The Feeding ritual

The grand hall of the Palace hummed with a tension thick enough to taste. Seraphina stood at the towering doors, a vision in her sheer ivory gown, hundreds of tiny pearls shimmering with every shallow breath.

A crown of delicate silver leaves rested on her dark curls, framing eyes shadowed with smoky kohl, her lips painted the softest, most defiant red. She looked like a bride carved from starlight, a celestial offering.

And yet—she had never felt more like prey.

The twin doors groaned open, their ancient hinges protesting the grand reveal. A hush, profound and absolute, fell over the gathered nobles and foreign dignitaries. Every eye, every predatory gaze, fixed on Seraphina as she stepped into the lion’s den.

At the far end of the vast hall, perched on a raised platform, sat the three Alphas. They sprawled across their ornate thrones like gods, their very presence radiating dominion.

Cassian, the Wolf King, sat with an untamed grace, his golden eyes glowing with a raw, almost feral hunger. His black military coat was unbuttoned, revealing a formidable expanse of battle-worn skin, a testament to his untamed power. He was a force of nature, barely contained.

Next to him, Lucien, lounged like sin itself clad in silk. His wine-colored robes clung to his lean, dangerous frame, his silver rings flashing with every subtle shift of his hand. A smirk already played on his lips, a knowing curve that suggested he held the strings to her every choice.

And then there was Darius, a figure carved from ice and fire. Clad in royal indigo with a severe high collar, his posture was rigid, his jaw clenched, his eyes—stormy and utterly unreadable—gave away nothing. He was an enigma, a silent storm.

The hall watched, breathless. The scent of tension was a palpable entity, mingled with the cloying sweetness of perfume, the sharp tang of expensive wine, and the breathless anticipation of a spectacle.

A court announcer, a portly man whose voice boomed with practiced authority, broke the silence. “As tradition demands,” he declared, his words echoing off the vaulted ceilings, “the Omega bride shall perform the First Offering. She shall feed one of her husbands to signify her loyalty—and, thus, mark the balance of favor.”

As if on cue, maids, their faces pale with nerves, brought forth three golden platters. Each held a dish, meticulously chosen by the kings themselves.

Seraphina’s fingers trembled at her sides, but her gaze was steady as it swept over the offerings. The crowd leaned forward, a collective gasp rippling through the hall. Some whispered, hushed and excited. Others sneered, their faces etched with cruel amusement. Her father’s grim warning, a mantra drilled into her since childhood, echoed in her mind:

Charm the Snake. Tame the Wolf. Fear the Dragon.

But it wasn’t fear that coursed through her veins now. It was a cold, sharp calculation.

Her eyes paused on Cassian. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin, like a powerful hound barely held back by its leash, ready to spring. He wanted to be chosen. He wanted it desperately.

Then to Darius, who hadn’t blinked once since she entered. He wasn’t watching her like a man captivated; he was studying her, dissecting her like an enemy on a battlefield. His gaze was a challenge, a silent dare.

And then to Lucien, who was already half-smiling, his head tilted ever so slightly, amused by the unfolding drama. He believed he already had her.

She moved.

Slowly, deliberately, every step a statement, she stepped toward Lucien’s seat.

Gasps rose from the crowd, a collective exhalation of surprise. The Viper King’s lips parted just a fraction, a predatory anticipation in his green eyes—green like absinthe, dangerous and intoxicating. He was genuinely surprised, and a flicker of raw delight sparked in their depths.

A silver fork, cold and heavy, was handed to her by a trembling maid. Seraphina picked up a single slice of the glazed fruit set on his platter—ripe figs, glistening with honey and spice, decadent and inviting. She leaned in, a whisper of her costly perfume reaching him.

Lucien, never breaking eye contact, parted his lips in an almost lazy invitation.

She fed him.

The moment was intimate, designed to be so, a public display of submission. Humiliating, yet orchestrated to look like budding affection. But to Seraphina, it tasted of control, a carefully placed pawn in a game only she fully understood.

He bit into the fruit slowly, sensually, his gaze never leaving hers, a silent challenge passing between them. The juice, thick and sweet, dripped down his lip—he caught it with the tip of his tongue, a deliberate, provocative gesture, and smiled darkly.

“So sweet,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet caress, laced with vice. “I wonder if you’ll taste just as divine when you’re trembling beneath me, little bride.” His words were a threat, a promise, a claim.

A wave of heat crept up Seraphina’s neck, a blush she fought to suppress. But she didn’t break, didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head, her voice soft, pleasant, laced with an iron will.

“Then perhaps you’ll behave yourself long enough to earn that privilege, my lord.” It was a delicate jab, a subtle reclaiming of power.

Lucien chuckled lowly, a sound of pleased surprise that rumbled in his chest. His fingers grazed hers as he took the fork, letting them linger, a possessive, taunting touch. He believed he had won the first round.

Across the table, Cassian’s fists curled against the arms of his throne. His knuckles whitened, a faint growl rumbling in his throat, his canines slightly bared, a flash of pure animal rage in his golden eyes. The Wolf didn’t like being passed over. He hadn't expected this slight.

Seraphina spared him a single, fleeting glance. Enough to acknowledge the furious flame now igniting behind his eyes, the insult sinking in. This was exactly what she wanted.

Darius, however, didn’t react, not in any discernible way. He simply leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, the hard line of his mouth never twitching. But his stare sharpened—like a sword mid-draw, reflecting the calculated move. He saw through it all, through the sweetness and the veiled challenge, straight to the strategic core of her choice.

As Seraphina stepped back, the chamber filled with murmurs, a chaotic symphony of speculation:

“She favors the Snake King!”

“A strategic move—he’s the weakest link, easier to manipulate.”

“Will the Wolf retaliate? Cassian looks ready to tear the hall apart.”

“Darius didn’t even blink. What does he know?”

She returned to her seat at the smaller bride’s table, every step elegant, her face a mask of serene composure. She sat as if she had merely performed a simple ceremony, not thrown a stone into a quiet pond.

But inside, her heart pounded like thunder in a glass cage, each beat a drum of triumph and terrifying uncertainty.

Lucien had taken the bait, his ego swelling with perceived victory. Cassian was seething, his primal instincts ignited. And Darius was watching—always watching, a silent, implacable judge.

Her hand trembled beneath the table, hidden from prying eyes. Not from fear, no.

But from the slow, creeping realization:

She had just fired the first shot in a war of kings, and she was the architect of its chaotic beginning.