with barely-contained emotion. Her words hit the air like a slap.

"She brings shame into this house and you all pretend it's fine!"

The accusation landed with brutal precision. For a moment, even the fire seemed to stop crackling. No one answered. The room froze around her words, too stunned to speak, and too hurt to argue.

Without waiting for a response, Harper turned and stormed toward the small back room, her footsteps were a flurry of hurt pride. The thin wooden door slammed shut behind her with a sharp, splintering crack that echoed through the silence.

Celeste crumpled further into her father's arms, her body folding in on itself. Her sobs shifted into quiet, broken gasps, each one like a plea for air in a world that no longer felt safe.

Her mother stood off to the side, with one hand clutching the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The other hand was pressed tightly over her mouth, as if she could hold in the scream she wasn't ready to release. Silent tears ran down her cheeks, carving trails through skin that had seen too much sorrow.

No one spoke for a long, aching moment. The only sound was the fire, still burning, unaware of the storm raging inside the hearts it was meant to warm.

The next morning, golden sunlight spilled over the palace courtyards, the kind of light that made everything look deceptively beautiful. Festival banners danced in the breeze, rippling against a backdrop of flawless blue sky.

Today was the celebration of the King's New Year, a day that honored the Alpha, King Emrys, and marked another year of rule, legacy, and unshaken power. The palace grounds were transformed into a spectacle: silk-draped pavilions, the scent of roasted meats and honey cakes wafting through the air, and laughter from the elite who had never known the sting of disgrace.

The kingdom's most prestigious families arrived draped in embroidered cloaks and fine silks, stepping down from polished carriages with all the confidence of people who belonged. Their laughter rang clear, their smiles practiced, as they greeted one another with kisses on cheeks and words layered in meaning.

Tristan stood among the gathering, rigid and unsmiling. He kept his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and his stance was that of a soldier, but one struggling to hold a storm within. His jaw was tightened and his throat dry. His mother's words from the night before still echoed in his mind like poison.

"You're spending time with the wrong sort, Tristan. You know what people say about her... about them."

About Celeste.

About bloodlines. About shame.

He clenched his fists, forcing the anger back down where it belonged, hidden behind the mask of composure. He couldn't afford to let it show.

At the edge of the courtyard, another figure appeared.

Orion.

Almost immediately, the whispers began, they were sharp, yet quiet words that cut deeper than screams.

"The forgotten grandson."

"The omega-born heir."

"The boy of two bloodlines, neither clean nor accepted."

Beside Orion walked Thalia, her back straight and her gaze lowered. She had replaced her apron for a neat shawl, but nothing could fully hide the lines of exhaustion on her face. She walked with quiet dignity.

High above them on the dais, King Emrys lifted his hand, a small but commanding gesture.

"Orion," he called, his voice rang across the courtyard, full of unexpected warmth. "My grandson. How fare you this season?"

The whispers halted, as though snapped shut.

Orion stepped forward, bowing low with slow, measured grace. There was no arrogance in him, but neither was there fear.

"I am strong, Grandfather," he answered, his voice was calm and steady. "I thank you for your concern."

Behind the king, Lady Vivian turned toward her husband, Quilan, and tapped him sharply on the shoulder with two fingers. Her message was clear: do something.

Quilan rose, with his movements stiff, and his expression unreadable. He walked to his son, Tristan, and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Father," he said loudly, his tone just slightly forced. "You seem to have asked after only one grandson today. Shouldn't you be concerned with how Tristan fares too?"

The crowd stilled again, breath caught in throats, eyes flickering between the king, Tristan, and Orion.

But King Emrys only chuckled, the sound of it was dry but not unkind.

"Tristan is like the sun," he said, with his tone almost fond. "Always burning, always moving. I see him loitering around the palace every day. No need to ask after fire when you feel its warmth."

The tension broke with a ripple of nervous laughter, like steam escaping a pressurized room.

With a grand sweep of his arm, King Emrys gestured to the banquet tables laid out beneath silk awnings.

