Chapter Text
Morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the east wing of Beacon Castle, casting golden, trembling patterns across the white marble veined with gray that Claudia Stilinski had walked so many times. Stiles—Mieczysław on official documents and to the handful of elderly servants who still remembered the full name—walked barefoot down the corridor. His black leather boots dangled from two fingers of his left hand, swaying with every step. The cold of the floor rose through the soles of his feet, climbed his ankles, and reminded him, as it did every morning, that this was the only stretch of the palace where he could still feel his mother.
Claudia had insisted the marble remain uncarpeted.
“The kingdom must feel the weight of its kings,” she used to say while leading him by the hand, hopping from tile to tile as if they were playing don’t-step-on-the-cracks. Now the cracks were filled with gold—an improvement by Queen Melissa that everyone praised for its “modern elegance.” Stiles hated them. The metal shone too brightly. It looked like a false scar over a wound that had never fully healed.
He was twenty years old and his chest still ached when he remembered his mother’s voice. She had died when he was eight. A swift illness, they said. Fever, weakness, and in less than three weeks the kingdom was left without its true heir. Claudia had been the only daughter of the old king. Her marriage to the commander’s son—the man who now called himself King Noah—had been an arrangement of respect and strategy. When the grandfather died, Claudia and Noah were supposed to rise together. Noah took the scepter, the title, and little by little the right. Claudia became a trophy queen. And then a memory.
Stiles left the main castle without anyone trying to stop him. He walked through the inner courtyards, past the glass greenhouses and the fountains Melissa had ordered built, until he reached the old abandoned tower that rose at the northern edge of the gardens. It was one of the oldest structures in the complex. Dark stone, narrow windows, a spiral staircase that creaked with every step. Almost no one went inside. Servants preferred to go around it. Guards avoided it. Even the birds seemed to choose other towers.
The interior walls still held faded frescoes. On the largest one, nearly at eye level, appeared a woman with a warm smile holding a white lily. His mother. Queen Claudia. Stiles ran his fingers over the paint. Time had erased part of the face: the left cheek, the outline of the mouth, a piece of the eyebrow. Just as it had erased her memory from the kingdom.
“Good morning… Mom.”
He said it every time he came. As if somehow she could hear him through the stone and the centuries. He didn’t remember much of her. Only fragments. A laugh that sounded like distant bells. A scent like jasmine mixed with ink. Warm hands ruffling his hair while she read him stories of kings who walked among their people. And a voice telling him, over and over, that no prince should stay locked between four walls.
“A king knows his people by walking among them.”
She always repeated that. That was why escaping the castle had never felt wrong. He was only following her example. But everything had changed after her death.
He remembered the funeral with painful clarity. Rain falling on the slate roofs. The enormous white coffin that seemed far too large for his mother’s small body. The absolute silence of the cathedral. And his father, standing by the grave, without shedding a single tear. Months later Melissa appeared. A widowed princess from a lesser eastern territory. Elegant, intelligent, with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Noah married her less than a year after Claudia’s death. Too soon. Too convenient. She arrived accompanied by her young son.
Scott.
Only a couple of years younger than Stiles. From the beginning everyone treated him like a prince. As if he had always belonged to the castle. As if he had always belonged to the family. Over the years people began to forget. Claudia’s portraits were replaced one by one. The statues dedicated to her slowly disappeared from the gardens and the squares. The gardens she had designed—with winding paths and wildflowers—were remodeled into perfect geometries and clipped hedges. New servants didn’t even know her name. Now the kingdom spoke only of Queen Melissa. And of the brilliant Prince Scott.
Stiles was still the official heir. His name appeared on the documents. He carried Claudia’s blood. But sometimes he had the strange sensation of being a guest in his own home.
Scott had grown up as the favorite of the generals, the one who won the fencing tournaments, the one the people cheered when he rode through the streets of the capital. Stiles was the legitimate prince. Scott was the prince everyone preferred.
Still, they didn’t hate each other. They never had. There was something strange between them. They had never been enemies. But they had never been true brothers either. They had grown up together. Trained together. Argued constantly. And yet there remained an impossible distance. Scott was exactly the kind of son any king would dream of having. Disciplined. Brave. Patient. An extraordinary swordsman. His resemblance to the king was obvious. Not only physically. Also in the way he walked, spoke, fought. Many times Stiles had overheard murmurs among the servants: that Scott had the same eyes, the same posture, the same smile. As if they were father and son. Only rumors. There had never been proof. But Stiles was certain of it. It was too obvious.
