Emperor Thane Rysling sat upon his throne, a seat carved higher than the palace floor and draped with heavy feathered cushions where, by tradition, his highest concubines perched like jeweled birds of paradise. Tonight, that tradition was in full effect. Women from his harem, dressed in silks and glittering in gems, lined the stairs on either side of him. Their smiles were painted, their movements languid, each of them vying to outshine the other in this rare moment of public display.
Most emperors of old had never allowed their concubines out of the harem, jealous men who hoarded beauty in shadows, too fearful to let other eyes linger on what was theirs. Thane was not cut from that cloth. He had no illusions about ownership here. None of these women were his wives, none his favorites. They were ornaments, distractions. Tonight, their very presence was a deliberate tactic. If they dazzled, perhaps the eyes of visiting kings would stray from the one woman who would otherwise command every glance in the hall.
The Omega.
Celeste.
The thought of her name alone made Thane's chest tighten.
He sat tall but tense, dressed in cream so fine it seemed spun from sunlight, his vest encrusted with blood-red rubies. The throne beneath him had been crafted in the shape of a Kripton, its marble curves catching the glow of the sinking sun. Around him, eunuch guards stood silent and unmoving, their weapons gleaming in the torchlight.
The throne room itself was a marvel of white marble and gilded domes, built to remind any visitor of Vlallas' power. The open arches framed the horizon, and as the sun bled across the sky, golden light spilled into the chamber, turning every jewel and polished surface into molten fire. Tonight would be remembered, whether as triumph or the beginning of ruin.
Thane knew it.
For the first time in Vlallas history, so many kings of foreign lands would gather under one roof. Allies, rivals, enemies—it did not matter what titles they bore. They were predators drawn to the same lure. The rumor of an Omega had spread like wildfire, and now they came to see if the stories were true.
He shifted slightly in his throne, though the movement did nothing to ease the coiled tension in his gut. He hated this seat. Every time he lowered himself into it, he felt as though he were trespassing on his father's ghost. The throne was his now, the realm was his to command, but some part of him still felt like the boy who trained under a shadow, forever measured against a legacy he could never quite match.
His jaw clenched. There could be no weakness tonight.
He had told himself again and again that this feast, this gathering, was about peace. About diplomacy. If kings saw her with their own eyes—saw that she was indeed real—perhaps they would stop whispering of trickery or thievery. Perhaps he could convince them that Vlallas meant to protect, not hoard. But he was no fool. They would not come only to look. They would measure, calculate, plot. They would weigh whether seizing her was worth the risk of war.
And war would come easily. The armies of Vlallas were strong, honed under his father's reign and tested under his own. But a war fought over an Omega? That would become legend. That would rouse greed across every land until the whole realm bled.
His fingers drummed once against the arm of the throne before curling into a fist. He could not—would not—allow it.
Celeste. His firefly.
She had no idea what she was walking into tonight. He'd wanted to explain, to prepare her himself. But last night he had let his temper get the better of him, had let her barbed tongue pull him into a fight he hadn't intended. Instead of confiding in her, he had left her hurt and furious. Now, she would be ushered into this storm blind, relying only on what his mother had chosen to tell her.
That was dangerous. Celeste did not suffer cages quietly. Back her into a corner and she would bare her claws—he admired that fire, craved it, but tonight it could ignite disaster.
Thane leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and dragged in a breath. The air was thick with incense, spiced with cinnamon and myrrh. The women at his feet whispered and giggled, their jewels catching the last of the sunset, but he barely saw them. His thoughts circled only her.
Celeste was reckless. Independent. Defiant to her bones. That very streak had saved her on the auction block, had drawn him to her like a moth to flame. But here, surrounded by kings, one wrong word, one defiant gesture, could send every man in this hall lunging for her throat.
He had to keep control of this.
Yet beneath the worry, beneath the weight of strategy and diplomacy, a deeper truth gnawed at him. He would not—could not—give her up. Even if it cost him war.
The thought alone should have chilled him. It did not.
Celeste was not just a woman. She was the first Omega in living memory. She was his to protect. His to cherish. And, though the truth threatened to undo him, he was certain she was his mate. That pull between them was not fantasy. It was the bond every Alpha dreamed of but rarely found.
And if he was right, then to mark her, to bind her, could mean power beyond imagining. Or death. The mating bond was not a thing to trifle with. If he was wrong—if they were not truly fated—marking her could kill her. The image alone made his stomach turn.
But even with that fear burning in him, he knew this much: he would sooner die himself than hand her to another.
The foreign kings would see her. They would lust. They would covet. But they would not have her.
Gods forgive him, he thought as the sound of distant horns echoed through the palace corridors. The guests were arriving.
Better she hate him for binding her than be stolen from his arms.
Better the realm drown in blood than see his firefly extinguished.
Thane straightened in his throne, the image of a king, and waited for the doors of the marble hall to open.