The door creaked open, spilling soft candlelight into the hall. Liora stepped out slowly, one hand brushing down the deep blue wool of her dress. The collar rose just under her jaw, stiff and unfamiliar, and the faint silver thread at her cuffs shimmered whenever her fingers moved. Her rose-colored hair had been carefully brushed and tucked behind her ears, her cheeks tinted with the heat of herbal tea and something harder to name. Her copper eyes caught the torchlight like polished amber.
She looked fragile yet fierce.
Like something the world kept trying to crush but hadn't yet figured out how.
Veyra, waiting just a few paces away, froze as soon as she saw her.
For a full breath, she didn't move—didn't speak.
Liora's gaze found her then, and her steps faltered.
Veyra stood in her ceremonial uniform, crisp and severe: dark leather and navy wool trimmed with gold. Her sash marked her station, and her sword belt gleamed at her hip. Her black hair had been pulled back into a twist, the raven-sheen of it catching the torchlight in stark contrast to the shadows under her eyes. The bruises at her temple had dulled, but her expression held that unshakable calm she wore in battle.
Commanding. Unyielding.
Liora swallowed. "You, uh… clean up well."
Veyra's mouth twitched. "So do you."
"I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's skin," Liora muttered, glancing down at the fabric.
Veyra stepped closer—too close. Her eyes flicked briefly down Liora's frame before jerking back up again, jaw tight. She exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring as if catching a whiff of something just under the surface.
"You smell like fig," she murmured, almost accusing.
Liora blinked. "That's… your mother's scent balm. She said it would help settle the council."
"It's not you."
Liora shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "Isn't that the point?"
Veyra let out a low, throaty growl—barely audible, but unmistakable.
Liora startled, spine going straight. "Did you just growl at me?" There was a small tremor to her voice.
Veyra turned her head sharply away. "No. Yes. I don't—" Her shoulders rose. "You smell like someone else. I don't like it."
Liora crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I don't like being paraded in front of a room full of Alphas who'd rather collar me than listen to me talk.
At that, Veyra's eyes snapped back. Her expression darkened, mouth flattening into something dangerous.
Another growl. Louder this time.
"Veyra—"
"I wouldn't let them." There was something to her tone that Liora couldn't quite identify.
"You shouldn't have to let or not let, that's the whole damned problem," Liora snapped.
Veyra exhaled harshly, catching herself. Her voice dropped low. "I know. I know. I just—"
Liora's expression softened a touch as she caught the tremor in Veyra's control. The weight of it. The storm she was holding back.
She glanced down, voice quieter. "Sorry. I'm just… nervous."
A pause. Then, more vulnerable: "I haven't been around this much scent in a long time."
Veyra's posture eased a little, and she took another step forward, more cautious this time. Her hand twitched like she meant to reach out—but stopped. It was true. The suppressant she'd been taking for her entire time on the road as a merchant had dulled every sense and instinct. Now, everything felt new, as though she had just matured all over again.
Liora glanced up at her again. Her copper eyes were brighter now, slightly glossy. But then, just as their gazes met, she looked down quickly and let out a small, involuntary whine—soft and strained, like a creak in the bones of her control.
Veyra stiffened, every inch of her locking down. "Liora."
"I'm fine," Liora said quickly, voice higher than usual. "It's—just instinct..."
"I know." Veyra's voice was low again. "Mine too."
The silence between them stretched, strange and charged.
Then, carefully, Veyra extended her arm. "Walk with me?"
Liora hesitated for half a second too long before she slid her hand into the crook of Veyra's elbow.
The touch made Veyra's breath catch. Her muscles flexed beneath the uniform sleeve, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she started forward, slow and steady, matching Liora's hesitant pace.
The council chamber loomed ahead, full of wolves and waiting judgment.
—
The grand doors of the council chamber loomed ahead—twice Liora's height, carved with the crests of each noble house, flanked by guards who stood at attention the moment they saw Veyra approach. One of them stepped forward and pulled the handle, and the doors creaked open with slow, ceremonial weight.
