LOGINThe woman stepped out of the sleek black car like she owned the world.
Her heels clicked sharply against the stone path, each sound echoing through the courtyard with a level of authority that sent a chill skittering down my spine. Her presence alone felt… heavy. Like she carried a storm behind her eyes, one she would unleash on anyone who dared breathe incorrectly.
I froze where I stood.
She was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel real—tall, elegant, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like flowing silk. Her lips were painted the color of blood. Her dress… expensive, fitted, the sort you wore only if you intended to be seen and feared.
The maids who had been walking with me immediately bowed. Their heads dipped so low their foreheads nearly touched the ground.
My heart picked up.
Who was she?
She didn’t look at them. She didn’t look at anyone. Until her gaze found mine.
And when it did, the faintest smile curved at the corner of her red lips. Not a warm smile. Not a polite one. A smile that told me she already knew everything about me, and none of it pleased her.
“Who are you?” I whispered before I even realized the words had escaped.
The maids exchanged horrified glances. One of them—Hayley—caught my wrist discreetly and whispered, “My Lady… that’s her.”
My breath stilled. “Her who?”
Hayley swallowed hard. “Valeria.”
The name hit me like a slap.
Valeria.
Arthur’s former betrothed.
The one the pack elders once insisted would become Luna.
The woman who was supposed to stand beside him until he rejected the arrangement years ago.
She finally stopped in front of me, her eyes sweeping over my body in a slow, assessing motion that made heat prickle my skin. Not admiration. Not approval.
Judgment.
So much judgment.
“I see,” Valeria murmured, her voice smooth like silk but sharp beneath the surface. “This is the girl.”
Girl. Not woman.
Not Tyla.
Not mate.
Just girl.
Her gaze flicked to my hands, the ones Arthur always held protectively. Her jaw tightened barely, but I caught it.
“We have not been properly introduced,” she continued. “But judging by how my staff trembles around you, you must be the one who has… caught Arthur’s attention.”
Heat shot up my neck. “I didn’t catch anyone’s attention.”
Her smile widened. “No? And yet the palace is in chaos over you.”
I took a shaky breath. “Why are you here?”
A soft, humorless laugh escaped her lips. “This palace is my home. I was raised here. Trained here. Prepared here. I was meant to stand at Arthur’s side long before you crawled into his bed.”
I flinched.
She stepped closer. I stepped back.
“Arthur and I,” she whispered, her perfume invading my senses, “share a history your kind will never understand.”
“My kind?” My voice was small, breaking.
“An omega with nothing,” she clarified, not even bothering to soften the blow. “No lineage. No influence. No power. No reason to stand where you are standing.”
My throat burned.
“Arthur chose me,” I finally whispered, clinging to the one truth I had.
Valeria’s eyes hardened. “Mates can be replaced. Luna cannot.”
I froze.
She leaned even closer, her whisper brushing my ear. “You will learn that soon enough.”
Before I could respond, a guard approached hurriedly.
“Lady Valeria, Alpha Lucas requests your presence inside.”
She lifted her chin elegantly. “Of course.”
But before she walked away, she paused, tilted her head, and spoke softly:
“Enjoy your stay, little omega. It won’t last long.”
She turned, her heels clicking like a death sentence as she disappeared into the palace.
The moment she was gone, my legs gave out. I sat heavily on the courtyard bench, my heart pounding so fast I thought it might burst.
Hayley knelt beside me. “My Lady… please don’t listen to her.”
But her words didn’t reach me.
All I could think was:
Arthur is gone.
Valeria is here.
And she wants him back.
My stomach twisted painfully.
And for the first time since waking up in Arthur’s palace…
I felt truly, terrifyingly alone.
