No regret tugged at Alexander. That match was theirs. This one was his.
Before Conrad answered, another figure emerged. Tedric, sword still in hand, sauntered over. Medium height and slender, with auburn waves tumbling over his brow, he looked more a courtier than a soldier. A Beta, yes, but no one should underestimate his swordsmanship, the confidence of a man who’d bested most of Parandor’s Alpha soldiers.
“You should’ve seen it,” Tedric called out. “I had the runt flat on his back three times before the bell rang.”
He reached Conrad in two long strides and mussed the boy’s mop of chestnut hair, streaked with gold from hours spent training under the sun. “I’d say that’s progress.”
Conrad ducked away, scowling. “Just you watch, Tedric Deymar. One of these days,you’llbe the one kissing the ground.”
“You have the pride of a rooster,” Tedric countered smoothly, his grin widening. “But there’s hope, runt. Even roosters learn, eventually.”
The exchange drew laughter from the nearby men, though Alexander saw the stiff set of Conrad’s shoulders as he fell back a pace. The boy tolerated Darion’s scolding, sometimes even sought it, but Tedric’s jesting rubbed him raw.
Still, Tedric had proven his worth chasing down Alexander’s own sister after her horse bolted wild on the forest road a few months ago. A wanderer from beyond the Nine Kingdoms, he’d accepted shelter and a position without hesitation. In Parandor, where hands were always scarce, he’d become indispensable.
Alexander’s gaze swept the yard. Most of his men had been born under Blackwood-Veyrde’s pines, but his ranks held others from distant coasts and plains, a patchwork of unified loyalties. Now, they were simply his men. He knew their worth and would bleed for any one of them.
He shifted his attention to Conrad, who was watching him with that teasing light no amount of scowling could dim. A quick-witted boy of fifteen, not yet Awakened as an Alpha but overflowing with confidence, nonetheless. Far too carefree for a world that would one day demand much from him.
But Alexander couldn’t fault the boy for it. He’d once been the same—young and reckless, believing himself untouchable until death and disgrace carved the boy from his bones, leaving only the man.
“An Imperial Omega,” Conrad pressed, grinning, “all the way from Xûen-Sarai. That’s something.”
Tedric bent into a courtly bow. “It certainly is. Felicitations, my lord.”
A dramatic sigh came from the boy. “To think a foreign princess has finally sworn to be your wife. May I suggest the lessening of your scowl? Your glower can be rather intimidating. We wouldn’t want her to run screaming from your hall.”
Alexander levelled him with a look. “Enough with your jests, pup. Find my sister. Tell her to begin preparations.”
Conrad’s grin remained intact. “You realize this means Lady Yrenna will have her hands full for weeks? You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t rip your hair out.”
“She’s more than capable.”
“Oh, certainly. But that doesn’t mean she’ll like it.”
Darion shot him a glare. “Best stop flapping your tongue and get to work before she learns you’ve been dawdling.”
Conrad smirked but gave a hasty bow. “As my lord commands, I’ll see to it.”
Alexander’s gaze followed him. The boy’s easy obedience, the simple joy in his stride—this was the fragile peace he wanted to protect, for Conrad and for everyone sheltered by these stones.
He looked up at his keep, a new and restless tension tightening behind his ribs.
Hope.
It was a risk. It was everything.
In the great hall, a merry fire crackled beneath the chatter from long tables. Cutlery clattered against plates, goblets met wood with a dull thud. Their evening meal was humble and hearty: roasted venison, dark rye bread, a thick stew of root vegetables. Nothing but the simple, honest fare of the Tremorian countryside. It might be plain next to the rich, exotic dishes of Niewberg’s Limyere Palace, but its rustic comfort won out every time.
Alexander sat at the center of the head table, his sister Yrenna beside him on the raised dais. Below, the hall stretched out in descending rows of trestle tables. Tonight, she wore the same emerald dress he’d seen season after season. Once, he’d thought it her favourite. Only later did he notice the frayedseams, the thinning fabric, and realize it wasn’t fondness but necessity that kept her reaching for it.
“You’ll need to prepare proper rooms for your bride,” she said, slicing her meat into dainty bite-sized pieces. “And before you protest—no, your current chambers won’t do.”
He tensed, masking it with a measured sip from his cup. “Why not? There’s a bed, a tub, and a wardrobe.”
Conrad snorted from his seat beside Yrenna. “Solthar forbids an Imperial Omega be subjected to your drafty rooms, my lord.”
Yrenna shot the boy a warning look before turning back to Alexander. “I mean it, brother. Your room is cold, old, and hardly fitting. You should move into our parents’ rooms. They’re the only ones grand enough for a princess.”