The Three Thrones and Their Heirs

The Hall of Thrones was nothing like the ceremonial grandeur of the dining hall. This chamber was older, colder—etched in ancient, unyielding stone, where history weighed heavy on the air like smoke in a tomb.

Three iron thrones stood elevated on a stark marble dais, massive and imposing, one for each reigning Alpha King.

Before them, gathered like circling wolves, stood the true architects of the kingdom’s power, the puppeteers who moved the strings from behind the curtain.

Seraphina was escorted inside, her steps echoing in the hushed space. She was adorned, perfected, yet she felt no royalty, no sense of belonging. Instead, she felt stripped—paraded, an object on display, rather than welcomed.

Her footsteps, amplified by the silent hall, led her inevitably toward the raised dais. At the center of the room, seated beside Cassian’s massive throne, was a woman who embodied winter.

Her eyes held ice in their depths, and disdain seemed carved into her very bone.

This was Queen Mother Avelyne, the matriarch whose will had shaped generations of kings.

“Approach,” came Avelyne’s voice, a gravel-edged sound that scraped against the silence.

Seraphina obeyed, her movements fluid and practiced as she lowered into a graceful curtsy, a ripple of silver silk at her feet.

Avelyne did not return any gesture, no nod of acknowledgment, no softening of her gaze. Her eyes, sharp as broken glass, ran over Seraphina’s body with an unnerving scrutiny, like one inspecting livestock for flaws.

“So this is the little Omega your father bartered,” Avelyne murmured, her voice void of warmth, each word a carefully honed insult. “I had expected more spine from a Southern bride. You don’t even have fangs.”

The last phrase was delivered with a sniff of pure contempt, a clear dismissal of Seraphina’s very nature.

Seraphina kept her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the polished stone floor, her expression carefully neutral. “Your Grace,” she began, her voice a soft, respectful murmur, “I am honored to be in the presence of such esteemed nobility.”

The words were saccharine, a deliberate performance of humility.

Avelyne gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Sweet words, yet I smell fear.” She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. “Cassian should have taken Lady Marelle of the Northern Clans. A warrior Alpha. Not a glass doll.”

Cassian, who stood silently, a towering presence behind his mother’s throne, did not correct her. His jaw flexed—but whether in annoyance at his mother’s cutting remarks, or perhaps something else entirely, Seraphina couldn’t tell. His face was a stoic mask, yet she could sense the simmering unrest beneath his calm exterior.

Before Seraphina could formulate a response, a smooth, amused voice sliced into the tension like silk, a welcome disruption. It was Prince Kael.

“Come now, Your Majesty,” Kael said, stepping from the shadows with an easy grin, a crystal wine glass cradled casually in his hand. “I think our little bride brings a certain… aesthetic charm to the castle, don't you agree?”

He moved with an effortless grace that belied his Beta status, radiating an Alpha confidence that was entirely his own. His black hair fell in elegant waves around his face, and his coat was unbuttoned just enough to make a statement of relaxed rebellion.

He strolled toward Seraphina, circling her like a curious cat, his eyes bright with mischief.

“Besides,” he murmured, his voice dropping conspiratorially as he brushed a stray strand of her hair back from her temple, his fingers momentarily brushing her skin, “aren’t Southern girls known for their heat?” His smile was a charming, dangerous invitation.

Seraphina didn’t flinch, though her stomach coiled at his touch, a ripple of distaste battling with strategic amusement. She met his gaze directly, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips, revealing all her teeth.

“And Northern boys known for their lack of manners?” she countered smoothly, her voice a silken barb.

Across the room, Lucien narrowed his eyes at Kael, his lips twitching downward, a faint frown marring his usually placid features. The slight shift in his posture was almost imperceptible, but Seraphina, ever observant, caught it.

Good, Seraphina thought, a surge of satisfaction rising within her. Let him feel it—jealousy is the first hook. She had chosen Lucien first for a reason, and now, the subtle threads of discord she was weaving were beginning to tighten.

Kael chuckled, genuinely pleased by her wit, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low whisper, meant only for her.

“If things get too tense in the royal bedchambers, little bride,” he purred, his breath warm against her ear, “you can always find me. I don’t bite. Unless you ask.”