“I knew you’d be here.”
Stiles turned. Scott was leaning against the doorframe of the tower, arms crossed. He wore training clothes: dark trousers, a light shirt stained with sweat. He still carried a practice sword on his back. Dark hair fell over his forehead. And that calm, almost indulgent expression that seemed to irritate Stiles more than any reprimand.
“Did you come to turn me in?”
Scott smiled faintly.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes.
“That sounds exactly like something someone who came to turn me in would say.”
Scott let out a low laugh.
“Father only wants you to eat breakfast before the council.”
“Then he can have breakfast without me.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m being historical.”
“Historical?”
“Great princes escaped boring meetings.”
Scott shook his head.
“I’m pretty sure that never happened.”
“You can’t prove it.”
Scott stepped farther into the tower. His eyes stopped on the fresco.
“Still thinking about her?”
Stiles nodded.
“Every day.”
A long silence followed. Wind came through the broken windows and made the dust dance in the shafts of sunlight.
“I would have liked to meet her too,” Scott said at last, voice lower.
Stiles didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know if he believed him. Because one part of him wanted to believe it, and another part—the darker one that kept the memories of vanished portraits and removed statues—refused to.
The great dining hall of the castle was immense. A table capable of seating fifty people occupied the center of the room, covered with a white linen cloth embroidered with the emblem of Beacon. High windows let in the summer sunlight, illuminating silver trays, carved panels, and candelabras that had not yet been extinguished from the previous night. Servants moved back and forth serving freshly baked bread, fruit from the royal orchards, roasted meats, and sweets of honey and almonds.
When Stiles entered, everyone was already seated. The king barely lifted his gaze from the documents in front of him.
“You’re late.”
“Good morning to you too.”
Melissa smiled with that perfect elegance that never seemed to cost her effort.
“Did you sleep well, Stiles.”
“Perfectly.”
Scott took his seat without making a sound, as always. The king began speaking about taxes, trade with the southern ports, the expansion of commercial routes toward the east. Stiles listened only halfway. He loved this kingdom. He truly loved it. It was beautiful. Prosperous. Full of life. He knew that when his turn came to rule, he could make it even better. Or at least try.
After breakfast he went to his mother’s private library. No one used it anymore. Melissa had ordered the most valuable volumes moved to the great royal library, the one that now boasted glass shelves and cold light panels. This room still smelled of old paper, dried lavender, and the ink Claudia used to write in the margins of books. Stiles pushed the door open with his shoulder and entered.
Dust danced in the narrow beam of sunlight that entered through the window. He pulled from behind a thick volume of ancient histories the book his mother used to read to him when he was a child. He had read every volume she had left and almost all of those in the royal library, though those held little interest for him. He found interesting the knowledge others called dangerous.
He still remembered the book of poisons he had stolen. It had belonged to a witch they burned in the public square for heresy. The woman had been a foreigner, one of the few who managed to cross the kingdom’s borders before the laws hardened. Stiles had seen her only once: hair black as night, eyes too pale, screaming that the king was lying while they dragged her to the pyre. Three days later nothing remained but ash and a book no one dared to touch… except him.
He had read every page. He had memorized several recipes. He had even tried preparing some in secret, in an abandoned room of the old kitchens. Nothing spectacular. Nothing deadly. Small mixtures that changed the color of fire or made flowers wither faster. Innocent experiments. Until his father discovered him.
The argument was private, in the royal study, with the doors closed and the guards out of earshot. Noah did not shout. But Stiles would never forget that look. It wasn’t simple anger. It was fear. A fear so intense that he ordered all of Stiles’s notes burned in front of him and forbade him from approaching any text related to magic again. For weeks he was convinced someone had betrayed him. Scott had been the only one who knew where he hid the book. He could never prove anything. And he never mentioned it again. But the doubt remained. Like so many others.
Stiles closed the history book and returned it to its hiding place. Then he leaned out the window.
