The Alpha King stopped smiling when twenty-three rejected Omegas walked into his mating ball wearing ribbons that were supposed to mean they had been forgotten.

The golden era of the Silver Realm had barely taken root when a cold whisper drifted in from the Frostbound Marches.

Three months after the coronation, Queen Grace stood at the high window of the solar chamber, her fingers resting lightly on the cold stone sill. Down in the courtyard, young Omegas who had once been locked away in Moon Hall were training alongside royal knights, learning archery, strategy, and self-defense. The realm was changing, but peace was a fragile glass blade.

Nathaniel entered quietly, his heavy boots making almost no sound against the thick wool rug. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. His wolf aura was a constant, warm hearth against the lingering chill of autumn.

"You're thinking too hard," Nathaniel murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck. "I can feel your pulse racing, Grace."

"The trade caravans from the eastern border missed their arrival date by four days, Nathaniel," Grace said, turning in his embrace to face him. "And Lord Malakor hasn't sent his quarterly tax reports. He was Celeste’s closest ally before the trial."

Nathaniel’s eyes darkened slightly. Lord Malakor of House Blackthorn ruled the Iron Ridge—a treacherous, mountainous territory rich in iron mines and guarded by a private army of hardened mercenaries. When Celeste fell, Malakor had feigned ignorance, sending a lavish gold chest as a coronation gift and swearing loyalty to the new crown.

"Malakor is a coward who knows how to survive," Nathaniel replied, though his tone was cautious. "He knows what happened to Celeste. He wouldn't dare challenge the royal army."

"He wouldn't challenge you in an open field," Grace countered, her eyes flashing with sharp silver light. "But he doesn't need an army if he can starve the capital. Iron Ridge controls the mountain pass where three-quarters of our grain travels before winter."

Before Nathaniel could answer, a frantic banging echoed against the chamber doors.

Captain Vane of the Royal Guard—a cousin to the former archivist who had proven his loyalty by exposing his family's corruption—burst into the room. His face was pale, smeared with soot and dry blood.

"Your Majesties!" Vane fell to one knee, breathing heavily. "An urgent dispatch from the eastern watchtower. House Blackthorn has raised its banners!"

Nathaniel stepped forward, his posture instantly shifting from loving husband to ruthless Alpha King. "Has Malakor declared war?"

"Worse, My Liege," Vane gasped, looking up. "He hasn't just raised his own flags. He has unsealed the Obsidian Vault beneath Iron Ridge. He has freed the Crimson Pack—the rogue warlords banished by your father twenty years ago. They have seized the granaries, slaughtered our scouts, and cut off the Eastern Highway."

Grace’s breath hitched. The Crimson Pack were legendary for their absolute brutality. Unlike normal werewolf clans, they practiced blood-binding magic, drinking the blood of fallen enemies to temporarily multiply their physical strength and suppress their pain.

"Why now?" Grace asked, her mind racing through the political chessboard. "Malakor held his breath for months. Why strike right before the first snowfall?"