A rush of scent hit Liora instantly—Bitter pine. Warm metal. Musk and polished stone. She staggered faintly as it all pressed in on her, a dozen dominant auras tangling in the air like fog, and a shiver shook up her spine. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on Veyra's sleeve.
Veyra leaned subtly closer, her own scent—pine and sweet spice—sliding between Liora and the rest. A shield.
"They can't touch you," Veyra murmured, her voice low and certain.
The chamber was a circular amphitheater, layered with stone seating and high-backed chairs arranged in a ring. At its center stood a speaking platform ringed by columns, the banners of Vaereth's noble houses hanging between them. Torches flickered above. Eyes tracked their movement.
"Commander Halvarin," said Councilor Mareth, standing. His beard was trimmed and his scent stank of cold iron and dried fennel. "You've arrived. And you've brought… the Omega."
A ripple of movement and murmurs followed. Some leaned in with intrigue. Others looked at Liora as if she were prey that had wandered too close to the wolves.
"She has a name," Veyra said coldly, her voice ringing through the chamber. "Liora Vayne."
"And what, precisely," came another voice—Councilor Tareth—smooth, condescending, "is her position? You know our laws, Commander. She cannot be brought here unclaimed."
Liora flinched. The word struck hard, echoing from the stone walls like a sentence. She could feel their scents shift, tense with expectation. There it was, a trap set.
Veyra's jaw clenched. "She is under my protection."
"That is not the same as a claim," Tareth said, eyes gleaming. "Your scent may mask her, but the law requires declaration."
Whispers rose around them. Liora's chest grew tight, every fiber in her screaming to run. Her limbs buzzed with the sharp edge of panic. She stepped back a half pace.
"Veyra—" she whispered.
Veyra turned, just enough that her voice would reach both Liora and the gathered lords. But before she could speak again:
"She does not have a designation," Councilor Tareth snapped, voice sharp as a blade. "And under Article Twelve, she must."
Liora froze.
Tareth stood now, turning toward the other councilors. "This girl was smuggled into Fort Dalen without registration. She's unmarked, unsanctioned, and has no guardian. She has not passed through proper channels. She's a vagrant."
"She saved my life," Veyra said tightly.
"She is still an Omega," spat Councilor Vellen. "And you, Commander, have stood on this very floor and denounced the claiming laws that you now wish to protect her."
The chamber surged with murmurs. Councilors stood, pacing or gesturing. A few struck their fists to their tables in emphasis.
"You can't speak reform and invoke sacred rights in the same breath!"
"You've humiliated our order—"
"You use ancient law like a blade, only when it cuts in your favor!"
Veyra raised her voice above the din. "I will claim her."
The chamber went still.
Liora flinched, her throat tight.
"I claim her under Article Twelve," Veyra repeated, voice resonating like a war drum. "I will not allow her to be taken, branded, or caged."
Chaos followed.
Several councilors began shouting at once—Tareth chief among them.
"She's manipulating this chamber—!"
"This is a precedent we cannot allow—"
"Are we to let every Alpha with a taste for rebellion cloak themselves in immunity?"
Liora was trembling. Her hands, clasped in front of her, had gone bloodless. She didn't look at Veyra. Couldn't.
"You used her," Mareth said coldly, over the others. "Claiming her forces us to recognize her. You've cornered us with your own hypocrisy."
Veyra's eyes flashed. "You've never recognized an Omega without a collar. You demand obedience and call it order."
Tareth stepped toward the speaking platform, his tone venom-slick. "You are spiraling into disgrace. A commander who dares claim an unbranded Omega in the heart of our strongest bastion? You're flaunting treason, Veyra."
"She belongs to me," Veyra said, low and lethal.
Mm
Then: "But she belongs to no one."
Silence spread like fire-starved smoke.
Liora, despite herself, looked up.
She could feel the shift—the rift splitting across the chamber floor. This wasn't just about her anymore. This was about power. And Veyra had just thrown down the gauntlet.
Councilor Vellen leaned forward, voice oily. "Then let it be entered into record: Commander Halvarin has claimed an Omega under full oath. Let the burden—and the consequences—be hers."
"And if she fails to control her claim," someone muttered from a shadowed seat, "we'll see just how fragile her house's legacy really is."