Beacon stretched beneath the summer sun. It was known throughout the continent as the jewel of humanity. From the high walls that surrounded the capital to the towers of the castle that reflected the morning light, everything about it spoke of progress. The roads were paved with smooth stone that connected entire cities. Aqueducts of stone and metal carried clean water to the last village. Great mills driven by iron mechanisms supplied flour to thousands of families.
There were carriages reinforced with complex suspension systems, bridges of stone and iron, and workshops where blacksmiths worked creating machines capable of easing people’s lives.
It was a rich kingdom. Safe. Civilized. It had prospered under Noah’s reign. Technology, trade, advanced medicine. While other kingdoms still fought with iron swords and superstitions, Beacon had hospitals that cured almost any fever and factories that produced waterproof fabrics. It was a safe place. A place only for humans.
Beyond the borders, according to the old maps and the rumors of merchants, other things existed. Shapeshifters who walked like men and ran like wolves. Hunters who carried silver crosses and ancient oaths. Creatures of magic that did not fit in the history books approved by the crown. Noah maintained peace treaties sustained by carefully negotiated agreements and an army so powerful that no kingdom wished to challenge it. It was the king’s pride. In addition, an absolute prohibition: none of those creatures could cross the borders of Beacon. The punishment was death or exile to the wild northern lands.
Stiles had never seen one. But he imagined them. He dreamed of them. He longed so much to become king so he could know all those places and creatures that existed beyond the known land. To open the borders his father had closed. To walk, as his mother had taught him, among his people… and beyond.
—
The sun had already risen high enough to warm the stones of the training yard when Stiles arrived.
Scott was waiting for him with the other soldiers of the royal guard, practice sword already drawn and that expression of infinite patience that always managed to irritate him more than any shout.
“You’re late,” Scott said, without raising his voice much.
“It’s my specialty,” Stiles answered, taking off his jacket and leaving it on a wooden bench. The air smelled of dust, metal, and dry sweat. Around them, about twenty men of the guard practiced formations, the clash of wood against wood resonating like a dull drum.
Training began as always: warm-up, thrusts, parries, counterattacks. Scott was precise, almost elegant. Every movement of his seemed calculated years in advance. Stiles, on the other hand, was faster, more unpredictable, with that tendency to turn too soon or leave his side open when he got angry. Today he was in no mood to hide it.
“Again!” Captain Finstock ordered.
Stiles and Scott faced each other. The first clash was sharp. The second, stronger. Scott pushed, Stiles spun, dodged, and countered with a low thrust that nearly grazed Scott’s thigh. Scott smiled faintly, as if he enjoyed the challenge.
“You’re distracted,” he said between breaths.
“I’m perfect.”
“You’re lying.”
Stiles didn’t answer. Instead he doubled the pace. Sweat ran down his back, sticking the shirt to his skin. Around them the other soldiers commented in low voices, discreetly betting on who would fall first. No one bet on Stiles. They never did. He knew it and, deep down, he didn’t care.
Some would go on to command companies of the army; others would hold important posts when he became king.
Because everyone took for granted that one day he would.
After an hour of hand-to-hand combat they moved on to archery.
Stiles had never excelled with the sword.
He was fast, clever, and hard to anticipate, but Scott was objectively the better warrior.
With the bow it was the opposite.
He took a deep breath.
Drew the string.
The world seemed to stop.
He released.
The arrow crossed the field and buried itself exactly in the center of the target.
A murmur of approval ran through the soldiers.
“Not bad, Your Highness,” the captain admitted.
Stiles made an exaggerated bow.
“I accept your humble praise.”
Scott let out a laugh.
“Show-off.”
“With reason. Not all of us were born to be perfect with a sword.”
“No.”
Scott took a bow.
“Some of us were born to be perfect at everything.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Scott’s next arrow struck only a few centimeters from the center.
After training, Stiles barely had time to change before a chamberlain appeared looking for him.
“His Majesty requires your presence.”
“Now?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He sighed.
He knew what it meant.
Pending matters.
There were always pending matters.
The rest of the day he spent touring the kingdom.
He signed permits to expand a mill west of the capital.
He listened to the petitions of two villagers arguing over the boundaries of some land.
He visited the royal hospital to oversee the construction of a new recovery ward.
He reviewed with the treasurer the reports on the wheat harvest.
