Throne Of Howls

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The sound hammered against the silence like a war drum, each strike was colder than the last. It echoed through the tiny wooden shack, not as a visitor's arrival but as a grim omen.

Harper's spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, the metallic clang jarring against the stillness. Her breath caught, her eyes widen as she stared toward the door as though it might collapse inward from sheer dread.

Ambrose, Celeste's father, went deathly pale. His hand, suspended mid-air with a piece of bread, trembled before lowering slowly. His lips moved without sound, a silent prayer whispered to no one in particular. Even the fire, crackling a moment ago in the hearth, seemed to recoil from the moment, flickering low as if cowering.

Tristan sat bolt upright at the table, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. His heart launched into a punishing rhythm, thudding so hard that it echoed in his ears. Cold rushed through his veins, replacing the warmth of supper with dread. The cozy scent of stew turned acrid in his nose.

Outside, silhouetted against the lamplight that danced on the wet earth, stood a figure carved of moonlight and steel, a woman, Vivian, cloaked in midnight-blue silk. The fabric shimmered with every movement, heavy with presence, and on her chest gleamed the unmistakable silver crest of the royal family.

She was regal, severe, and untouchable, her very posture exuded command. Her gaze, though hidden in shadow, radiated purpose like a blade drawn in silence.

She had come looking for her son.

- Earlier That Day -

The sun had dipped lazily behind the spires of evergreen trees that stood like watchmen around the royal field. Its light spilled long and golden, casting jagged shadows across the worn dirt where grass once grew. The sharp scent of pine mingled with dust and sweat as Tristan and his friends tore through the field, shrieking with laughter, their royal banners stitched to their tunics billowing behind them like wings.

On the sidelines stood Celeste, she was silent, barefoot, and small. Her toes curled into the cool soil, grounding herself. Her dress was a washed-out blue, too long for her frame, it fluttered in the breeze like forgotten fabric on a scarecrow. It hung off her shoulders, hiding the sharpness of her collarbones and the strength she kept tucked quietly inside.

With every sharp whistle from Landon, she dashed off obediently to retrieve the scuffed leather ball or hunt down the sticks they flung like careless lords. No praise followed her return, only more commands.

"She runs faster than she looks," Genevieve giggled behind her manicured hand, her smile was brittle and sweet like poisoned honey.

Lucius, who is tall and smug, added, "Yeah, maybe she should be the pack's new bloodhound."

Their laughter cracked through the air like whips. Heat surged up Celeste's neck, painting her cheeks with a flush she could not wipe away. But she didn't flinch. She didn't meet their eyes. She simply turned, letting the wind steal their cruelty before it could sink deeper into her skin. She had learned to let the wind carry the hurt, to pretend it never landed.

But before the next sneer could escape Lucius's lips, a voice cleaved the air like lightning splitting a storm.

"That's enough."

Every head turned. Tristan stood with his eyes sharp and gleaming beneath messy chestnut hair that caught the last rays of sun. His stance which was usually relaxed, was rigid now, firm with quiet fury. The familiar boyish grin had vanished and was replaced by something rarer, resolve.

"She's helping because you're all too lazy to chase after your own mistakes," he said evenly, the bite in his voice was unmistakable. It wasn't a yell. It didn't need to be. His words landed like stones.

A hush fell over the field.

Genevieve looked down, her smile faltering. Lucius scratched the back of his neck, suddenly interested in his shoes, even Landon's usual bluster caught in his throat.

Celeste was stunned, she looked up, and for the first time, she didn't brace for another blow. She met his eyes which had no mockery, no pity, just an unexpected kindness. It wrapped around her like warmth after a long frost.

Tristan held her gaze a moment longer before turning back to the others, unblinking.

Landon, who was now red-faced and stung, kicked at a loose stone. His scowl deepened as he muttered beneath his breath, "Hmph. Speaking of unwanted guests..." He jerked his chin toward the edge of the field.

Celeste followed his gaze, and her stomach dropped. Because at the tree line, half-shadowed and unmoving, was a figure in blue silk watching. Standing there, half in shadow, was Orion.

He didn't say a word. He Just stood still at the edge of the clearing, tall and lean, almost too still , like he was barely holding himself together. The breeze tugged at his black hair, strands falling messily into his face. His arms were locked across his chest, with his fists clenched under his sleeves, every muscle in his body drawn tight. And those eyes , pale blue, icy, sexy and distant, scanned the group without the slightest flicker of feeling. But something about the way he stood, stiff and silent, said more than words ever could.

