“The banners look particularly optimistic this year.” Commander Thalen Drix stepped onto the terrace, arms folded, his presence solid as granite beside Kovrak’s controlled tension. “Think they’ll have reason to celebrate come week’s end?”
Kovrak’s white tiger stirred beneath his skin, restless with an unease he couldn’t name. “That depends on variables currently beyond my control.”
“Variables with names?”
“Gerri Wilder.”
Thalen’s expression shifted from casual observation to sharp attention. “The infamous matchmaker? What’s she got to dowith—“ Understanding dawned across his sharp features. “Ah. Merral.”
“Intervention was necessary.” Uncle Merral’s voice carried across the terrace with the authority of someone who’d raised princes and buried kings. “After last year’s spectacle, we couldn’t afford another season of empty speculation.”
Kovrak turned to face his uncle, noting the rigid set of shoulders that meant non-negotiable decisions had already been made. Merral’s white hair caught the light, and his deeply lined face held the kind of resolve that had guided the Auryx pride through decades of political turbulence.
“You hired her without consulting me.”
“I hired her because consulting you would have resulted in another year of stubborn refusal.” Merral’s hands clasped behind his back—discipline incarnate, tradition made flesh. “The pride cannot survive another festival of absence. The nobles are circling. The people are listening to whispers that paint you as uncommitted to securing their future.”
“And you believe importing a stranger will solve that?”
“I believe Gerri Wilder doesn’t traffic in convenient arrangements.” Merral’s pale eyes held steady against Kovrak’s glare. “She finds fated mates. Not decorative consorts.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Kovrak’s tiger surged, alert and unsettled, sensing a shift in the air.Fated mates.The concept carried implications that went far beyond political necessity.
“You commissioned a bond I didn’t choose.”
“I commissioned a solution to a problem you’ve refused to address for two decades,” Merral said firmly. “If you don’t propose to this match, if you don’t secure your lineage at this festival, your reign ends. Not in years. Not in months. Immediately.”
Thalen’s silence spoke volumes. His friend’s lack of protest confirmed what Kovrak already knew—this had never been optional. This was survival wrapped in the language of tradition.
“Where is Gerri now?” The question emerged rougher than intended, his tiger’s agitation bleeding through his carefully maintained composure.
“En route.” Merral delivered the news with infuriating calm. “Gerri called an hour ago. Wormhole travel is efficient—they should arrive soon.”
“They?”
“Gerri and your intended. A human from Earth. A baker who specializes in innovative desserts, commissioned to create the festival’s culinary centerpiece.” Merral paused, letting the implications settle. “A cultural experience to showcase human creativity.”
Kovrak’s jaw locked hard.A human.Not a white tiger shifter who understood pride dynamics and political necessity. Not a noble who’d been raised in the complexities of court intrigue. Abakerfrom a planet where mate bonds were mythology and royal protocol was academic theory.
“A human companion will inflame gossip, not soothe it.”
“A human mate will demonstrate that strength transcends species.” Merral’s correction carried the sharp edge of finality. “Humans lack mate-sense, yes. They’re vulnerable to court politics, certainly. But they’re also unpredictable in ways that might serve us well.”
“This isn’t stability. It’s chaos disguised as tradition.”
“Sometimes chaos is exactly what rigid systems require.” Merral stepped closer, his presence carrying the authority of someone who’d guided Kovrak through every major decision since childhood. “You’ve spent twenty years trying to control every variable and manage every outcome. Perhaps it’s time to trust in forces larger than your own planning.”
The twin suns began their descent toward the horizon, painting the palace grounds in shades of orange and gold. Somewhere in the distance, festival preparations continued—music drifting from the great hall, and servants arranging flowers in patterns that would welcome another year of hope and expectation.
Kovrak’s tiger paced beneath his skin, restless with anticipation he didn’t welcome. The air carried scents of preparation and possibility, but underneath it all, something else stirred. Something that made his pulse quicken and his control feel suddenly precarious.
A baker.Someone who worked with her hands, who created rather than commanded, who likely had no idea what she was walking into. The absurdity should have been laughable. Instead, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone else to decide whether he’d fly or fall.
“What’s her name?” The question emerged before he could stop it.
“Faith.” Merral’s mouth curved in something that might have been satisfaction. “Faith Woodard.”
The name hit him like lightning striking steel.