Veyra growled—a low, warning sound from deep in her chest. Several councilors recoiled slightly.
Liora's stomach churned. Every instinct she had—every buried nightmare—was clawing to the surface.
Her hand curled at her side, her throat tight with something between grief and fury. She didn't speak. Couldn't.
Veyra growled again—not softly. Not subtle. The chamber quieted.
And the silence that followed was not out of respect, but out of uncertainty. Because Veyra had just broken custom in the very act of following it.
The last councilor's voice had barely faded when the temperature in the chamber shifted.
Not from Veyra.
But from the man who hadn't spoken once during the storm of voices—the one seated at the center edge of the horseshoe dais, tall and unmoving, clad in the muted gold-and-black of the Halvarin line.
Lord Halvarin, Warden of the Southern Gates.
His silence was a weapon, and now he drew it.
He rose slowly.
Not a creak of armor, not a shuffle of fabric. Just presence.
The insult hung in the air like rot.
"We'll see how fragile her house's legacy really is."
Lord Halvarin's gaze turned toward the speaker—Councilor Revas, an older Alpha from the outer districts, known for his sly political posturing and a tone always just short of insubordination.
When the Warden spoke, his voice was soft. That was worse.
"Repeat yourself."
Revas blinked. "My lord—"
"Repeat it," Halvarin said again, still not raising his voice. "Louder. For the record."
A hush rippled outward. The entire chamber stilled like prey scenting a predator.
Revas' mouth opened. Then closed.
Halvarin stepped down from the dais.
"Your words suggest that the House of Halvarin—a line that has bled for this kingdom since its founding—is now… fragile. That my daughter's defense of an Omega in need is weakness."
He came to a stop in front of Revas, close enough to force the man to lift his chin.
"Tell me. How many of your sons died holding the eastern wall?" he asked, voice sharp as frostbite. "How many of your kin crossed the border into the Gale Wilds and returned in pieces?"
Revas swallowed. "None, my lord."
Halvarin nodded. "That's right."
Then the steel dropped.
"If you ever imply that my family's honor is brittle again, I will remind you—publicly and without hesitation—how strong a Halvarin's grip is on a throat."
Revas paled.
Lord Daran Halvarin turned from him as if he were nothing more than a stain on stone.
"And if any here," he added, glancing across the rest of the council with a gaze sharp as drawn iron, "confuse compassion for weakness… you do so at your peril. The future of this kingdom will not be built by cowards clinging to old chains."
He returned to his seat.
The room didn't stir.
Even Veyra looked momentarily still, her breath shallow.
And beside her, Liora—staring up at the man who had just defended her, defended Veyra—felt a tremor run through her limbs that had nothing to do with fear.
The chamber remained deathly still after Lord Halvarin's defense, the force of his words sinking deep into the stone. But the echo hadn't faded before another truth settled over them all.
Veyra Halvarin had claimed an Omega.
Not just any Omega.
Publicly. In council.
And she had never done so before.
In a kingdom where Alphas were expected—encouraged—to stake their claims at the moment of heat, to use it as leverage, power, tradition… Veyra had refused.
Year after year, matchmakers had whispered names. Eligible Omegas were paraded before her during court visits, during council banquets, even after battles.
Each time, she had walked away.
"The law is barbaric," she'd once told the chamber.
"To take someone's freedom as proof of your own strength is not power. It is cowardice dressed in velvet."
She had made enemies saying that. Had watched her prospects wither in favor of younger, more obedient Alphas.
So when her voice rang out earlier—"I claim her."—the council had heard it.
More than protection. More than strategy.
A choice.
From across the chamber, Councilor Idren, a calculating Beta with too many secrets and not enough spine, cleared his throat. "You refused to claim a mate when you were sixteen. Again when you turned twenty. And now—now you invoke ancient law to declare ownership of a fugitive?"
"I invoked protection," Veyra said coldly. "Because no one else would offer it."
Lady Serrin, another Alpha from a noble house—gray at the temples and always dressed in rust-colored velvets—leaned forward.