"Come!" he said, voice booming. "Let us feast, and toast to another year of peace."

Inside the great hall, long tables gleamed with silver goblets and towering platters. The air buzzed with conversation, laughter, and the clink of glass. Music played faintly in the background, festive and hollow.

Tristan sat at the head table between his parents. He ate in silence, his brow furrowed, stabbing at the food on his plate without tasting a bite. His thoughts were not with the festival, but elsewhere, on the girl whose tears had stained the floor, on the bloodlines that ruled everything.

Across the hall, Orion sat near the lower nobility, beside Thalia. His posture was impeccable, his every move careful. He ate without lifting his eyes, as though the noise and light around him were a world apart.

In that room of celebration, the silence between them said more than words ever could.

And Tristan, watching from a distance, could not decide if he envied him or pitied him.

As the meal stretched on, the clinking of goblets and low hum of conversation filled the grand dining hall. Servants weaved between tables with trays of steaming venison, honeyed fruits, and warm bread. Laughter rose and fell in waves, though much of it sounded rehearsed, the kind of laughter offered in the presence of power, not joy.

Then one voice rose above the noise, a clear, confident, and unmistakably polished.

It was Lady Sutton, Vivian's long-time confidante and the wife of the King's most trusted adviser. She stood gracefully, with her every move deliberate and calculated. The flickering candlelight caught on the edges of her elaborate jewelry, was throwing sharp glints of gold and gemstone across her neck and wrists as she raised her goblet.

"To our Alpha, King Emrys," she declared, her voice echoing just enough to turn heads. "For all your years of wise leadership."

There was a pause, a theatrical beat, before she smiled wider, her eyes sweeping the room until they landed on Tristan.

"And to Tristan!" she added, her voice rising with more flair. "The future of this kingdom, he who will lead us with the strength and honor of his grandfather... when the old wolf finally finds his eternal rest."

A ripple of laughter followed, a loud and artificial one. The kind of laughter that people offer when they aren't sure if it's safe not to. People clapped, smiled, and nodded, even as some cast sideways glances at the king, gauging his reaction.

King Emrys chuckled, the sound low and dry, though his expression didn't change much. He glanced at Tristan, who offered a polite raise of his glass in return. The smirk that followed was subtle, but it was there, he tore into a roasted drumstick with his eyes fixed on Tristan.

At one of the distant, lower tables, Thalia turned slightly to glance at Orion. Her brow furrowed, watching him for some sort of reaction.

But Orion didn't flinch.

He didn't scowl or tense.

He kept eating, slowly, and carefully, as though the whole room had gone silent and vanished around him. As if none of the words had touched him. As if none of it ever had.

Thalia looked down again, her appetite gone.

As night fell and the final goblets were drained, the celebration began to unwind. Families gathered their things, laughing gently as they left the hall. One by one, they stepped into the cool night, where royal guards handed out parting gifts: bolts of fine cloth, bottles of rare wine, and polished tokens etched with the king's crest.

The moon hung high above the palace, casting long, shifting shadows across the marble courtyard.

Just as the last guests began filing toward the gates, a sharp voice cracked through the calm like a whip.

"You there! Girl, stop!"

The crowd turned, startled.

A guard was striding forward with his hand extended, and the other gripping the arm of a young girl.

It was Harper, Celeste's sister. Her face was pale, and her chest was rising and falling too quickly. In her hands was a polished wooden box bearing the royal seal.

She stood frozen in the torchlight. The box slipped slightly in her grasp, nearly falling. Her eyes darted, wild with confusion and fear.

Then came the whispers.

A low hiss of scandal, suspicion, and disgust.

"What's she doing with that?"

"Stealing?"

"Bold... even for them."

The guests who had moments ago toasted with joy now stepped back, as if disgrace were contagious. Even the guards looked uneasy.

The night that was meant to end in glory now hovered on the edge of chaos, unraveling faster than anyone could stop it.