Frey stood before the doors, composed, and late. He lifted a gloved hand to adjust the long, pale lavender strands that framed his face, tucking them behind his ear. The scent of violets and lavender clung to his skin, a scent of noble blood, untouched and unclaimed.

The servants had done their part well, dressing him in Wroethia’s finest — an embroidered robe of deep ocean blue silk, the threads of silver and violet glinting like woven moonlight. The wide sleeves and flowing hem swept around him like water as he moved. His earrings, slender and delicate, chimed ever so faintly as he tilted his head, listening to the distant sound of his name murmured beyond the door. His absence had clearly not gone unnoticed.

From the time he was old enough to understand the burden of his bloodline, Frey had known he would not marry for love. His hand had been promised to a distant prince long before he'd even met the man. Whispers and rumors had painted his intended as a ruthless alpha — a war-forged prince whose armies moved like a tide, consuming all that stood in their path. And now, that alpha sat beyond the door, waiting.

The hall quieted the moment he stepped through. Hundreds of heads turned, noble and servant alike, conversations dying mid-sentence. His father, King Aldric, sat at the head of the long banquet table, flanked by their court on one side and the visiting party on the other. The king’s face, ever stern, gave the faintest flicker of displeasure at his son’s tardiness, but he said nothing.

And there, seated at his right, was the alpha.

Frey’s gaze shifted, quiet but unflinching as their eyes met for the first time. The alpha’s presence was unmistakable, a sharp contrast to the refined elegance of Wroethia. His aura, wild and brimming with restrained strength, pressed against Frey’s senses, his scent cutting through the banquet’s perfumed air like a storm front — deep, musky, rich with the undertones of earth and pine and something unshakably masculine. The scent of conquest.