"But is she truly yours?" Her tone was dangerously smooth. "Or is this some noble attempt to make a political statement? Because if you claim her and then discard her, it will be her body that suffers. Not your name."
Veyra's fingers curled around the edge of the podium.
"I haven't discarded anything," she said. "I stood for her before I knew what she was. And I claim nothing I won't fight to keep."
A pause.
Then, from the right of the room, Lord Halvarin's voice again:
"She has never claimed before. That is true. But I know my daughter. She would not say the words lightly." He looked directly at the councilor who had questioned her. "Which is more than can be said for many who wear titles without weight."
Someone shifted uncomfortably.
Then another voice rose—this one genuinely uncertain, from Councilor Nylen, a Beta who had mentored Veyra in logistics.
"But what does this mean for the future of her house?" he asked quietly. "If the heir to Halvarin willingly claims a rogue Omega, one outside the bond houses, one unsanctioned—"
"It means," Veyra interrupted, her voice steady, "that the future of my house will not be built on cages and chains."
"And if the Omega resists?" another Alpha snapped. "If she refuses the bond—what then?"
A low growl built in Veyra's throat before she could stop it.
Her jaw clenched. "Then she walks. I will not be the monster this law was written for."
That silenced them.
Lord Halvarin watched her quietly, his fingers steepled before his mouth. Not displeased. But changed, in some subtle, unspoken way.
Something in his eyes said: Now I see the lion you were born to be.
——
The council chamber slowly emptied, murmurs trailing like smoke behind finely embroidered cloaks and armor-polished boots. The doors shut behind the last of them, leaving Veyra and her father in the lingering silence.
Lord Halvarin hadn't spoken since his final rebuke. Now, as the quiet stretched, he turned from the far window where daylight caught the silver in his beard.
"You meant it," he said.
Veyra nodded once, still standing near the council's center. Her uniform felt heavy, too warm.
"I did."
"You hate that law."
"I do."
He looked at her then—really looked. "And still, you used it."
"I didn't plan to. But when they spoke of her like property—when they threatened to take her from me, parade her—"
Her hands clenched at her sides.
"I couldn't let them."
Lord Halvarin stepped closer. "You understand what this will mean politically?"
"Yes."
"And for her?"
Veyra's throat tightened. "I know she didn't ask for this. I know it may feel like the very thing she's run from."
He studied her, searching her face like a map he hadn't quite learned to read.
"You've never looked at anyone the way you looked at her."
A thought passed through Veyra—of copper eyes, stubborn and bright, of lavender and honey in the dark.
"I've never wanted to," she admitted.
He nodded slowly. Then, softly: "You're still my heir. And now you're hers, too—whether she wants that or not. You understand?"
"I do."
Lord Halvarin exhaled through his nose, a lifetime of restraint in the gesture. Then he placed one hand on her shoulder—the same hand that had once taught her how to hold a sword, how to hold a line, how to hold herself.
"When she chooses," he said quietly, "make sure it's not from fear. Even loyalty born of gratitude can rot into a cage if you're not careful."
Veyra swallowed hard. "I'll earn it. Not expect it."
He gave a single nod and stepped back.
Without another word, he turned and left her there, standing alone under the hollow echo of power and promise.
——
Outside the chamber, Liora had been waiting—still dressed in the borrowed gown, arms wrapped around herself like a shield. Her skin itched from the stares. From the heat of too many scents clinging to the council walls.
The moment the doors opened and Veyra stepped out, Liora straightened instinctively. Their eyes met across the space—something raw passing between them.
But before either could speak, a Beta guard approached her from the side.
He didn't bow.
Didn't ask.
He simply held out a dark velvet box and said, too flatly:
"By council order, and under House Halvarin's claim, you're required to wear this until formal bond rites are witnessed."
Liora stared at the box. Her stomach dropped.
Inside lay a collar—dark blue leather, fine stitching along the edges, supple and lined in satin. The silver clasp gleamed coldly. At the front, tooled carefully into the metal tag, was the crest of House Halvarin: a rearing lion, flanked by laurels and flame.
A symbol of protection.
A symbol of ownership.
Mmm
Her hands didn't move.