Later he accompanied the master of works to the new bridge that joined two commercial districts.
Unlike the king, Stiles did not limit himself to listening to reports.
He asked questions.
He observed.
He stopped to speak with the people.
The following hours were a parade of papers and signatures.
At dusk he returned to the castle. He bathed, changed, and sat at the dining table as if nothing had happened. Dinner was long and formal. The king spoke of commercial treaties. Melissa smiled and commented on the upcoming summer festival. Scott listened in silence, as always. Stiles ate little. Drank less. Every bite tasted of ash.
When the servants began clearing the plates and the candlelight trembled over the dark wood, Noah stood.
“Stiles. Come to my study. Now.”
It was not an invitation. It was an order.
Stiles followed his father through the silent corridors. The royal study smelled of wax, leather, and the ancient wood of the desk that had belonged to Claudia’s grandfather. Noah closed the door behind them with a dry click. He removed the crown—that piece of gold and sapphires that never seemed to weigh on his head—and left it on a silver tray. Then he sat behind the desk, pointing to the chair in front of him.
“Sit.”
Stiles obeyed. Crossed his arms. Waited.
Noah looked at him for a long time, as if weighing every word before releasing it.
“Ruling a kingdom does not consist solely of sitting on a throne.”
Stiles frowned.
“I know.”
“Every decision costs something.”
He didn’t answer.
“Sometimes you must sacrifice what you desire for the good of thousands of people.”
He still didn’t understand where this conversation was going.
“Father…”
Noah continued as if he hadn’t heard him.
“Beacon exists because those who ruled before us knew how to choose between what was right and what was necessary. This kingdom is not sustained only by walls or by the army. It is sustained by decisions. Difficult decisions. Decisions that sometimes hurt. A king cannot think only of himself. He must think of the land, of the people, of what will come after him.”
Stiles frowned.
“I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.”
“You don’t know it completely,” Noah continued. “To rule is to carry the weight of every life that depends on you. It is to sign treaties knowing someone will lose. It is to send soldiers to die so that others may live. It is to accept alliances that turn your stomach because they are necessary. Beacon is the jewel of humanity, yes. But jewels can also break.”
Stiles felt a strange cold run down his back.
“Why are you telling me all this now?”
Noah rested his elbows on the desk, interlaced his fingers.
“Because a petition has arrived. A marriage petition. For you.”
The silence that followed was so dense that Stiles thought he could hear the beat of his own blood in his ears.
“What?”
“An alliance.”
His breath stopped.
He had imagined that moment many times.
He knew it would happen.
All princes ended up marrying.
It was part of the duty.
But…
Not now.
He was only twenty.
He still felt he had a whole life ahead before thinking of a wife.
Of heirs.
Of forming a family.
He lowered his gaze.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm.
“If it benefits the kingdom… I understand.”
Noah nodded.
“It does. An excellent offer for the kingdom,” the king continued, as if speaking of a shipment of grain. “Strong. Strategic. A good amount of gold that would secure the kingdom of Beacon for generations.”
Stiles took a deep breath. His chest felt heavy.
“If it’s for the kingdom… fine.” The sentence came out rough, as if the words were being torn from his throat. “Who is she?” He tried to smile. “From which kingdom does she come?”
He expected to hear the name of some princess.
Perhaps from the south.
Perhaps from the ports.
Maybe from the mountains.
He never imagined the answer.
“Triskelion.”
Stiles’s entire body tensed.
He felt a shiver run down his spine.
“What?”
“The proposal came from Triskelion.”
The stories of his childhood flooded his memory.
Endless forests.
Mountains covered in mist.
Creatures that abandoned human form under the moon.
The savages.
The shapeshifters.
The northern kingdom.
“No…”
he whispered.
Noah remained calm.
“They requested your hand for Prince Derek.”
Stiles remained motionless.
As if he had stopped understanding the words.
“…What?”
“After carefully analyzing the political situation, I accepted the proposal.”
Every word made it harder to breathe.
“The answer has already been sent.”
The prince felt the entire world tilt beneath his feet.
“No.”
“You will depart for Triskelion as soon as they prepare the escort.”
Stiles stood up abruptly.
The chair fell to the floor.
“No!”
