Yara snorts, a sound like grinding stones. "Wearing out their welcome. I don't like the way that one, Garrett, looks at you. Like a wolf eyeing a lamb."
"And I hear the Ironjaws are snarling at the eastern border again," Aino adds, her focus not leaving a single stray thread. "The fools never learn."
"Let them snarl," Yara dismisses. "The Warlord will give them a swat and they'll go running back to their caves with their tails between their legs, same as always. Nothing for you to worry your head about, my lady."
I nod, but file the information away. Another clan, another threat. This world was infinitely more dangerous than the one I'd left behind.
After the fitting, I head for the kitchens. The massive stone chambers buzz with activity as Greta, the head cook, oversees the feast.
"My lady, come taste the ceremonial infusion," she says, offering me a wooden cup. It smells of honey and herbs.
"It's lovely," I say after a sip.
"An old recipe," Greta says proudly. "Can you guess the herbs? A queen should know her plants."
I smile, sniffing the cup again. "Winterthorn for warmth, a touch of sun-nettle for clarity, and... is that mountain bloom?"
Greta's eyes widen in approval. "Sharp senses. Good. A queen needs those."
Later, I visit the nursery. The children are in the middle of a loud, chaotic game.
"We're hunting the mountain cat!" Lavi shouts, pouncing on Jorik, who roars with laughter. "Queen Lady, come hunt with us!"
"What games do human children play?" Jorik asks, scrambling to his feet.
I think for a moment. "We have dolls, and we pretend to have tea parties."
Lavi tilts her head. "You pretend to drink tea? Why not just drink it?"
The simple, practical question makes me laugh. "It's different. We pretend to be ladies of the court."
"We pretend to be warriors," Jorik says, puffing out his chest and clutching a small, worn wooden horse. "It's more fun."
The conversation is simple, but it highlights the chasm between the two worlds I now straddle. As I leave them to their chaotic, joyful play, a wave of melancholy washes over me. My own childhood was a series of silent rooms and carefully controlled lessons in etiquette and embroidery. Laughter was unladylike, running was forbidden, and play was a structured, lonely affair with dolls who never answered back. Here, children were allowed to be children—loud, messy, and gloriously free.
That evening, Ghazrek finds me. "I want to show you something," he says, leading me toward a corridor I haven't explored yet. "Something that might help you understand the weight and wonder of what you're accepting."
We walk through passages carved from the mountain until we reach a vast chamber I've never seen before. The walls are covered in intricate carvings, and it takes me a moment to realize what I'm looking at.
"The Hall of Memory," Ghazrek explains. "Every Warlord who has ruled these mountains is immortalized here."
But it's not just the martial achievements that capture my attention. Smaller panels tell quieter stories—the mates who stood beside those ancient Warlords, the women who helped shape the destiny of their people.
"Queen Lyralei," he says, stopping before one particularly beautiful carving. "She ruled alone for thirty years after her mate fell in battle. A human woman who held these mountains together through sheer force of will and political brilliance."
I trace the carved figure with one finger. "How did she do it?"
"She didn't convince them to follow her," he corrects. "She simply led, and they followed because her leadership earned their respect. Queens are made by actions, not bloodlines."
We spend time examining other panels—Queen Morgra who expanded the territory through marriage alliances, Queen Ursa who modernized trade relationships, Queen Vara who established laws still used today. Each tells the same story: women who became legends through strength and wisdom. The weight of their legacy settles on my shoulders, heavier than any crown.
"I want to be worthy of standing among them," I say finally, my voice a reverent whisper. "But they were warriors, politicians. I'm... I'm just an omega who knows her herbs."
"You are more than that," he says, his voice a low rumble. He leads me from the Hall, not toward the main corridors, but into a small, private solar I haven't seen before. A single arched window looks out over the valley, the last light of the setting sun painting the peaks in shades of orange and purple.
"How can I possibly live up to them?" I ask, turning to face him in the dimming light. "To Queen Lyralei? I'm not a warrior. I'm not a politician."
He takes my hands, his massive palms swallowing mine. "Lyralei did not win their respect with an axe. She did it by out-thinking her enemies. Morgra secured alliances not with threats, but with shrewd negotiation. Their greatest weapon was not a blade, but their mind." He lifts one of my hands, turning it over to look at my palm. "You faced down the envoys in my council chamber and turned their own arguments against them.You have spent your entire life out-thinking those who would use you, protecting yourself with a skill they could not even comprehend. You are not a warrior, Vesha. You are a strategist. And that is a weapon this clan values above all others."
