From the elevated throne, the King of Elyndria watched his sons.
Not as a ruler surveying his court.
But as a father measuring the inevitable.
Below, laughter lingered faintly around the low tables where the four princes sat. Ravel composed and calculating. Marcus loud and physical. Adrien smiling in that unreadable way of his.
And at the center of them—
Nael.
Bright. Beautiful. Trying not to look cornered.
The king's gaze softened for only a second before sharpening again.
Beside him stood his most trusted shadow—his knight, his blade, his adviser.
Hemilton.
Tall, steady, unreadable as stone.
The king spoke quietly, eyes never leaving the scene below.
"What do you think he will choose? Whom?"
Hemilton followed his king's line of sight. His gaze settled on the youngest prince—on the way three powerful alphas unconsciously leaned toward him as if drawn by gravity.
A faint exhale left him.
"Who knows, Your Majesty."
The king hummed.
"Everyone will want him," he murmured. "For beauty. For power. For influence."
A pause.
"But what will he want?"
Hemilton did not answer.
Because the truth was simple.
No one knew what Nael truly wanted.
As if summoned by the king's thoughts, an inner guard approached the princes and bowed.
"His Majesty requests the presence of his sons."
The four rose together.
Nael straightened his posture immediately, slipping back into princely composure. Leo, standing a respectful distance away, instinctively took a step forward—but stopped when Ravel gave him a subtle look.
This was a family summons.
The brothers approached the throne in unified steps.
They bowed.
"My sons," the king greeted evenly.
Nael lifted his head first. "Father… where is Mother?"
A simple question.
Too simple.
The king regarded him calmly.
"She will be there," he replied.
A deliberate pause.
"Not here."
Silence.
The meaning settled instantly.
Ravel's expression sharpened almost imperceptibly. Marcus's shoulders stiffened. Adrien's smile faded into something more thoughtful.
All three turned.
And looked at Nael.
Nael had understood.
Of course he had.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides. The faintest grim expression crossed his face before he schooled it away.
There.
Not here.
Which meant—
The selection hall.
The formal declaration.
The place where alliances were sealed.
Where futures were chosen.
The king watched his youngest carefully.
Watched the tension he tried to hide.
Watched the way Leo's gaze, from afar, subtly shifted—protective, alert.
"Tonight," the king continued smoothly, "is not merely a celebration."
The court quieted further.
"It is a beginning."
Nael's heartbeat echoed in his ears.
The king rose from his throne slowly, deliberately.
The movement alone was enough to silence the lingering murmurs in the grand hall. Music softened. Conversations halted. Every noble, every foreign envoy, every elite guest turned toward the sovereign of Elyndria.
His voice carried without effort.
"Today," he began, eyes sweeping across the gathered crowd, "as you all know, my youngest son has turned twenty-two."
A subtle wave of applause followed. Respectful. Expectant.
The king continued.
"And according to the ancient customs of Elyndria, on this day… he shall choose his groom."
The words fell like a polished blade—elegant, ceremonial, final.
A visible ripple moved through the hall.
Alphas straightened unconsciously. Some exchanged sharp glances. Foreign dignitaries leaned forward with renewed interest. Even the air felt charged.
Across the hall, Leo's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
The king turned slightly and extended his hand.
"Nael."
There was no hesitation in his tone.
All eyes shifted.
Nael stepped forward.
And for a brief second, the hall forgot to breathe.
Under the cascading chandeliers, dressed in formal royal attire woven with fine silver threads and sun-crested embroidery, he looked less like a prince and more like something carved from light itself. His posture was straight, chin lifted, expression calm—but those who looked closely would see the faint storm behind his ocean-blue gaze.
Ethereal.
Untouchable.
Too radiant to belong fully to earth.
He placed his hand in his father's.
The king drew him gently to stand beside the throne.
Pride flickered openly across the king's face now.
"The formal selection," the king announced, his voice resonating through the marble pillars, "will take place in one hour in the Main Hall."
A collective intake of breath followed.
"One hour," he repeated. "Prepare yourselves."
Excitement erupted in restrained whispers. Strategies were already forming. Alliances calculating. Ambitions awakening.
Beside the king, Nael stood composed.
Still.
Regal.
But inside—
His pulse thundered.
One hour.
His fingers flexed subtly at his side.
Across the hall, Leo met his eyes.
No words were exchanged.
But the message was clear.
It begins now.
The announcement scattered the hall into movement, but within the royal circle, the atmosphere turned heavier.
Ravel's jaw had tightened the moment the word groom was spoken.
Marcus crossed his arms, shoulders rigid, golden eyes dark with restrained displeasure. "So it's decided just like that…" he muttered under his breath.
Only Adrien stood at ease.
Too at ease.
Marcus noticed immediately.
He leaned closer, voice low but edged. "Aren't you angry?"
Adrien's silver lashes lowered lazily before he lifted one elegant finger and waved it side to side.
"No, no," he said smoothly. "Don't misunderstand."
Ravel glanced at him sharply. "Then why do you look pleased?"
Adrien's lips curved—slow, knowing.
"Because," he replied, eyes drifting toward Nael across the hall, "from earlier competition to gain our dear little brother's favoritism…"
He paused deliberately.
"…I already won."
Marcus blinked. "What?"
Ravel's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
Adrien folded his hands behind his back, posture relaxed as if discussing weather rather than royal marriage politics.
"I know his plan for today."
Silence.
Marcus stared at him. "You what?"
Adrien's smile deepened, velvet eyes glinting with amusement. "He told me."
Ravel's expression turned unreadable. "And you didn't think to inform us?"
Adrien shrugged lightly. "Where's the fun in that?"
Marcus clicked his tongue. "So that's why you've been calm."
Adrien leaned slightly closer to them, voice lowering.
"Don't worry," he added softly. "The real storm hasn't even started yet."
Across the hall, Nael stood beside the king—serene, composed, untouchable.
But Adrien knew better, that this brother is up to new mischief.