Chapter 11 – The Frozen Welcome

                The door of the Jet hissed open, and the warmth of the cabin was instantly devoured by the brutal, predatory bite of the Canadian north.

                The air felt cold and heavy, carrying the scent of ancient pine and the crushing pressure of the Royal aura waiting for us down below.

                I stepped out behind Romani, my breath hitching as the sub-zero wind whipped my hair across my face. Below, the scene was orchestrated with the terrifying precision of a military funeral. A line of black armored sedans stood idling, their exhaust plumes curling into the dark sky like ghosts. Dozens of guards in charcoal-grey uniforms stood at a rigid salute, but my eyes were locked on the two figures at the center of the formation.

                King Alaric and Queen Genevieve.

                They didn’t move. They didn’t smile.

                They simply existed, draped in heavy, floor-length furs of obsidian and silver fox, looking like statues carved from the very mountains surrounding us.

                As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the weight of their combined gaze hit me. It was an assessment, a cold calculation of my worth, bearing down on me with the heaviness of iron.

                “Mother. Father,” Romani formally greeted them. He didn’t hug them. He gave a sharp, respectful nod. “I have brought her. This is Ana, my fated mate, the future Queen.”

The King, a man whose face looked weathered by centuries of hard winters, didn’t look at his son. His blue eyes, the same shade as Romani’s but stripped of mercy, raked over me. He took in my posture, my disheveled clothes from the flight, and the defiant spark I couldn’t quite extinguish in my eyes.

                “So this is her? Smaller than the reports, weaker than the rumors. A disappointment wrapped in furs.”

                “Size is irrelevant to the bond, Alaric,” Queen Genevieve added.

Her voice was like ice cracking on a lake, beautiful but deadly. Her eyes were sharp, calculating the hybrid scent that clung to me.

                She stepped closer, the hem of her fur coat brushing the frost on the ground.

                “Though I must admit, I find the Moon Goddess’s sense of humor… puzzling. We assumed the Goddess would grant you a jewel from the Northern Houses. Instead, she hands us a cracked stone.”

                Blood rushed to my cheeks, not from the cold, but from the sting of being spoken about like a disappointment before I had even opened my mouth.

                “The bond chose, Mother,” Romani said, his tone bordering on a warning. He placed a heavy, possessive hand on the small of my back. “We should get out of the wind. The Princess is not yet acclimated to our climate.”

                “Princess,” the King repeated the word as if testing a counterfeit coin. “A bold title for a girl who smells of witch-magic and common wolves. Into the car. We have much to discuss before the Council arrives.”

                We were ushered into a massive, stretched Limousine, a tank disguised as a luxury vehicle. The interior was cavernous, with multiple rows of face-to-face seating upholstered in deep crimson velvet. Romani and I sat opposite his parents.

                The door closed with a pressurized thump, plunging us into an expensive, suffocating silence as the car began to move toward the fortress-like Palace in the distance.

                The Queen was the first to break the silence.

She sat perfectly upright, not a single hair out of place despite the wind.

                “So, Ana. Tell us of your background. We know of the Moonlight Walker pack, a provincial, unremarkable group. But your mother’s side… the witch blood. How did such a stain find its way into a fated Lycan bond?”

                Romani’s hand tightened on my thigh, a silent command to stay “diplomatic.” I took a breath, meeting the Queen’s icy stare.

                “My mother was a practitioner of the Old Ways,” I answered, steadier than I felt. “I don’t consider her blood a ‘stain.’ It’s a heritage of power that has served me well enough to survive until now.”

                The King let out a short, derisive snort.

                “Power? A Lycan’s power comes from his blood. Magic is the crutch of the weak and the secretive. To think the future Queen will have to hide her hands for fear of casting sparks… it is an embarrassment to our history. We expected a pure-blood warrior, someone like Lady Elara, who has trained in our ways since she could walk. Instead, we have a girl who likely doesn’t even know which fork to use at a Council dinner.”

                “She will learn,” Romani interrupted, his jaw tight. “She is sharp, Father. Sharper than the pampered dolls you paraded before me, sharper than your Council’s sycophants.”

                “She will have to be more than sharp,” Genevieve sneered, leaning forward. “She will have to be perfect. Ana, understand this: you are not just Romani’s mate. You are a political asset. In the Kingdom, your every movement is a statement of the Crown’s strength. You will learn Royal etiquette, how to speak, how to walk, when to remain silent. You will be stripped of your common habits. The ‘hybrid’ will be buried under layers of protocol until no one remembers where you came from.”

                “And if I don’t want to be buried?” I asked, my voice dropping.

                The King’s eyes flashed with a sudden, terrifying red.

“Then you will be a beautiful ornament locked in a gilded cage, silent and forgotten. The Throne does not bend to wants, it grinds them into dust.”

                I looked at Romani, searching for a hint of the man who had joked with me in the SUV. He wouldn’t look at me. He was staring at his father with a grim, stoic expression.

                I realized then that in this car, I was alone.

                The Limousine slowed as we began the ascent toward the Palace. It was a staggering structure of dark stone and reinforced glass, built directly into the side of a massive cliff face. It looked less like a home and more like a mountain that had decided to grow teeth.

                As we pulled up to the grand entrance, a small reception committee stood waiting under the glowing sconces of the portico.

                “The staff is prepared,” the Queen noted, smoothing her furs. “They will begin your transformation immediately.”

                The car door was opened by a warrior, and we stepped out onto the heated stone of the entryway. Three figures stood at the front of the line, their auras distinct and formidable.

                A tall, slender man with spectacles and an air of twitchy efficiency stepped forward first.                 “Your Majesties. Prince Romani. Welcome home.”

He turned his gaze to me, his eyes analytical.

                “And this must be the hybrid Princess. I am Eric, the Royal Secretary. This is my sister, Elara, the Royal Administrator. She will be in charge of your schedule, your wardrobe, and your… re-education.”

                Elara, a woman who looked like she had been born wearing a corset, gave me a nod so brief it was almost an insult. Guess one of Romani’s suitors will be my closest shadow in the future.

                Beside her stood a mountain of a man with a scarred face and shoulders wide enough to block the sun. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a massive broadsword strapped to his back.

                “And I am Walther, Chief Warrior,” the man growled, sounding like grinding stones. He looked at me with blatant skepticism. “I’ll be the one responsible for making sure you don’t embarrass us during the ceremony. Looking at you, I’d have better luck teaching a corpse to dance.”

                “Enough,” Romani commanded, stepping forward. “Take her to the East Wing. Let her bathe and rest. We have guests arriving in the morning, and I want her presentable.”

                “Rest?” Elara asked with a thin, sharp smile. “There is no rest for a Princess, Your Highness. We have much work to do before she is fit to be seen by the Council. Come, Ana. Your old life died the moment you stepped off that plane. From now on, you breathe only for the Crown.”

                As they led me toward the towering oak doors, I looked back one last time at the dark, cold sky.

                                The chains weren’t just a metaphor anymore.

                They were real, and they were closing in.