His voice echoed through the entire room.
“You can’t be serious!”
“You accepted without even asking me?!”
“I didn’t need to ask you. I am the king. You are the prince. And this is an order.”
“He’s a man!” Stiles shouted, and his voice trembled. The mere idea seemed impossible.
All his life he had heard that marriage was between a king and a queen.
Between a prince and a princess.
He had never seen anything else.
Never. “I’ve never… I’ve never seen two men together! It’s forbidden! It’s… it’s unnatural!”
“Not in Triskelion.”
“But this is Beacon! He’s a savage! A monster that turns into a wolf!”
“He is a prince,” Noah corrected, standing as well. “And it is the best alliance this kingdom has had in decades. Triskelion controls the northern passes. It controls the mountains. It controls things we don’t even fully understand. With this marriage, Beacon will be safe.”
“I don’t want to!” Stiles slammed both hands on the desk. “I will not marry a savage! I will not marry a man! I will not leave here!”
“Yes, you will. The decision has been made.”
“I will not marry him!”
“You have no choice.”
“Of course I do!”
He slammed the table with both hands.
“I am the heir!”
“You are the crown prince.”
“I am going to be king!”
Noah took a step around the desk. His face had hardened, eyes dark as wells.
“You will never be king,” he said, with a terrible calm. “You do not have what it takes. You are just like her. Weak. Impulsive. Too attached to fantasies. Too clever for your own good and too foolish to understand what truly matters. Claudia never understood the weight of the crown. Neither do you. And you never will.”
Stiles felt something break inside his chest. An ancient, deep crack that had been holding for years.
“Is that why you killed her?” he asked, voice broken and dangerous. “Is that why you poisoned her? To keep the kingdom. To get rid of her. And now you’re getting rid of me to give it to your bastard. Because I know. I know Scott is your son. I know you’ve always preferred him. I know you never saw me as anything more than an obstacle. An uncomfortable reminder of the woman you murdered.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Noah remained still. Only the almost imperceptible tremor of his jaw betrayed the fury boiling beneath the surface.
“Shut your mouth,” he said, very low.
“No! Say it! Say you killed her! Say you poisoned my mother so you could sit on that throne and then fill it with your illegitimate blood!”
Noah advanced. His hand rose. The blow landed dry, brutal, on Stiles’s right cheek. The impact made him stagger backward. The taste of iron filled his mouth. His ear rang.
“You will be locked in your chambers,” the king said, voice cold as steel, “until the day you march to your new place. You will not leave. You will not speak to anyone. You will not see Scott. Guards at the door. Day and night. And if you try to escape… I swear by everything this kingdom represents that they will drag you to the border.”
Stiles brought a hand to his cheek. The burn was intense. Tears burned his eyes, but he did not let them fall. He looked at his father—the man he had once called that—with a pure, ancient hatred he no longer tried to hide.
“This isn’t over,” he whispered.
Noah turned, walked to the door, and opened it wide. Two guards waited outside, upright, impassive.
“Take him. And make sure he doesn’t leave.”
The guards’ hands closed around Stiles’s arms. He did not struggle. He did not shout. He only looked one last time at the study, the desk, the forgotten crown on the silver tray, and the man who remained with his back to him, already turned into shadow.
—
The first ray of sun had barely touched the tops of the forests of Triskelion when Prince Derek Hale crossed the main threshold of the palace. The smell of cheap beer, sex, and damp forest clung to his clothes like a second skin. The black shirt, open to the chest, was stained with wine and something darker he preferred not to identify. His hair fell disordered over his forehead, and a violet mark showed under the collarbone, reminder of an unknown mouth he no longer remembered.
The door guards said nothing. Years ago they had learned to look away when the alpha prince returned at those hours. They only inclined their heads, respectful and silent, while he passed them with heavy steps, boots echoing against the ancient stone.
In the great vestibule the torchlight still burned. Derek stopped a moment, rubbing his face with both hands. The metallic taste of alcohol burned his throat. He had trained from the previous dawn until nightfall, had drunk until he almost lost consciousness, and then he had ended up in the bed of a dark-eyed, easy-laughing innkeeper. Or maybe it had been a merchant’s son. It no longer mattered. His body felt heavy, his muscles ached in a satisfying way, and his mind was cloudy enough not to think of anything else.