Arthur’s POVThe summons comes without urgency.That alone tells me something is wrong.No alarms. No flare through the Mark. No sharp ripple in the Veil. Just a runner at dawn, breathless from climbing the palace steps too fast, holding out a sealed packet with hands that shake from effort, not fear.“From the north districts,” he says. “They asked for… perspective.”Not judgment.Not intervention.Perspective.I take the packet and dismiss him. The seal breaks easily. Inside are reports written in three different hands—contradictory, incomplete, honest.A slow failure.Anchor rotations missing shifts. Supplies arriving late. A council deadlocked over whether to draw from emergency reserves or wait another cycle. No surge yet. No catastrophe.Just erosion.This is the kind of problem I used to despise. Too quiet to fight. Too slow to conquer.I find Tyla in the small kitchen we claimed months ago, barefoot, sleeves rolled, arguing with a kettle that refuses to boil faster out of resp
Tyla’s POVThe first time I realize the world no longer flinches, it happens when I trip.It’s stupid. Ordinary. A raised stone on the east stair, one I’ve walked a hundred times. My foot catches, my balance goes, and I pitch forward with a sharp intake of breath already preparing for impact.Hands grab me.Not magic. Not a Mark-flare. Just people.A woman with paint-stained sleeves steadies my elbow. A boy barely past ten catches my basket before it spills. Someone laughs—not unkindly, just surprised—and asks if I’m all right.“I am,” I say, startled by how true it is.No one bows. No one stares.They go back to their lives.I stand there a moment longer than necessary, heart beating fast, and feel something loosen inside my ribs.The world caught me.—Arthur is in the lower archives when I find him, sleeves rolled, dust on his knuckles, scowling at a stack of ledgers like they’ve personally offended him.“You know,” I say, leaning against the doorway, “most rulers don’t reorganize
Arthur’s POVThe first time someone refuses me, it happens over bread.I’m in the west quarter, where the stone still smells new and the streets haven’t decided what kind of stories they want to hold yet. A bakery sits on the corner—windows fogged, laughter inside, a crooked sign that reads Still Warm.I point to a loaf through the glass. “That one.”The baker, flour-dusted and broad-shouldered, squints at me. “No.”I blink. “No?”He nods, utterly unapologetic. “That loaf’s spoken for. Come back in an hour.”There’s no fear in his eyes. No recognition. Just certainty.Something in my chest loosens, startled and almost giddy.“All right,” I say. “What do you recommend instead?”He grins and hands me a smaller round, darker, heavier. “That one’ll keep you standing longer.”I pay. I leave. I don’t tell him who I am.Outside, I tear the bread in half with my hands, steam curling into the cool air. I eat it leaning against the wall, crumbs falling to the street. No one stops me. No one bow
Arthur’s POVThe city does not bow when I pass through it anymore.That realization hits me hardest on the third day after the surge, when I walk the lower market without escort, coat unmarked, presence unannounced. People move around me—not away, not toward. A woman argues over grain prices. A child laughs too loudly near a fountain someone rebuilt crooked. Two men nearly collide and swear at each other with equal heat, then laugh and clap shoulders.No one freezes.No one kneels.The absence of reverence should feel like erasure. Instead, it feels like air returning to lungs I didn’t realize I’d been holding tight for decades.I stop at a stall selling carved stone charms—anchors, mostly. Not official sigils. Personal ones. Each different. Each imperfect.The merchant looks up, squints at me, then shrugs. “You buying or admiring?”“Both,” I say.She snorts. “That’ll cost extra.”I pick one shaped like a spiral fractured down the middle. The break isn’t clean—it veers, corrected mid-
Arthur’s POVPeace is louder than war.No one tells you that.They tell you peace is quiet—soft days, gentle nights, the absence of screams. But real peace? It hums. It argues. It demands attention in places where violence used to make decisions simple.I wake before dawn to the sound of the city thinking.Footsteps on stone. Early voices. A bell rung too soon because someone forgot the hour and didn’t apologize for it.Life, ungoverned by fear.It unnerves me more than any battlefield ever did.I dress slowly, fastening my coat with hands that no longer shake when they’re clean. The Mark sits warm and steady beneath my skin—present, not pulsing. It hasn’t tried to take over in weeks.Sometimes that still feels like loss.Most days, it feels like trust.—The Continuance doesn’t vanish.It fragments.Some leave the realm entirely. Some stay quiet, watching for failure the way scavengers watch for a dying thing. A few—more than I expect—step forward and ask how to help.That’s the hard
Tyla’s POVThe world does not end.That surprises everyone.After the anchors are established—after the Veil learns how to rest—people wait for catastrophe the way they always have. For backlash. For punishment. For the universe to demand repayment for a balance that didn’t involve blood.It doesn’t.Instead, things become… uneven.Some days are quiet enough to feel suspicious. Other days are loud with argument, grief, learning. The realm breathes irregularly, like a body recovering from a long illness. Nothing about it is graceful.But it’s real.I walk the palace grounds at dawn, bare feet on cold stone, feeling the threads of connection stretch and relax beneath the world’s skin. The Veil is present—not hovering over everything, not threaded through every choice—but accessible. Like a river with banks instead of a floodplain soaked in sacrifice.Arthur joins me by the eastern wall, two cups of steaming tea in his hands.“I still expect something to jump out at us,” he admits, passi







