CHAPTER 22: CHAPTER 21. ROYAL WEDDING INVITATION

In the vast and complex hierarchy of the Erengrad Empire, a principality was not just a title for show. It’s a living, breathing territory ruled by a prince, princess, or any heir of royal blood, sovereign in their own right, yet bound to the empire by blood. It’s smaller than a kingdom but no less significant, and in some cases, far more dangerous to cross.

The Grand Duchy of Borgia is one such principality. A jewel carved into the spine of the empire’s mountainous southern border, a city-state nestled within a deep, fertile valley, rich in minerals and the monster byproducts. Also, surrounded by a scatter of towns and rich countryside. The valley was a natural fortress, guarded by sheer cliffs and narrow passes, and blessed with resources the rest of the continent could only envy.

By imperial decree, Borgia existed as an independent state. It decided its own laws, forged its own trade agreements, and charted its own path in foreign affairs. Yet, like a hawk tethered by a single, fraying leash, it still owed fealty to the imperial throne. This meant the payment of tribute, obedience to certain decrees, and the occasional nod to imperial customs, when it suited them.

For Emperor Dietrech de Erengrad, the Grand Duchy of Borgia is both a priceless asset and a lingering problem. The only reason Borgia remained part of the empire at all was an old oath of loyalty, sealed generations ago between Dietrech’s alpha father and Roxanne’s omega mother, a princess of Erengrad at the time. That bond, though ancient, was fragile. And like any binding magic, it could be broken.

The emperor and his council of nobles had a simple solution: marriage. If the Grand Duke of Borgia were mated to an omega from the imperial nobility, the political bond would be reforged, not just in magic, but in blood. It would be a permanent chain, stronger than any oath.

But Roxanne de Borgia, current ruler of the Grand Duchy, had ignored every proposal. Dozens of noble houses had sent their most promising omega heirs, each presented with delicate courtesy and subtle threats. All were rejected. Some were even insulted. In truth, most omega nobles did not want the match either.

The Grand Duke’s reputation was a wall of thorns, stories whispered in drawing rooms and council halls. Tales of a monstrous appearance, a temperament as cold and merciless as the steel of her armies, and a history of sending enemies to their graves without a flicker of hesitation. Whether these were truths or rumors, no one seemed eager to test them.

Still, the empire needed Borgia far more than Borgia needed the empire. Economically, the Grand Duchy is untouchable. Its mines produced metals rare enough to sway wars. Its control over key trade routes meant the empire’s merchants bent the knee to Borgia’s tolls. And in military matters, the Borgia army is the most feared force in the known world.

If Borgia were ever to declare independence, Erengrad would face disaster. Resources would cost twice as much, the rare mineral trade routes would slip beyond their grasp, and the empire would lose its most formidable military ally overnight.

This is why the emperor treads carefully. He could not force Roxanne into marriage. He could not threaten her without risking war. The most he could do was issue an imperial summons, a thinly veiled order.

And so, a new edict was sent to the Grand Duchy: Roxanne de Borgia is to present herself at the capital of Erengrad for the imperial wedding, with her newly chosen mate.

The echo of the royal herald’s voice still hung in the grand hall, each syllable of the decree landing like a stone in Roxanne’s chest. Her jaw was tight, her hands curled at her sides as if holding herself together by sheer will.

When the butler gave them space, Vivianne moved closer, her voice soft enough that only Roxanne could hear. "Breathe," she murmured, her hand brushing against Roxanne’s arm in a touch so discreet it could have been mistaken for an accident. "It is an edict, not a death sentence."

Roxanne gave a bitter, quiet laugh. "I hate those imperial bastards."

Vivianne tilted her head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "And so am I. It’s great that you married me, right? We both hate them."

The words landed with an unexpected warmth in Roxanne’s chest, enough to loosen the tightness in her breath. She doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker of her eyes toward Vivianne was more telling than anything she could have said aloud.

Vivianne doesn’t withdraw her hand; instead, she lets her touch linger, fingers resting lightly on the crook of Roxanne’s elbow, guiding her with unhurried grace to the throne hall where the royal envoy still stood like a rigid statue.

When the heavy doors of the Grand Duke’s throne room swung open, the echo of polished boots against marble announced their arrival before either woman spoke. Word had already spread through the palace that the royal envoy still awaited the Grand Duke’s formal answer to the imperial edict, but what the envoys had not been prepared for was the sight that greeted them when Roxanne de Borgia and her Grand Duchess entered together.

