The hall had been transformed.

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Long tables were set beneath the banners of our house, the torches burning brighter, spilling golden light across polished stone.

Servants carried tters of roasted meats, bowls of bread, wheels of cheese, and dark wine poured into silver goblets. Laughter was absent. Even the tter of dishes seemed subdued, as though the walls themselves knew this was no celebration.

It was

test.

Francesco sat at the head, his posture effortless but his presence unmistakable.

Power radiated from him like a quiet storm, enough that even the French Alphas, arrogant and sure, chose their seats with careful measure. I sat at his right, my gown simple but deliberate, silver–threaded to catch the torchlight. The mark of Luna on my neck shimmered faintly, a reminder to all that I was his chosen mate— not through arrangement, not through coercion, but bond.

Audrey and Marlow nked the room like twin pirs of steel, their hands never far from their weapons. Monica, at my silent request, stayed within reach, her calm gaze as steady as any warrior’s. Our people filled the side tables, pack members who had survived Henri’s ruin and begun to trust Francesco’s reign. Their eyes flickered between the strangers and us, their loyalty quiet but present.

The French Alphas ate sparingly at first, exchanging nces, speaking in low voices. Dorian sat across from me, his gaze fixed not on Francesco, but on me. I met it, refusing to look away.

It was one of the others who finally broke the silence. A broad man with a scar carved down his cheek leaned forward, his goblet heavy in his hand.

“They say the Lycaon line was cursed,” he said, his voice casual, though his eyes glittered with malice. “Too ruthless for their own survival. Even their own kin turned on them.”

The words dropped like stones into still water.

The hall went utterly quiet.

My fingers tightened on my goblet. Francesco’s jaw flexed once, but he did not speak. He sat in silence, golden eyes fixed on the man, the weight of centuries coiled inside him.

Another Alpha chuckled, emboldened. “Not surprising, is it? They lorded themselves above the rest of us. Sawmon wolves as pawns, less than dust. Why mourn them when their own blood slit their throats?” He raised his goblet as if to toast. “Perhaps power was never meant to stay in one family for so long.

The words stung, not for me but for him. My Francesco. My mate.

Thest of that name, carrying not only its legacy but its scars.

My chest ached with the urge to shield him–not from danger, but from the cruelty of words sharpened by

envy.

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I knew what they wanted. An outburst. A sh of the ruthless Lycan King they could whisper aboutter.

‘See? He proves the rumors true.‘

But I would not let them have it.

Before Francesco could speak, I leaned forward, my voice calm, almost gentle, yet carrying through the hall with the weight ofmand.

“Strange,” I said, tilting my head, “that men who boast of strength still cling to the ghosts of others. If the Lycaon family was so cursed, why do you tremble at the sight of the one who remains?”

The Alpha with the scar stiffened, his goblet halfway to his lips.

I smiled faintly, though my eyes were steel. “You speak of ruthlessness as though it is shame. But is it not ruthlessness that kept your borders intact when rogues swarmed? Was it not ruthlessness that held France when weaker packs would have burned? You call it a curse. I call it survival.”

Murmurs rippled along the table.

The scarred Alpha lowered his cup, his face flushing.

“And as for betrayal,” I continued, my tone still soft but unyielding, “it is not the Lycaon family’s sin alone. History is littered with brothers killing brothers, Alphas usurping fathers, mates betraying bonds. To use that to mock thest man standing is not wisdom. It is cowardice.”

My words cut sharper than ws.

The hall hung silent for a breath too long.

Then someone shifted, clearing his throat. Another Alpha muttered into his wine. The scarred man looked away, shame flickering in his eyes.

I felt Francesco’s bond pulse through me–pride, fierce and molten. He had not needed to raise his voice. His Luna had spoken for him.

Dorian’s gaze lingered on me the longest.

There was no shame in his eyes, only calction, cold and sharp. He sipped his wine with deliberate calm, as though testing me, weighing me.

But he said nothing. Not yet.

The feast continued, though the air remained taut.

I lifted food to my lips out of courtesy, but the taste barely registered. Every word spoken felt like the edge of a de. Every nce toward us was weighed and measured.

When the talk turned back to Isolde, my heart gave a hard beat.

One bof /bthe younger Alphas leaned forward, his tone almost mocking. “You showed her mercy, King

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Francesco. Some would have chosen differently. Mercy is a dangerous game when whispers run faster than wolves.”

Francesco finally spoke then, his voice calm, but carrying the rumble of storm beneath it. “Mercy is not weakness. Mercy is a choice of kings. I do not fear whispers. I fear injustice.”

The younger Alpha flushed, retreating back into his seat.

I ced my hand lightly on Francesco’s arm, not to restrain him but to anchor him, to let him feel through the bond that he was not alone in this.

His fingers brushed mine under the table, a silent thanks.

By the time the feast ended, the French Alphas had eaten their fill but none left satisfied.

They had not broken Francesco’s temper.

They had not shamed me into silence.

They had not found the scandal they craved.

As they stood to depart, Dorian lingered. His eyes met mine once more. There was no warmth there–only promise.

“This was… enlightening,” he said softly, just for me. His lips curved in a smile that wasn’t a smile. “But whispers have long legs, Luna. Be certain you can outrun them.”

I met his gaze, my chin high, my voice steady. “I do not run from whispers. I bury them with truth.”

For the first time, hisposure cracked–just a flicker, a tightening at the corner of his mouth.

And then he was gone, his cloak sweeping behind him, leaving the hall colder in his absence.

*****

Later, when the torches burned low and the tables were cleared, I stood with Francesco on the balcony outside our chamber.

The air was sharp, the moonlight silvering the courtyard.

Below, the garden whispered with the nts I had nted, small promises in the earth.

Francesco’s arms slid around me, pulling me closeb. /bHis voice was low, rough at the edges. “You disarmed them without a de.”

I leaned into him, my cheek against his chest. “They wanted you angry. They wanted you to prove them right. But you are not their story. You are mine.”

The bond hummed, warm and fierceb, /band I felt the weight in his chest ease just a fraction.

For nowb, /bthat was enough.

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But I knew this was not the end. Dorian’s words clung like smoke. The whispers would spread. And when they did, we would be ready.