No one had warned Princess Veyla Aurelion that peace would smell like iron.
She stood barefoot at the center of the ritual circle, cold stone biting into her skin, the hem of her ceremonial dress darkening where blood—her blood—dripped onto the ancient runes. Above her, the vaulted ceiling of the border citadel loomed like a held breath, carved with symbols older than the kingdoms now desperate enough to kneel.
This was not a wedding.
This was not an alliance.
This was an offering.
Across the circle stood the Alpha of the Northern Clans.
Khorg Ironmaw did not move.
He was massive, scarred, a living monument of muscle and restrained violence. His golden eyes were fixed on her throat, on the pulse fluttering there. The air around him vibrated—instinct screaming, mate-bond awakening—
Then he inhaled.
The reaction was immediate.
Khorg staggered back a single step.
Not in fear.
In pain.
A sharp, guttural sound tore from his chest as his claws flexed against his will, scraping stone. His vision swam. His senses—so finely honed they could track prey across storms—collapsed under the weight of her scent.
It burned.
It rotted.
It hurt.
"What—" someone whispered.
Across the circle, the torches flickered violently.
The Vampire King reacted next.
Vinculus Noctaryn had watched the proceedings with cold detachment, pale fingers resting lightly on the hilt of his ceremonial blade. Immortal. Untouchable. Unmoved.
Until Veyla lifted her head.
His crimson eyes narrowed.
He took a step forward—
And froze.
The world tilted.
The scent hit him like corrupted nectar—wrong, overwhelming, nauseating. His fangs descended reflexively, not in hunger but in rejection. Blood rose sharply in his throat.
Vinculus turned away just in time to avoid staining the ritual floor.
Silence crashed through the chamber.
This was impossible.
The bond ritual was ancient. Absolute. A mate-offering could not fail.
And yet—
Khorg was breathing hard now, jaw clenched, every instinct demanding he claim her while his body rebelled violently at the thought of touching her.
Vinculus wiped blood from his mouth with slow precision, his expression fractured for the first time in centuries.
At the center of it all, Princess Veyla Aurelion stood very still.
She did not scream.
She did not collapse.
She simply looked down at the blood on her hands and understood, with terrifying clarity, that something inside her had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.
"Kill her," someone said softly.
The word echoed.
A solution.
A mercy.
Khorg's claws trembled.
Vinculus's gaze snapped back to her—sharp, furious, calculating.
"No," he said.
The word was iron.
A presence shifted in the shadows above the chamber. On an ancient beam, half-hidden by darkness, a woman watched the chaos unfold with tired eyes and a knowing smile.
Madame Zora exhaled.
The seal had reacted.
And the world had just made its first mistake.