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.

Outside, the battle at the front gates was growing increasingly desperate.

Nathaniel’s catapults had shattered the outer wooden palisades, but the main iron gate of the fortress remained completely unyielding. Rain had turned the battlefield into a sea of thick mud, slowing down the royal infantry.

From the high ramparts, Malakor’s archers rained down flaming arrows and boiling oil onto the shield lines below.

Nathaniel cut down a Crimson Pack warrior who had leaped from the wall, his broadsword slicing through iron and bone. His armor was covered in soot and mud, his eyes blazing with fierce Alpha energy as he looked up at the impenetrable iron gates.

"Your Majesty!" Captain Vane shouted, blocking a rogue spear with his round shield. "The battering ram is broken! The timber couldn't take the weight of the reinforced iron!"

"Keep the line firm!" Nathaniel ordered, his voice echoing over the roar of the storm. "We hold them here! Give Grace the time she needs!"

On the high balcony above the gate, Lord Malakor laughed hysterically, tossing a burning torch onto the muddy ground below.

"Is this the best the Alpha King can do?" Malakor mocked, his voice amplified by a horn spell. "You bring your men here to die in the mud, Nathaniel! In two hours, the mountain pass will freeze completely! Your army will be trapped between my walls and the frozen peak!"

Beside him, Lyra Pike smirked, leaning against the stone battlement. "Send out the Crimson Vanguard. Let us hunt the King’s wounded men like dogs."

Suddenly, a loud, grinding metallic screech echoed from deep inside the central gatehouse tower.

Malakor’s laughter died in his throat. He spun around, staring at the massive iron gears visible through the tower windows.

The heavy iron chains holding the main gate were beginning to turn.

"What is happening?!" Malakor screamed, grabbing a nearby guard by his collar. "Who is in the winch chamber?!"

"My Lord, the lower levels went dark five minutes ago!" the guard stammered, terrified. "No one answered the horn calls!"

Slowly, inexorably, the massive three-foot-thick iron gates of Iron Ridge began to slide open, revealing the warm, hollow interior of the fortress.

Standing inside the archway, holding a flaming torch high above her head against the dark backdrop of the fortress interior, was Queen Grace Rowan. Her silver cloak billowed in the cold mountain wind, her dark eyes looking straight through the rain toward Nathaniel.

Nathaniel’s heart leaped into his throat. A wild, victorious grin broke across his face.