Chapter 6

A L I N A

Alina keeps her tone neutral, carefully measured. “I apologise. I was delayed.”

Magnus, ever the picture of poised confidence, inclines his head. “Lord Alinos. Lady Kaela.” His voice carries like a blade wrapped in silk—smooth, respectful, but edged with something sharper.

Lady Kaela offers him a smile so tight it barely qualifies. “Magnus. It’s... a pleasure, as always.”

The tone doesn’t go unnoticed. Alina stiffens slightly. Her parents have never been openly hostile toward Magnus, but the disapproval lingers in every polite phrase and practised glance. They had hoped for someone else—someone safer, someone with fewer enemies and fewer shadows. But fate chose Magnus Vorathiel, and no amount of noble disapproval will undo that bond.

“Please, sit,” Lord Alinos says, gesturing toward the empty chairs near him, his tone as formal as his posture.

Before either of them can move, footsteps echo through the great hall.

The Vorathiels have arrived.

Lord Cassian Vorathiel enters first, his presence heavy, his stride precise. His dark blond hair is impeccably groomed, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room with a calculating sweep. Beside him walks Lady Lenore—poised, golden, and graceful, her features as refined as her icy demeanour. Her hair gleams like sunlight, but her expression is cool perfection.

“Lord Alinos. Lady Kaela,” Cassian greets, voice calm, but threaded with authority. “Thank you for hosting us.”

“We are honoured by your presence,” Alinos replies, equally measured. The tension between them is older than the walls around them—deep-rooted and heavy with history.

Alina watches the exchange, noting every careful inflexion, every rigid posture. This isn’t just a meal; it’s a battlefield dressed in silk and smiles.

Lenore’s eyes land on Alina, and her smile, for once, seems almost genuine. “Alina, darling, you look radiant—as always.”

Alina inclines her head. “Thank you, Lady Lenore.”

Cassian’s gaze shifts to Magnus like a hawk spotting movement. “Magnus,” he says, cool and clipped. “I trust you’ve been behaving yourself.”

Magnus answers with a smirk. “Always, Father.”

Before the barbs can deepen, another figure glides into the hall.

Isalda Morvayne makes an entrance like she owns the floor. Her bright blond hair catches every flicker of light, her emerald gown flowing like water with each step. Olive eyes light up when she sees Alina.

“Alina!” she exclaims, rushing forward with outstretched hands. She clasps Alina’s fingers, pulling her close with effortless warmth.

Alina’s tension eases. “Isalda,” she says, arms wrapping around her friend. Her voice softens, a smile breaking through her guard. Isalda has always been sunshine in stormy rooms.

“You look gorgeous,” Isalda says, eyes sweeping over her.

“As do you,” Alina replies, her smile widening.

Isalda nods, then turns to bow politely toward the gathered nobles. Her charm is fluid, natural. She finally turns to Magnus, her grin shifting into something almost mischievous. “Magnus, it’s been too long.”

Magnus offers a polite nod. “Isalda. Lovely to see you again.”

As he speaks, he steps closer to Alina, placing a firm hand on her lower back—a silent claim. The touch sends a rush of heat to Alina’s face. She doesn’t need to look to know her parents noticed. And Cassian definitely did.

With everyone gathered, the nobles take their seats at the long table. Plates are served, goblets filled. The initial minutes pass in a haze of forced pleasantries, the silver clinking of utensils the only real sound above the low hum of conversation.

But it doesn’t take long before Cassian shatters the illusion.

“Alina, we heard your training earlier was... impressive,” he says, his tone deceptively pleasant. His eyes, however, narrow like a blade aimed at her throat.

Alina meets his gaze, her expression unreadable. “Thank you, Lord Cassian.”

Lady Lenore’s voice floats in next, light as lace but barbed beneath. “Though one does wonder if such displays are truly necessary for a woman of your station. Surely, there are more... refined ways to secure alliances than brute strength.”

The words strike like a slap across the cheek.

Before Alina can respond, her mother steps in, her voice composed but sharp as a drawn sword. “My daughter’s strength is one of her greatest assets,” Kaela says evenly. “In these times, it is better to be prepared than to rely entirely on diplomacy.”

Magnus shifts beside Alina, his hand brushing hers under the table—a small gesture, but grounding. His jaw tightens. His face remains calm.

The conversation veers away, but the tension only thickens. Across the table, Isalda observes it all with the amused detachment of someone watching a drama unfold. She sips her wine like she’s in the front row of a private performance.

Cassian speaks again, this time with studied casualness. “In other news... the royal family of Rhaelyor has been unusually quiet. One might think there’s more to say from the Lycan King and Queen.”

Alinos’s brow shifts just slightly. His voice stays composed. “King Kalos has reasons for keeping a lower profile. The kingdom has endured challenges of late.”

Cassian leans forward, his smirk barely veiled. “Challenges, indeed. Though some might say a kingdom without a male heir is facing more than just challenges. Generations have passed, and still... only daughters. Capable, no doubt—but not exactly stabilising.”

The insult hangs in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

Alinos’s eyes narrow, voice firm. “The daughters of House Rhaelyor are more than capable of ruling. Queen Valena is proof enough of that.”

The shift in his tone is subtle, but the anger is unmistakable. Alina sees it clearly—her father’s loyalty to Rhaelyor runs deep, as does his friendship with King Kalos. Cassian’s veiled insult cuts too close to the core.

Cassian’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course, Lord Alinos. No disrespect intended. Merely an observation.”

But everyone at the table knows better.