Landon scoffed loudly, eager for the attention. "Your twin brother sure knows how to make the air colder, Tristan."

A few of the others chuckled under their breath, half nervous and half entertained, watching for Tristan's reaction.

Tristan's jaw clenched. His expression hardened as he slowly turned toward Orion.

"He's no brother of mine," Tristan said, with each word sharp and deliberate.

The clearing went dead silent, even the wind seemed to stop for a second.

Orion didn't flinch. His face stayed exactly the same, unreadable and blank. But the tension in his posture deepened. He looked like he was biting back a thousand things he wanted to say, but instead, he said nothing. His gaze moved from Tristan to the others, his eyes cold but calm, like he was used to this. Like it didn't hurt anymore.

Footsteps broke the stillness as Thalia came hurrying down the path, her apron was dusted with flour and her cheeks flushed from rushing. She waved a hand toward Orion with a warm smile, trying to ease the tension.

"Come on, Orion. Food's ready."

He didn't move at first. He just kept looking at them, silent. He was waiting, maybe wondering if something would change, but nothing did.

After a few seconds, he turned and walked away slowly, steady, and wordless. Not out of anger, not even out of pride. Just... done.

As soon as he was out of sight, the others burst into laughter. Loud, mocking, and almost too loud, like they were trying to drown out the silence he left behind. Landon doubled over, wiping his eyes, and Genevieve whispered something that made Lucius snort.

Only Celeste didn't laugh. She stood still with her eyes on the dirt and her face unreadable. She didn't look at Tristan, or Landon, or anyone. She just calmly brushed the dust off her skirt with slow, steady hands and turned away. She didn't say anything , she didn't need to. Her silence was louder than all their noise.

Later that evening, when the laughter had died down and the games lost their thrill, Tristan found himself walking fast, nearly jogging, through the winding dirt paths with Celeste beside him. They moved toward the outer edge of the kingdom, the kind of place nobles weren't supposed to visit, let alone Tristan.

"Cover for me if my mother asks," he had muttered to Landon in a sharp whisper.

"What?!" Landon's mouth opened and shut like a confused fish, but by the time he managed a coherent thought, Tristan was already halfway across the field.

Celeste walked ahead, like she knew he might lose his nerve if given the chance. Her stride was quick, determined, used to gravel and crooked roots. Tristan stumbled once, cursing under his breath. His shoes weren't meant for terrain like this.

They finally arrived at her home, it was a sagging wooden shack wedged between the tree line and the old wheat fields. The roof looked like it might cave in with the next hard rain, patched together with odd scraps of wood and stone. Smoke curled from the chimney, soft and crooked like the house itself.

Tristan hesitated at the door. He could smell the place already, something earthy and unfamiliar. Herbs. Boiled potatoes and damp wood. It wasn't bad, just... different.

Inside, Celeste didn't even pause as she kicked off her shoes and stepped over the uneven threshold. Tristan followed stiffly, barely hiding his discomfort.

Harper, Celeste's older sister, stood by the hearth and stirred a pot with trembling hands as she saw Tristan with her sister. She barely glanced at them, her focus was razor-sharp and her knuckles had whitened.

Their father, who was a thin man with sunken cheeks and a permanent hunch in his back, jolted upright the moment Tristan entered. His chair scraped harshly against the floorboards.

"Y-Your Highness," he sputtered, nearly toppling the wobbly table in his attempt to bow.

Tristan's stomach twisted. He hadn't wanted this, not the formalities, nor the fear. This visit was supposed to be simple and quiet. But now all he could feel was how wrong he looked here, how polished, clean, and clearly out of place.

The evening meal came quickly, a modest spread meant for four stretched to feed five: three rough brown bread, a thin stew with bits of carrot and tough root vegetables floating near the top, and paper-thin strips of dried meat. Tristan stared at his bowl, the smell hitting him harder than expected. He forced himself to take a bite, chewing slowly while trying not to grimace. His stomach churned in quiet protest.

Celeste, who was oblivious to his discomfort, chatted excitedly about the wildflowers blooming by the stream that morning. She smiled with her eyes bright, waving her spoon mid-story.

Tristan nodded vaguely, hearing none of it. His thoughts raced; What am I doing here?

Across the table, Harper kept glancing at the window. Her face was pale, and her spoon shook slightly every time she brought it to her lips.

They were scared, all of them. Scared to host him, scared of what it might cost. He was the son of Vivian, the Alpha's daughter-in-law. And Vivian didn't forgive easily.