She pulled back, almost imperceptibly, her eyes flicking toward Lucien. He had gone utterly still, his knuckles pale around his wine goblet, his gaze fixed on Kael, a dangerous spark igniting in his absinthe-green eyes. The casual, possessive touch, the veiled flirtation—it had struck a nerve.

Before the moment could spiral further, before Lucien’s icy composure could shatter, the oldest man in the room shifted his cane, the faint thump echoing like a gavel.

Elder Lord Varric, Darius’s uncle, stepped forward. He was a relic from an older time, a living testament to ancient ways. His robes were midnight blue, his face hollow and chiseled like dried parchment, his eyes holding the weary wisdom of centuries. He was the kind of man who believed in blood rites and battlefield law, a staunch traditionalist.

“Enough games,” Varric said, his voice dry as dust, cutting through the lingering tension. “This marriage was a political pact—not a parade. The people do not trust a Southern-blooded Omega. If she is to be accepted as Queen, she must undergo the old rite.”

Seraphina frowned, a genuine confusion etched on her face. “Old rite?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Varric turned, his gaze sweeping over the kings, a silent challenge in his eyes. “The Shared Claiming Ceremony. In front of the court. To prove she’s bound to all three thrones, body and soul.”

The words hung in the air like poisoned daggers, each one striking a blow. Seraphina’s stomach twisted into a painful knot. Her eyes darted to Darius. His face gave nothing away, a stoic mask of impassive observation, his gaze unreadable.

“You want to make a public spectacle out of my body?” Seraphina asked, her voice quiet but laced with an icy chill that belied her composed demeanor.

“You are not a body,” Avelyne snapped, her voice sharp as a whip. “You are an offering. A vessel for the future of our kingdom, nothing more.”

Cassian’s fingers clenched behind her, the soft rustle of his coat the only indication of his rising anger. He was torn between his loyalty to his mother and a burgeoning protective instinct.

Lucien, however, chuckled bitterly, a low, humorless sound. “Well, we could just paint her gold and put her in a cage, Varric. It would be less… messy.” His words were a sarcastic jab at the Elder, but they held a kernel of dark truth about his own contempt for the situation.

“Is this the future you’ve chosen for your kingdom?” Seraphina said, her voice calm but vibrating with a restrained fury that was almost imperceptible. She addressed the kings, her gaze sweeping over each of them. “To prove strength through degradation? I married kings, not wolves in heat.”

Her words, carefully chosen, were a direct challenge to their honor, to their very masculinity.

The room stilled once more, the air suddenly heavy with the weight of her defiance. The boldness of her retort, the sheer audacity of it, hung in the silence.

Darius finally moved.

“That’s enough,” he said, his tone cutting through the tension like a blade, sharp and decisive.

Everyone fell quiet, startled by his sudden intervention. Even Avelyne looked surprised.

Darius stepped forward, his royal indigo robes rustling softly, his gaze locked on Seraphina’s. His eyes, once unreadable, now held a fierce, protective glint.

“This rite is unnecessary. She is our bride, not a whore for court entertainment.” His voice was deep, resonating with a quiet authority that brooked no argument.

Varric scowled, his ancient face tightening. “You’ve grown soft, Darius. You forget the old ways.”

“No,” Darius said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, dark timbre. “I’ve learned the difference between dominance and dishonor.” His words were a rebuke, not just to Varric, but to the entire court, a clear statement of his moral compass.

Seraphina stared at him, genuinely taken aback. For a moment—just a moment—something in her chest twisted, a flicker of something akin to gratitude, or perhaps surprise at this unexpected defense. But she buried it swiftly.

Don’t fall for the shield when it guards the same sword. She reminded herself, her inner resolve hardening. He might protect her from this indignity, but he was still one of them, still her captor.

Darius’s eyes stayed on her for a beat longer, a silent, assessing gaze. He could see the subtle fracture in her otherwise perfect performance—the thinly veiled rage beneath the perfect Omega mask, the fleeting flicker of raw emotion.

He was beginning to suspect.

She was not what she seemed.

Seraphina has managed to provoke Lucien, irritate Cassian, and now, surprisingly, earn a moment of unexpected protection from Darius.