Conversations died mid-breath. Quills paused over parchment. The envoys, dressed in the finery of the capital, were suddenly reminded of how far they were from the safety of their gilded court.

Roxanne moved first, every step deliberate, her presence sharp and commanding like the edge of a blade honed over years of unyielding rule. Her beauty was dangerous, arresting in the way one might find a storm beautiful—too wild to tame, too fierce to ignore.

Beside her, Vivianne is the perfect foil. Her elegance carried no threat, yet there was an undeniable power in the soft, deliberate poise of her movements. Where Roxanne’s gaze is fire, Vivianne’s is light; Roxanne’s features carried the striking, predatory beauty of a demon, while Vivianne’s were the delicate, almost ethereal beauty of a fairy queen.

The envoy’s chief representative, a silver-haired man with the emperor’s crest pinned to his shoulder, faltered in his greeting, his words stumbling before he recovered. The sight of them together was overwhelming in a way that words could not quite contain.

The demon and her fairy. That was all the human mind could settle on when trying to reconcile the pair standing before them, opposites in form and presence, yet so perfectly intertwined that the air itself seemed to bend around them.

Roxanne stopped at the foot of the dais, her voice calm but unshakeable. "You came for our answer. Now you have it."

Only then did Vivianne speak again, her tone sharper but still low, carrying that effortless authority; she never had to raise her voice to command. "We will answer the edict, of course. Don’t you want to show off your luna? Because I kind of want to show off my alpha."

Roxanne’s gaze slid to her wife, the faintest twitch in her jaw betraying the tug-of-war between her irritation and the warmth Vivianne’s words stirred. The Grand Duchess was leaning back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her gown spilling like liquid silk over the armrest. Her eyes were half-lidded, the picture of bored elegance, but the glint beneath her lashes told a different story: playful, knowing, and just a touch provoking.

Roxanne could not help the slow curve that touched the corner of her lips. The idea of walking into the emperor’s court with Vivianne on her arm is more than tempting; it’s intoxicating.

Not just because Vivianne is breathtaking, but because of what it would mean. To stand in the lion’s den and let the empire see this: that Borgia’s Grand Duchess is untouchable, loved, and chosen. The most beautiful omega in the empire, and the one with the power to control the spirit, is something that no army could match.

Her fingers drummed once on the arm of her chair before she leaned toward Vivianne, voice pitched so low only her wife could hear. "You just want to make them jealous," she murmured, but there was no accusation in it, only pride.

Vivianne’s lips curved into that infuriatingly serene smile. "Maybe. But don’t you?" And damn her, Roxanne did.

Her hand, adorned with the heavy crest ring of her Grand Duchy, idly traced the stem of the throne chair when, in truth, the royal edict they’d just received had the potential to turn half the court upside down.

Vivianne’s hand reached across the chair, fingers brushing against Roxanne’s knuckles, the touch grounding yet electric. "Besides," she added, her voice dropping into that intimate register only meant for Roxanne’s ears, "you know I like it when you look at me like I’m yours in front of everyone."

For a moment, the tension in Roxanne’s shoulders eased. The weight of the edict, the politics, the whispered slanders—they all shrank under Vivianne’s steady, teasing gaze.

Roxanne exhaled slowly, her eyes locked on her wife’s. "Fine," she said at last. "We’ll go. But if anyone tries to touch you—"

Vivianne’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "You’ll make sure they don’t have hands to try with. You told me that I’m safe with you, I’m yours." The deal was sealed without another word.

The omega’s hand lingered against her alpha, the faint press of her fingertips a promise in itself. The two of them rose together, the scrape of the Grand Duke’s chair echoing across the chamber.

The royal envoys straightened, their eyes widening as the couple stood up from their chair, Roxanne in her tailored black and crimson, a storm given human form, and Vivianne in pale gold that seemed to glow in the dim torchlight, her every step the definition of grace.

"Tell the emperor," she said, "that the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess of Borgia will attend the imperial wedding." Her gaze sharpened, daring anyone to challenge her. "We will arrive together."

The envoy bowed so quickly his forehead nearly touched the marble floor. "It will be an honor to inform the Emperor, Your Grace."