Tristan leaned back in his chair, with his eyes drifting as Celeste's voice blurred into background noise.

Then -

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Three loud, deliberate bangs at the door.

The room froze. And just like that, everything unraveled.

Inside the palace, far from the gilded halls and the grandeur of shimmering chandeliers, there was a small kitchen tucked behind the servant's quarters. A place where the royals never set foot, except one.

Orion sat at a battered wooden table, his posture stiff and his expression distant, the faint warmth of the candlelight was dancing across his features. His silver-blue eyes, usually piercing and cold as ice, softened under the flicker of the flame. The plate before him was simple and filled with roasted roots and salted meat, nothing like the decadent feasts served in the royal dining hall. And yet, he found solace in this humble setting. For once, he didn't feel the weight of his title, the expectations pressing down on him like a mountain.

Across from him, Thalia bustled around the kitchen, humming as she served extra spoonfuls of stew into Garrett's bowl. Her apron was stained, her hair pulled back into a messy knot, but she wore a wide, contented smile, a smile that lit up the room as she worked.

"Eat up, boys," she said cheerfully, her voice was warm and welcoming, the sound of it soothing Orion in a way few things did. Her hands,which were worn from years of hard work, wiped themselves on her apron as she took a step back to survey her little kingdom, her kitchen.

Garrett, sitting between them, caught the distant, almost wistful look in Orion's eyes. He nudged him with his elbow, with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Hey," Garrett teased, "you planning to marry that plate or eat from it?"

Orion's lips twitched, the barest smirk tugging at them, just a flicker, a rare moment of warmth breaking through his usually stoic mask. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but Garrett caught it and chuckled louder.

"Seriously," Garrett continued, nudging him again, "you smile like that and half the palace maids might faint. Cold face, killer smile."

Thalia laughed, at the playful jab. She turned her attention to Orion, tilting her head with a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Don't you like today's food, my dear?" she asked, her tone was light and affectionate.

Orion lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes for the first time that evening. This time, his smile was different, it was full, genuine, and boyish in a way that made him seem far younger than his years. It was a smile that could light up a room, and he said softly, as if the words were a precious secret, "I love it. It's perfect, just like always."

Thalia's hands fluttered to her chest, clearly flattered by his praise. "Oh, listen to him, Garrett!" she said with a mock gasp. "You'd think he's trying to charm me into baking extra pies."

The three of them burst into laughter, a warm and easy one, filling the small kitchen with the sound of real, unguarded joy. For a brief moment, Orion wasn't a prince. He wasn't a candidate for a throne. He wasn't anyone who carried the weight of royal expectations. He was simply a boy, surrounded by the only family he truly trusted, a family that didn't see him for his title, but for who he was.

After the meal, as Garrett licked the last smear of stew from his fingers, Orion stood up from the table, his body awkward and stiff as he shuffled toward the doorway. He hesitated, unsure, then he cleared his throat.

"Um... Thalia," he said quietly, almost shy, "did you... maybe set aside some food for Father?"

Garrett, ever the one to leap into action, jumped up before Thalia could answer. "Of course she did! And I'm coming with you to deliver it!"

"You don't have to..." Orion began, but Garrett waved him off with a grin.

"C'mon, buddy. Two are harder to catch than one!" He winked, his tone light, but there was an edge of understanding behind the words. Garrett knew the significance of this small act.

Thalia appeared from the other room with a wrapped bundle of food in her hands. Her face was gentle, and a quiet smile tugged at her lips as she offered the bundle to Orion.

"It's better you both go together," she said softly. "It's less suspicious."

Orion took the bundle with a nod, his fingers brushing against hers in a moment of silent gratitude. It was rare for him to show such vulnerability, but with Thalia and Garrett, he didn't need to hide his true self.

Under the cover of night, they made their way through the palace gardens, careful to avoid the sentry paths. The air smelled of dew and fresh earth, and the soft grass muffled their footsteps. Orion's usual tension seemed to ease in the quiet of the night, his shoulders relaxing for the first time that evening.

Declan, Orion's father, lived in a small, rundown hut by the old west wall. He was allowed to live, but he was never welcomed near the royal wings. The man had once been a proud soldier, but age and illness had taken their toll. Still, Orion's heart lifted when they reached his door, a private joy flickering in his eyes, it was a brief moment of happiness he didn't suppress.

