King Alaric finally rose, his voice echoing through the hall. "Enough of this display. You came here to speak, not to fight."
He looked over the four men: Marek, proud; Theron, controlled; Lucien, unreadable; and Galen, steady.
"My daughter is the heiress of Lycanthria. She will not be taken by anyone. The Moon's will is unclear, but my word is law. She will remain here until the Goddess reveals what is coming."
The hall fell silent. For a brief moment, even the air seemed still. Lucien leaned back in his chair, a smile ghosting across his lips, like someone who knew more than he let on. Marek looked ready to protest again. Theron clenched his jaw but held his composure. Galen only exhaled quietly.
Dinner continued, but the peace was thin, fragile. Every glance, every word held an edge. And Aveloria sat in the middle, four men bound to her, each ready to fight for her hand, while her father tried to hold a kingdom together.
And through it all, Lucien's voice echoed in her memory: "The Wanderers are coming for you, Heiress. And when they do, not even your crown will save you."
The dinner went on, but it didn't feel like a meal. Every fork scraping against a plate sounded like a sword being drawn. The air was heavy, not with warmth or music but with pride and quiet threats.
Aveloria's appetite was gone. She pushed food around her plate, pretending to eat. Still, her eyes kept flicking from one side of the table to another, from Marek's smugness, to Theron's silent restraint, to Lucien's steady, unnerving calm, and finally to Galen, who kept glancing at her like he wanted to pull her out of this nightmare.
Her father was trying hard to keep control, but when wine touched Elder Eldric's lips, all attempts at peace were doomed.
"I still say," Eldric began loudly, lifting his cup, "the solution is simple. The Heiress must choose. The Moon has given her four mates, fine, so be it. But Lycanthria cannot be ruled by confusion. The longer this indecision lingers, the more unstable the throne becomes."
A few elders murmured in agreement. The king's face hardened. "You overstep, Eldric."
"I speak for the stability of the Kingdom," Eldric countered. "Do you think the packs will keep quiet when they realize the Heiress is torn between four men? You think our enemies won't see that as a weakness? You think—"
"Watch your tone," Alaric warned.
Lucien shifted slightly, "He's not entirely wrong," he said, voice low but clear. "Power divides easily when too many hands try to control it."
Marek shot him a glare. "You sound like someone who knows too much about control for a man without a home."
Lucien smirked. "I have a home. It's just not gilded in gold."
Theron's voice broke in, deep and commanding. "Enough of this back and forth. If we're to speak of control, we should speak of order. The Heiress belongs with strength. And that strength lies in discipline, not rebellion."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "You mean submission."
Theron's lips curved in a cold smirk. "Call it what you want. I call it structure. Something rogues clearly lack."
The table stirred. Lucien didn't raise his voice, didn't move an inch. "Yet your structure failed when the Wanderers last breached the borders. How many of your merchants died that night?"
Theron slammed his cup down. "You dare—"
"Yes," Lucien said evenly. "I dare."
The room tensed. Two of Theron's relatives rose, hands twitching near their weapons. The Rogues mirrored the gesture almost instantly. Within seconds, both sides were standing, glaring at each other, ready to spill blood in the royal dining hall.
"Sit. Down!" the king roared.
The shout shook the room. Everyone froze. Even Lucien's sharp stare faltered slightly at the weight of the king's authority.
"This is not a battlefield," Alaric said, his voice thunderous. "And my daughter is not a prize. If any of you draw blood in my house, I will make sure your people remember this night with shame."
Aveloria could feel her pulse racing. "Father—"
He cut her off, turning toward her sharply. "You. Have you forgotten who you are? You sit here while they tear each other apart over you?"
She swallowed hard. "I didn't ask for this."
"No," he said, voice soft but heavy. "But the Moon gave it to you. And you will deal with it, with strength, not silence."
Her throat burned, but she nodded, barely holding herself together.
Then Marek stood abruptly. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, this has gone far enough. I will not stand by while a rogue and an arrogant Alpha pretend they're equals. The Heiress was destined to be mine. The bond picked me first."
Theron's head snapped toward him. "You speak like a child claiming a toy."
Marek sneered. "You're one to talk, running around the kingdom pretending your pack isn't crumbling under trade debts."
"That's a lie! My pack is debt-free!" Theron barked.
Elder Trovald slammed his palm down. "Enough!"
But Marek ignored him. "You think your title makes you fit for her? You can't even control your own borders!"
Theron rose from his chair, fists clenching. "Say that again."
Marek laughed, taunting him. "You're nothing but a glorified guard with a fancy crest—"
The table jolted as Theron grabbed Marek by the collar and yanked him halfway across it. Cups toppled, silverware clattered to the floor, and servants screamed.