“Derek.”
His mother’s voice cut the silence like a sharp blade.
Talia Hale stood at the foot of the main staircase. She wore a dark tunic of thick wool, black hair gathered in a simple braid. She needed neither crown nor jewels to impose presence. The power of an alpha was felt in the air, dense, ancient, impossible to ignore. Her amber eyes looked at him without blinking.
“Mother,” he answered, voice hoarse.
“I need to speak with you.”
Derek let out a low laugh, almost an exhalation.
“Not now.”
“Derek—”
“Later,” he said, and was already climbing the steps two at a time. “When the sun is higher. Or when I’m more sober. Whichever comes first.”
Talia did not stop him. She did not shout. She only followed him with her gaze until he disappeared down the second-floor corridor. Then she closed her eyes a second, inhaled deeply, and turned on her heel.
The council office smelled of oak wood, wax, and old parchment. Talia’s husband—Richard, beta of the pack and royal consort—was already there, standing by the large window that overlooked the training yard. Peter Hale, commander of the army and the queen’s younger brother, was seated in one of the leather chairs, boots crossed on the desk and an expression of calculated boredom.
Talia closed the door with more force than necessary.
“Again,” she said without preamble. “He came back with the dawn. Smelling of tavern and who knows what else.”
Richard ran a hand over his beard.
“He’s thirty, Talia. He’s not a pup.”
“He behaves like one,” she replied, walking toward the desk. “He trains like a madman, drinks as if the world were ending tomorrow, and sleeps with anyone who opens their legs or offers him a smile. The pack respects him on the battlefield.”
Peter smiled sideways, that sharp smile that always announced trouble.
“Our dear nephew is an alpha in the full possession of his faculties. His body demands fight and sex. It’s natural.”
“He is a prince,” Talia replied, striking the table with her palm.
“And he cannot keep dragging his name through the mud every night.”
Richard approached, resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“We’ve spent years trying to match him. All the families withdrew the proposals as soon as they heard the rumors.”
“Because the rumors are true,” Peter murmured. “Derek is not exactly the kind of son-in-law a mother wants for her daughter. Unless they’re fortune-hunters who only want the power a pairing with a prince would bring.”
Talia looked at him hard.
“It’s not funny, Peter.”
“I don’t intend it to be.” Peter lowered his boots from the desk and leaned forward. “Listen to me. If we don’t find someone soon, Derek will end up choosing for himself.”
The silence thickened.
Talia ran her fingers over her temple.
“What do you propose, then?”
Peter leaned back, interlacing his hands behind his head.
“Beacon.”
Richard and Talia went still.
“The human kingdom?” Richard asked, incredulous. “They haven’t crossed the border in decades. They consider us monsters. Beasts.”
“Exactly,” Peter said. “They’re far. A day’s ride through the northern passes and a day by boat. Their spies don’t reach here. Their people don’t know who Derek Hale is beyond the name of an alpha prince of a distant kingdom. We offer gold. A lot of gold. Enough for King Noah to accept without asking too many questions. And in exchange… they give us their eldest son, Mieczysław.”
Talia shook her head.
“A human. Derek would eat him alive.”
Richard frowned.
“It’s risky.”
“Everything is,” Peter answered. “But preferable to receiving, within a year, the daughter of some innkeeper pregnant and claiming rights to the throne.” Peter continued with seriousness. “Are we really going to wait for Derek to get some woman of the kingdom pregnant?
Because that will end up happening.
And when it does, we’ll have no choice but to accept whoever it is as part of the royal family.”
The office fell silent again.
None of them could deny that possibility.
It was too real.
Peter continued.
“Besides… a human companion could balance him. Humans live differently.
They’re calmer. More rational.
Perhaps it’s exactly what Derek needs.”
Talia remained silent for several minutes, thinking.
Finally she looked at her husband.
He sighed.
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I.”
Peter smiled faintly.
“But it could work.”
Talia walked to the window. The sun had already risen completely. In the courtyard below, some soldiers were beginning morning training. Derek was not among them. He was, without doubt, sleeping deeply in his room, smelling of alcohol and someone else’s skin.
“Do it,” she said at last, without turning. “Prepare the letter. Offer whatever gold you think necessary. And let the messenger leave today.”