The door creaked open before they even knocked, and Declan's weathered face appeared, his features softening in recognition. Without a word, Orion's eyes met his father's, and for a moment, the years of absence, of bitterness and distance, fell away.

They didn't speak much. There was no need, just smiles, a few words were exchanged, updates, reassurances and the unspoken understanding that despite the royal titles, they were still father and son.

As the moon climbed higher, they slipped back into the shadows of the palace, unnoticed, and their footsteps swallowed by the night. For that brief moment, Orion had been more than just the prince. He had been someone's son, someone's family. And that, for him, meant more than any throne ever could.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the kingdom, in the humble home of Celeste and her family, the fire burned low, flickering weakly against the cold, damp night. The crackling of the fire was the only sound that dared disturb the oppressive silence that hung in the air. Fear, thick and suffocating, clung to the walls, settling into the very bones of the home. Every crack in the wood seemed to whisper threats, and every shadow seemed to stretch with the weight of impending doom.

Vivian stood in the doorway like a phantom, her presence was so sharp and cold that it seemed to cut through the dim warmth of the room. Her gown swept the floor, its fine fabric contrasting sharply with the simple surroundings, as though it was a reminder of the life she belonged to, far beyond the reach of Celeste's modest existence. Her green eyes, which were sharp and calculating, raked over every imperfection, every flaw in the crumbling walls and meager furnishings, as if the very sight of them disgusted her.

Tristan stepped forward with his shoulders square, determined to shield Celeste and her trembling family. He stood just slightly in front of them, trying to act as their protector in the face of the woman who had always been a symbol of cruelty and control. His voice rang out, though it trembled with a hint of uncertainty. "It was my idea, Mother," he said, lifting his chin high in defiance. "They didn't force me here. They didn't even invite me."

Vivian's gaze narrowed to slits as her eyes glimmered with disdain. She stood motionless, and the air around her seemed to crackle with her barely contained anger. When her voice finally came, it was soft, but it was a blade-cold, slicing, and designed to wound.

"How... generous of you to tarnish your bloodline so willingly," she said, her words laced with venom, as though each syllable was dipped in poison. Tristan's heart hammered in his chest, and his breath coming quicker, but he refused to falter. He stood his ground, even as the oppressive weight of his mother's disapproval pressed down on him.

Vivian's eyes slid from Tristan to Celeste, her expression twisted with contempt. Her nose wrinkled slightly, as though she had just caught a whiff of something foul. "Be grateful my son still has use for you," she sneered. "Otherwise, your entire family would be washing latrines until death."

Celeste's mother, who was pale and trembling, bit her lip until blood welled up, but she said nothing. The words cut her deeply, but she remained silent, a prisoner of the circumstance she had long been resigned to. The tension in the room grew thick, a suffocating weight that seemed to bend the very air itself. The fire flickered uneasily, its light casting long, twisted shadows on the walls as if reflecting the darkness in the hearts of those present.

Tristan's fists clenched at his sides with his knuckles turning white. He wanted to say something, to fight back, but he knew it was futile. He knew this was a battle he couldn't win. So, he stood there, as a silent witness to the humiliation of the woman he loved, as his mother continued her cruel reign of words. The room felt smaller, and suffocating, as if it was closing in around them all.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Vivian broke the silence with a sharp, decisive motion. She turned on her heel, with her royal seal at her waist gleaming coldly in the dim firelight, a cruel reminder of her power. "Come, Tristan," she ordered, her voice was icy. "You'll learn soon enough: the company you keep is the first step to your ruin."

Tristan hesitated, just a breath, a fleeting moment of doubt. His heart screamed to stay, to fight for Celeste and for her family. But he knew better. Vivian's presence was a command, a force that could not be denied, not without consequences that would reach far beyond this house. With a heavy heart and a reluctant step, he turned away, following her out into the cold night, leaving the warmth of the home, and the woman he loved behind.

Celeste stood at the doorway, her hands trembled at her sides, and her gaze locked on Tristan's retreating figure. The firelight flickered, casting faint shadows on her face, but it was the shimmer of unshed tears in her wide, green eyes that caught the attention. She stared after him, the weight of his departure crashing down on her like a wave. She had no idea how true Vivian's words would one day become, how the seeds of Tristan's ruin were already being sown with every step he took away from her, from them.

In that moment, Celeste's heart ached with a quiet despair, and she wondered if she would ever see him again, truly see him or if he would be lost to the cruel world that his bloodline demanded of him. The fire burned low behind her, its warmth fading, leaving only the cold echo of a future she feared was already slipping away.

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.