Galen was on his feet in seconds, pulling Theron back with one arm and shoving Marek aside with the other. "Enough!" he shouted. "You're both behaving like fools!"
Marek shoved Galen's arm off. "Don't you touch me."
Theron glared at him. "Control yourself before I make you."
"Oh, please," Marek spat, "you couldn't even handle her rejection if it came to it."
Aveloria's hands slammed the table, the sharp sound cutting through the noise. "Stop it!" she yelled. "All of you!"
The hall fell quiet. The echo of her voice hung in the air.
She stood there, trembling, anger and exhaustion written all over her face. "I'm not some trophy for you to fight over. You think this is easy for me? To wake up daily, wondering which of you will show up first to start another fight? To have my entire life turned into gossip because the Goddess decided to bind me to four different men?"
Her words came fast, raw, unfiltered. "You all talk about what I should choose, where I should belong, but none of you has asked what I want."
Silence. The entire hall went still. Even the elders looked uneasy.
Lucien was the first to break it. His tone was calm, but his eyes were unreadable. "Then tell us," he said softly. "What do you want?"
Aveloria froze. For a moment, she had no answer. The truth was she didn't know. She wanted peace, freedom, clarity, things that didn't exist anymore. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
King Alaric stepped forward, his expression softer now. "Enough for tonight," he said. "This dinner is over. Guards, escort the guests back to their quarters."
No one protested. Even Marek and Theron were too drained to argue. Chairs scraped quietly as everyone began to leave, muttering under their breaths.
Lucien didn't move. He just sat there, watching Aveloria. His gaze lingered, sharp but strangely protective. Then, without a word, he stood and followed his father out of the hall.
*************************
Aveloria absentmindedly strolled around until she found herself in her private garden. She settled on the bench, heaving a sigh of exhaustion. It had been one hell of a day—chaotic was an understatement. She stared at the glowing red moon that loomed over the kingdom. The Blood Moon.
It shouldn't have appeared this early in the year. The last time it rose was in her past life, and blood had been spilled. Her chest felt heavy at the memory.
She didn't hear him approach until he spoke. "You look like you have the whole world on your shoulders."
Aveloria turned sharply. It was Lucien, standing in the shadow of the moonflower archway with his arms crossed. "You shouldn't be here," she said quietly.
He shrugged. "Neither should you."
"Why not? I own this place." She turned away, gripping the edge of the bench. "If my father finds you—"
"He won't," he interrupted. "Your guards are too busy drinking to notice I slipped out of the quarters."
"Of course," she muttered. "You rogues never follow rules."
"That's why we survive," he said, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but something in his tone felt like danger wrapped in silk. "Rules are cages. You of all people should know that."
"I'm not you," she said flatly.
He tilted his head slightly. "No, you're not. You're worse. You keep pretending you're free when chains surround you."
Her chest tightened. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know that when you look at them, those men, you don't see love. You see the burden. Obligation. Fear. But when you look beyond the walls, toward the forest…" He paused. "You breathe."
Aveloria looked down, her grip tightening on the bench. "Stop trying to understand me."
He stepped closer, his presence unsettlingly calm. "I'm not trying. I already do."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind carried the faint scent of the moonflowers and moonlilies; wild, free, and distant. She felt his eyes on her, steady, unreadable, and dangerous.
"You didn't come here to just look at me, get lost in thoughts." She said, finally standing on her feet.
Lucien's lips curved slightly. "Maybe I came to remind you of something."
"Remind me of what?"
"That the Wanderers aren't the only threat," he said. "There are men in that room tonight who would kill to own you and to have your throne. Don't mistake loyalty for love, Heiress."
Her heart jumped at the word own. "You sound like you're one of them."
He smiled. "No. If I wanted to claim you, you wouldn't be standing here arguing with me."
She exhaled shakily, unsure whether to feel angry or relieved. "Why do you keep warning me, Lucien? What's in it for you?"
He looked at her for a long time before replying. "Maybe I don't want to see the world burn again."
"Again?" she echoed.
Lucien's gaze darkened, his voice low. "Your kingdom isn't the only one with ghosts, Aveloria. Remember that."
Then he turned to leave. She caught his arm. "Lucien—"
He looked down at her hand but didn't pull away. "Be careful who you trust," he said softly. "Including me."
Before she could respond, he slipped into the shadows, disappearing as quietly as he had arrived.
When Aveloria returned to her chamber, she sank onto her bed and buried her face in her hands. The arguments, the tension, the prophecy, all of it crushes her.
Four mates. One destiny. A kingdom on edge. And now, a rogue who made her heart race faster than it should.
But she knew one thing for sure: Whatever peace she had left was gone.