"I'm not—" Her voice came out hoarse. "I didn't agree to this."
The guard shrugged with all the empathy of a stone wall. "That's not how the law works."
He set the box on the table beside her and walked off, leaving her staring at the thing that represented everything she'd run from.
Veyra reached her slowly.
"I didn't know they'd do that so soon," she murmured.
Liora's hands trembled at her sides.
"Is it locked?" she whispered.
"No," Veyra said. "It's only meant to be worn for appearances, during council hours. It comes off when you say so."
But Liora didn't look at her. She was still staring at the collar like it might burn through the table.
"It has your crest."
"Yes."
A long silence.
"I'm not fragile," Liora said finally, her voice shaking anyway. "And I'm not yours."
Veyra nodded. "I know."
Another beat.
"Then why does this feel like a leash?"
The question sat heavy between them.
Because it was.
Even if Veyra hadn't meant it that way.
Even if she would fight the whole council to undo the laws that made it so.
Liora reached out and shut the box.
She didn't throw it.
She didn't wear it.
She simply walked past Veyra, head high, eyes bright with fury and pain.
Veyra watched her go, unable to move.
For the first time in her life, she had used the power the law gave her—and it had cost them both.
——
The halls of Fort Dalen were hushed as the two women walked side by side, the council chamber far behind them now. Liora didn't speak. Not when they stepped through the guarded archways, nor as they passed the narrow stairwell with its flickering torches. Her steps were measured, too controlled. The box with the collar was clutched in one hand.
Veyra kept pace without trying to reach for her. She knew better. The air between them was too sharp.
When they reached the private door to Veyra's quarters, Liora entered first. Her movements were stiff, her shoulders taut beneath the elegant fall of blue wool. She placed the box on the small writing desk and didn't look at it again.
Veyra lingered by the door, exhaling slowly.
"I'll have something brought up," she said softly. "Food. Tea, if you want it."
Liora gave a shallow nod, still facing the hearth. The fire had burned low, glowing faintly behind the iron grate.
"I didn't know that would happen," Veyra added, voice low. "The collar."
"I know."
The quiet that followed wasn't quite forgiveness.
It wasn't distance, either.
It was something harder to name—tiredness, maybe. Or the weight of being seen.
Veyra unbuckled the ceremonial clasp at her shoulder and shrugged off the formal coat, hanging it neatly near the door. Beneath it, her shirt clung to her skin from the heat and strain of the confrontation. Her hair had loosened from its braid, strands clinging to her brow.
"You fought for me," Liora said finally. Her voice wasn't soft, but it had no edge either. Just worn-down truth. "Even if it was the wrong way… you didn't stand aside."
Veyra looked at her.
"I never will."
Their eyes held for a beat.
Then Liora turned toward the washbasin, unfastening the back clasp of her borrowed dress with tired fingers.
Veyra looked away, respectfully, moving toward the window instead. The sky beyond had gone dim—dusky blue, rimmed with the first stars. From this side of the fort, the mountains were a jagged silhouette.
Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of fabric and then the whisper of Liora folding the dress carefully over the foot of the bed.
No nest this time. Just the bed. A shared space, now wrapped in uncertainty.
"You should sleep," Veyra said without turning. "Tomorrow's going to come faster than we want it to."
"Too fast already," Liora murmured.
Veyra moved to the bed's far side, not climbing in yet. Just standing there, watching her carefully.
"Liora…"
The other woman looked up, though her gaze was distant.
Veyra's voice was low—gravel and tension.
"I don't want you to think I've claimed you like property. Or that I'll ever keep you somewhere you don't want to be. If the law says I have that right, then the law is wrong."
Liora's eyes flicked to the box on the desk.
"But now I'm wearing that wrong law like a collar."
"I'll change it," Veyra said, the words fierce, unshakable. "For you. For everyone like you."
Liora didn't respond.
But she didn't turn away either.
She stepped toward the bed, slowly, and sat. Then lay down, facing the wall.
A few heartbeats later, Veyra climbed in beside her—carefully, leaving space.
They didn't touch.
But they breathed the same air.
And that, for now, had to be enough.