Dane receives him with perfect Alpha courtesy—strength without aggression. “Ash Hollow welcomes the representatives of Drakoria.”
Evren produces an ornate scroll case inlaid with dragon scales and gemstones. “The formal marriage documentation, as requested by the High Court of Doria.”
I maintain my composed expression as he presents the papers that would bind my life to a stranger’s, but my pulse races beneath my skin. The document officially states the marriage timeline: three days remaining before I must depart with the delegation.
As Dane guides them toward the Lodge entrance, I notice Callum shifting toward Ben, his voice low but clear to my fae hearing.
“Different.” Ben’s observation is clipped. He fought alongside Evren months ago—he’d recognize the change.
“Completely,” Callum agrees. “When he and Jarvald came to help during Rhonan and Serena’s situation, he was relaxed.” Almost playful. Now he looks like a man walking to his own execution.”
“Mission weighing on him?”
“Or his conscience.” Callum’s gaze tracks Evren’s stiff posture. “Someone who was comfortable here before doesn’t show up this formal unless something about this duty conflicts with who he is.”
I process this information as we move toward the Lodge. I wasn’t here when they fought Faelan the first time—I’d been called away for emergency healing training in Tir na Sorcha, returning only after the battle ended. But I’ve heard enough stories to understand who Evren was then versus who stands before us now. Something about his careful courtesy feels performed rather than natural—like an actor playing a role he hasn’t fully embraced.
“Please,” Dane says as we reach the Lodge entrance, “join us inside for a formal reception.”
I stand perfectly still as Evren unrolls a series of ornate parchments across the polished conference table. The formal reception has moved to the Lodge’s main meeting room, where the Drakorian delegates sit opposite our pack leadership. The air feels charged with unspoken tension.
“Lady Silverthorne,” Evren begins, his voice carrying the formal cadence of court presentation. “The Crimson Court of Drakoria presents these ceremonial requirements for your review.”
I nod with perfect fae courtesy, my face a mask of polite attention. Inside, my mind races. This feels like listening to someone planning a stranger’s future—not mine.
“The ceremony will take place at dusk on the seventh day of the Crimson Moon,” Evren continues, indicating an elaborate illustration of a mountain temple bathed in red light. “The joining will be witnessed by representatives of all seven dragon houses and the High Courts of Doria.”
His fingers trace the ceremonial path depicted in gold. “You will be escorted by six handmaidens representing the elemental bonds. Prince Korren will approach from the western alcove, flanked by his royal guard.”
I note how mechanically he delivers each detail—like reading inventory rather than describing what should be the most significant day of someone’s life. His eyes never quite meet mine when he speaks of the prince.
“The ceremonial garments have been commissioned from the Skydancer weavers,” he continues, revealing drawings of elaborate robes with dragon-scale embroidery. “Yours will incorporate both fae crystals and dragon fire opals to symbolize the union of realms.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Callum standing at the room’s edge, his face carefully neutral but his body radiatingprotective tension. Dane and Nova sit directly across from Evren, their posture relaxed but alert.
“Prince Korren,” Evren says, unrolling another document, “is the fourth son of the Dragon Emperor, graduate of the Crimson Academy of War, decorated commander of the Eastern Border Guard, and diplomat to the Shadowrealm Treaty Negotiations.”
Rhonan stands near the hearth, his posture impeccable—every inch the dragon prince despite his wolf pack allegiance. But I catch the infinitesimal tightening at the corner of his jaw, the way his fingers press just slightly harder against his folded arms. Whatever his brother is reciting, Evren doesn’t believe in it any more than Rhonan does.
Evren recites the credentials like reading from a resume, his tone completely devoid of personal admiration or enthusiasm.
“The alliance’s significance cannot be overstated,” he continues. “This union will formalize the peace treaty between Doria and Drakoria, ending three centuries of territorial conflict and establishing new trade routes through the contested borderlands.”
I maintain my perfect fae mask, acknowledging each point with appropriate courtesy. “The ceremony details are most impressive,” I respond, my voice carrying the precise note of diplomatic appreciation. “And the Prince’s credentials are certainly distinguished.”
Evren nods, then finally looks up from his papers. “For the formal record—the Crimson Court requires documentation of allied governance structures.” His tone is official, but something in his eyes suggests personal curiosity beneath the diplomatic requirement. “If I may inquire—what is the structure of your pack’s leadership here at Ash Hollow?”
I watch him carefully as he asks, noting how his eyes track the room differently than the rest of the delegation. Their gazes sweep systematically, assessing territory and assets. Hisattention lingers on faces, on interactions—the subtle lean when Dane speaks, how Nova stands slightly forward on diplomatic questions.
His gaze pauses on Nova—half-fae, half-wolf, standing as co-Alpha. A position that didn’t exist six months ago. Then his attention shifts to Rhonan near the hearth, and something passes between the brothers. No words needed. Just acknowledgment across formal circumstances—Rhonan’s choice to pledge to a wolf pack validated by his brother’s silent recognition.
“Our leadership structure is collaborative,” Dane explains. “Nova and I share Alpha responsibilities, with Ben managing internal operations as Beta, and Callum handling security as Gamma.”
Evren’s eyes linger on Callum—not assessing threat or rank, but studying the tension in his shoulders, the protective angle of his stance. The way his attention keeps drifting toward me despite his rigid discipline. Understanding blooms across Evren’s features for half a heartbeat before diplomatic neutrality reseals itself.
“And your integration of non-wolf members?” Evren asks, his formal tone at odds with the curiosity in his eyes. “How does that function within traditional pack hierarchy?”
The question seems innocent, but it probes directly at the very issue underlying my situation. And given what he just observed—Nova’s position, Rhonan’s presence, Callum’s barely concealed focus on me—it’s not innocent at all. He’s building a picture of exactly how Ash Hollow operates when pack bonds transcend species.
