Chapter 3

Elouera's POV 

The Imperial War Room was designed to make you feel utterly insignificant.

Carved from the hollowed core of the Blue Mountain Estates, the circular chamber boasted walls of raw, jagged obsidian and a massive central table made of polished iron. But it wasn't the architecture that was suffocating me today. It was the scent.

Three dozen of the Sovereign Empire’s highest ranking generals and warlords were crammed into the room. They were all Alphas. The air was thick, choked with the heavy, aggressive pheromones of men trying to silently dominate one another. Bitter coffee, burning tobacco, crushed iron, and the sharp tang of sweat pressed against my skin like a physical weight.

I stood in the darkest corner of the room, as far from the iron table as the guards would allow.

Every breath I took was a quiet, agonizing battle. Callan’s practice sword had definitely fractured at least one rib on my left side during our morning session in the arena. To keep my chest perfectly flat under my uniform, I had to wrap the linen bindings twice as tight as usual. The fabric dug into my broken bone with zero mercy. I was dizzy, nauseous from my morning suppressant, and biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper, just to keep from passing out.

"The Outback sectors are growing bolder," General Vance Duke Stirling’s uncle barked, slamming a heavy fist onto a parchment map. "We’ve lost two supply caravans this month. The local militias are practically laughing at our border patrols."

"Then we burn a village to the ground and remind them who owns the dirt they walk on," another general sneered.

I kept my eyes pinned to the floor, my shoulders hunched forward. Elian the Coward. Elian the Weak. I made sure my hands were visibly trembling where they gripped the hem of my military coat.

But beneath my downcast lashes, my mind was a razor. Two supply caravans. I knew exactly which ones they were. I’d ordered my shadow network to intercept them three days ago to starve Vance’s northern garrison. The "local militias" were my people.

The heavy iron doors at the far end of the room swung open. The argument around the table died instantly.

The suffocating mix of Alpha scents in the room was suddenly split wide open by a rush of cold, terrifyingly clean air. It smelled of ozone. Like the violent, crackling silence right before a lightning strike in the desert.

Commander Jace Corowa walked in.

He hadn't bothered to change out of his travel gear. His black tactical uniform was coated in a thin layer of red Outback dust. A jagged, faded scar slashed across the column of his throat, a brutal reminder that he had earned his rank through blood, not birthright.

Jace didn't announce himself. He didn't demand attention. He simply moved to the open space at the foot of the iron table, and every general in the room unconsciously took a half step back to give him room. He was only twenty-three, the youngest Commander in imperial history, but he carried the lethal, absolute stillness of an apex predator.

"Commander Corowa," the High General said, his tone tight, betraying a flicker of nervous submission. "We didn't expect you back from the outer sectors until nightfall."

"I made good time," Jace replied.

His voice was a low, rough rasp that sent an involuntary shiver straight down my fractured spine. I tightened my grip on my coat, shrinking further into the shadows.

For the next hour, Jace dominated the briefing without ever raising his voice. He dismantled Vance’s strategy with ruthless, terrifying logic. He didn't posture; he just proved that everyone else in the room was a fool. And through it all, I played my part. When a general slammed his hand on the table in frustration, I violently flinched. When a cup was dropped, I scrambled a step backward, wide eyed and pathetic.

Several nobles shot me looks of open disgust. I swallowed hard and looked away, leaning my weight against the obsidian wall to take the pressure off my ribs.

But as the meeting dragged on, the hairs on the back of my neck began to stand on end. A cold prickle of pure adrenaline flooded my system.

I risked a glance upward.

Through the haze of cigar smoke and across the vast iron table, Commander Jace Corowa was looking straight at me.

He wasn't listening to the High General anymore. His eyes were locked onto my shadowy corner. I quickly averted my gaze, letting my hands shake harder, playing the intimidated victim. But when I peeked through my eyelashes ten minutes later, his stare hadn't shifted an inch.

It wasn't the fiery, obsessive hatred I got from Callan, nor the arrogant mockery I got from Stirling. Jace’s gaze was cold. Calculating. It was a look of quiet, absolute disdain.

He had seen me in the arena this morning. He had watched Callan beat me into the sand. He despised weakness above all things, and to him, I was the walking definition of it.

Let him think you're useless, I told myself, fighting through a wave of dizziness as the suppressant continued to wreck my immune system. Let him look past you.

"The meeting adjourned," the High General finally barked.

I didn't wait for the doors to fully open. I kept my head down and slipped out into the long, vaulted corridor, desperate to get back to my chambers and peel the suffocating linens off my chest. Every step jarred my ribs, sending hot spikes of pain up into my jaw. I moved as fast as I dared, keeping to the edge of the hallway.

I just needed to round the corner. Just fifty more paces to the west wing stairs.

A hand clamped down on my shoulder.

It wasn't a brutal, crushing grip like Callan’s, but it was completely immovable. The scent of ozone and rain hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled.

"Hold, Your Highness."

I froze. My breath trapped itself in my throat as Commander Jace Corowa stepped around me, blocking my path. Up close, he was even more intimidating. He stood a full seven inches taller than me, his broad shoulders easily eclipsing the hallway light.

"Commander," I stammered, pulling my shoulders inward, deliberately making myself look smaller. I didn't look him in the eye, staring instead at the dusty combat boots he wore. “ I need to return to my studies."

Jace didn't move. He tilted his head, his grey eyes sweeping over my trembling form. The silence stretched between us, thick and unnerving.

"You flinch when men raise their voices," Jace observed quietly, his rough voice devoid of any warmth.

I swallowed, forcing my hands to shake. "I do not like loud noises."

"You stumble when a goblet falls."

"I startle easily."

Jace took a single, slow step forward. My back hit the cold stone of the corridor wall. He was entirely too close now. The heat radiating off his body was immense, and deep in the pit of my stomach, my suppressed Omega biology gave a terrifying, desperate flutter of recognition.

"You startle easily," Jace repeated softly. He leaned in just a fraction, his eyes boring holes straight through my skull. "Yet, when Callan swung a forty pound leaded practice sword at your head this morning, you didn't blink. You didn't flinch. You raised your guard with a perfectly locked wrist to deflect the blow."

My heart stopped. Complete, total silence filled my ears.

He noticed.

"You're a coward in a room full of politicians," Jace whispered, his face hovering mere inches from mine, his gaze dropping to the left side of my chest. "But you took a rib shattering blow from an Alpha without shedding a single tear."

Slowly, deliberately, Jace reached out. I couldn't move. I was paralyzed by the sheer intensity radiating off him. He pressed two gloved fingers directly against my coat, right over my third left rib.

Agony flared white hot behind my eyes, but I bit my lip so hard it bled, refusing to make a sound.

Jace’s eyes darkened. A muscle feathered along his jawline.

"You're not a coward, Prince Elian," Jace murmured, his thumb brushing a terrifyingly gentle circle over my broken bone, perilously close to the edge of my linen bindings. "So tell me  what exactly are you so terrified of us finding out?"