Peter stood, inclining his head with an elegance that bordered on mockery.
“As the queen commands.”
—
In the immense training yard the clash of steel could already be heard.
The soldiers had been training since dawn.
And at the front of them all was Prince Derek.
The alpha prince wore no garment that indicated his position. He wore only black training trousers, leather boots, and a forearm guard worn by use. His bare torso shone covered in sweat as he wielded a two-handed steel sword as if it barely weighed anything.
“Faster!” Peter roared from one of the balconies.
Derek smiled.
That was the only kind of order he enjoyed obeying.
His sword clashed against that of one of the captains.
Metal against metal.
One blow.
Two.
Three.
The captain barely managed to stop the fourth before Derek spun on himself and swept his legs with a kick.
The man fell heavily onto the sand.
Laughter erupted among the soldiers.
“Again,” Derek ordered, offering him a hand to help him up.
The captain accepted with a tired smile.
“Someday I’m going to defeat you, Your Highness.”
“You’ve been saying that for ten years.”
“And someday it will be true.”
“That day I’ll stop training.”
The laughter increased.
Peter observed the scene with arms crossed.
He was commander of Triskelion’s army and knew better than anyone his nephew’s capabilities.
Derek was, without discussion, the best warrior in the kingdom.
No captain could defeat him.
Few commanders managed even to keep pace with him.
And that was precisely the problem.
Everything related to war awakened his interest.
Everything else…
No.
Peter went down the stairs and took a practice sword.
“Come.”
Derek raised an eyebrow.
“Want to try again?”
“It’s been a week since I broke your face.”
“Because it’s been a week since you could.”
The soldiers immediately stepped back.
When Peter and Derek fought it was better to stay far away.
The combat began without warning.
Peter attacked first.
Fast.
Precise.
Derek blocked the blow with ease and answered with a rain of thrusts that forced the commander to retreat several steps.
For several minutes no one spoke.
Only the sound of steel clashing again and again.
Peter managed to open a small guard.
Derek smiled.
He had fallen exactly where he wanted.
He spun on one foot, deflected his uncle’s sword, and placed the tip of his own against his neck.
Silence.
Peter raised both hands.
“I yield.”
The soldiers burst into applause.
“Another defeat for the commander.”
“Is anyone keeping score?”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be insufferable.”
Derek let out a laugh.
“It’s your fault for teaching me too well.”
Peter shook his head while recovering his breath.
“If you dedicated half this effort to politics…”
“I’d fall asleep.”
“Diplomacy.”
“Worse.”
“Administration.”
“That’s already torture.”
Peter sighed.
There was no hope.
When the sun disappeared behind the forests that surrounded the palace, Derek had already forgotten all his obligations.
As happened almost every night.
He left the palace accompanied by several of his friends and some young officers.
The taverns of the capital were full.
Music.
Alcohol.
Laughter.
Bets.
It was there that Derek truly felt comfortable.
He didn’t have to behave like a prince.
He was only another warrior celebrating after training.
Jugs of beer appeared one after another.
Someone started a strength competition.
Another challenged Derek to an arm-wrestling match.
He won.
As always.
The hours passed among laughter, songs, and empty glasses.
When dawn covered the city, Derek left the tavern accompanied by one of the people he had been flirting with during the night.
He did not return to the palace until nearly sunrise.
—
Four days after sending the letter, the messenger returned.
He arrived at nightfall, covered in dust and with the horse nearly exhausted. Peter was the first to receive him in the courtyard. Talia and Richard waited for him in the office. The parchment was sealed with the blue wax of Beacon and King Noah’s seal.
Peter opened it in front of them.
He read in silence. Then he lifted his gaze, and for the first time in a long while his expression was not sarcastic but of genuine surprise.
“They have accepted.”
Talia blinked.
“So quickly?”
Peter nodded.
“They sent the answer as soon as they received our proposal.”
The king could not hide his surprise.
“That’s strange. I thought they would at least negotiate.”
“They didn’t.”
Peter continued reading.
“It gets stranger. In two days Prince Mieczysław arrives. With a reduced escort. They accepted the gold. They accepted the terms. They accepted… everything.”
Richard ran a hand over his face.
“A human. Here. In two days.”
“Perfect,” Peter murmured. “Absolutely perfect. That was simpler than expected.”
—
Derek woke when the sun had already set behind the mountains. The room smelled of him, of old sweat and the wood of the bed. He got up, washed with cold water from the bucket, put on clean clothes—dark trousers, a simple black shirt—and went down the stairs with his hair still damp.
A servant intercepted him in the vestibule.
“Your mother the queen requests your presence in the council office. Immediately.”
Derek growled, but obeyed. He had learned, over the years, that ignoring Talia several times in a row was not an intelligent option.
When he entered, Queen Talia and King Richard were waiting for him. Commander Peter was also there, leaning against the wall with arms crossed and that look of a satisfied predator.
“Sit,” Talia ordered.
Derek dropped into the chair in front of the desk, stretching his legs.
“What is it this time? Another complaint from the parents of some beta I didn’t know how to reject in time?”
Talia did not smile.
“We have arranged your pairing.”
Derek went still, only for a second.
There was no surprise.
No anger.
No protests.
Then he let out a low laugh, almost amused.
“I knew the moment would come. Laura has been married three years already. Cora has suitors. I… well.”
The reaction disconcerted Talia.
“Is that all?”
“Did you expect me to run away? I knew I’d end up marrying. It’s part of the job. Who was the brave one?”
“It’s not a she,” Richard said, voice calm. “It’s a he. The crown prince of Beacon. Mieczysław Stilinski.”
The silence that followed was long.
Derek tilted his head, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“A human?”
“Yes.”
“From Beacon.”
“Yes.”
Derek burst out laughing. Truly. A deep, guttural laugh that shook his chest.
“A human. Weak. Fragile. Who lives two days from here and who has probably never seen a shapeshifter up close.” He wiped a tear of laughter with the back of his hand. “Mother… are you serious? I’ve never seen one up close.”
Talia held his gaze without blinking.
“We know. It’s been decades since humans have been near our territory.”
Derek laughed again.
“I really didn’t see that coming.
I thought you’d end up finding some wolf princess hidden in the mountains.”
Talia sighed.
“We tried, but there aren’t any. This is the only proposal that hasn’t been rejected. All the others withdrew. His reputation… precedes any letter.”
Derek leaned back in the chair, still smiling.
“I suppose that was to be expected. And you thought: ‘What better to tame the wild wolf than a human prince who doesn’t even know how to defend himself?’”
Peter spoke from the wall.
“We thought a companion who belongs to no pack, who doesn’t desire you only for the title, could… force you to grow. Or at least keep you from impregnating the next waitress who crosses your path.”
Derek glanced at him sideways.
“How kind, Uncle.”
Then he returned his gaze to his mother. The smile did not disappear completely, but it softened, became something darker, more interesting.
“They say humans are much smaller and weaker than us. Do you think he’ll withstand my pace? Although I don’t even know how they smell. And much less—” he paused, tongue brushing his lower lip—“how they taste.”
Talia did not look away.
“He arrives in two days. You will receive him. You will respect him. And you will accept him as your companion. We will celebrate the ceremony and at the next full moon; the bond will be completed.”
Derek stood slowly. He stretched, the muscles of his back cracking under the shirt. Then he inclined slightly, an ironic bow toward his mother.
“Perfect. As the alpha queen commands.”
Talia studied him for a few seconds.
She had expected an argument.
A refusal.
Even a tantrum.
“Is that all you have to say?”
Derek smiled with that careless confidence that had so often driven his mother to despair.
“I suppose it will be interesting to discover what my future companion is like.
After all…
Not every day a prince of Triskelion marries a human.
May I go?”
Talia closed her eyes an instant before nodding with resignation.
“Go.”
Derek headed for the door. Before leaving he stopped and looked over his shoulder, amber eyes shining with a dangerous spark.
“Just one thing. If the human turns out to be boring… I don’t promise not to bite.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
In the office the silence held a few seconds longer. Then Peter let out a low laugh.
“It’s going to be… interesting. At least he didn’t try to run.”
Talia did not answer. She looked at the door through which her son had left, and for the first time in a long while she was not entirely sure whether she had made the right decision… or whether she had just unleashed a hungry wolf on prey that didn’t even know it was prey.