The Navarro's carriage came to a smooth stop at the edge of the Golden Leaf Bridge.
The sound of the brakes echoed softly, muffled by the golden mist rising from the valley.
Pippen was the first to step down. Her leather boots landed firmly, crushing some dry leaves that cracked like bones underfoot. The air was thick with the scent of old iron and resin — a mix of tradition, fear, and anticipation.
Behind her, Eliza hesitated in the doorway, her eyes sweeping the crowd with the precision of a predator. Her voice was dry, but sharp with attention:
"They're here. The Kadman have arrived."
She quickly scanned the prominent seats in the distance through elegant binoculars. The place was packed.
At the center of the bridge, four heralds waited. They were androgynous figures, motionless, wrapped in dark cloaks and hammered silver masks. When they spoke, their voices didn't sound human — they echoed like memory, like an ancient ritual:
"Tonight's great event begins at twilight. Blood reveals blood. Rules do not replace instinct."
The energy on the bridge shifted suddenly and undeniably, like an invisible weight settling on the skin. Pheromones thickened in the air. Something ancestral was invoked by those words — an old certainty that lineage is not just a name, but flesh and decision.
Pippen crossed her arms. Through her binoculars, her gaze locked on the distance, where Aster, the omega who had taken Callum from Clarice Phillips, stood immaculately in his posture, right beside Callum Campbell. She leaned slightly toward her uncle and murmured:
"I was right, uncle. He's beautiful. But beauty doesn't win wars... it doesn't hold alphas or traditions."
Cedrik's smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a worn smile, frayed by many disappointments.
"No. But it distracts. And sometimes, that's enough. It's important to recognize that there's power in that. Listen to your uncle: true dominance begins when you realize you're not a byproduct of some old idea or ancient tradition. That's why I want you to get close to him. Be his friend. You must build connections."
A sudden awareness softened the way Pippen viewed the situation. In the end, she would need to tune herself to this new pattern of identities.
Under the watchful eyes of all who arrived, on the main stage of the Golden Leaf Tournament's ceremonial grounds, the sun dripped like liquid metal over the carved golden plates. Beneath the footsteps of the ABO elite, the bridge simmered — but no sound was louder than Aster's thoughts.
The Campbell family was positioned to the left of the main entrance. Callum, standing beside his grandfather Mallet and his mother Sarah, greeted the guests with the politeness the moment demanded. Nothing out of place. Nothing outside the protocol.
At his side, carrying the air of something new or poorly fitted, was Aster — the recently acknowledged bastard son of the family's powerful allies — now his partner.
On the other side, the Phillips line spread out with theatrical balance. Robert Phillips, the elder and longtime friend of Mallet, greeted everyone with firm handshakes and an easy smile. Jared — Robert's only son — maintained composure beside his wife Beatrice, his legitimate son Oliver, and his daughter Clarice.
But every smile hid a storm.
Beatrice, for example, had said the night before, in a small meeting where they discussed only minor adjustments:
"He's not ready, Jared. Refinement isn't something you improvise. Especially when you're… a bastard."
Words that clung to Aster's skin like extinguished embers — not enough to burn, not enough to leave visible marks.
She was cruel in a soft way. She shaped herself from her own darkness.
He also understood the noise — not the sound of hooves, trumpets, or the formal greetings exchanged between patriarchs, but the emotional noise. The contained energy. The hidden tremor. And maybe because of that, for the first time, he no longer felt like a prisoner of appearances. The cage of perception had cracked from the inside.
He had chosen to be Aster. Not the bastard, not the accident, not the mark outside the frame.
But deep down, he was the sum of all his circumstances.
At his side, Callum remained impassive — an alpha carved in marble, beautiful and untouchable. And Aster understood: Callum would not protect him from everything. He got it, in that instant.
Not out of cowardice or carelessness, but by calculation. The message was clear:
"You need to face this on your own."
Beatrice glanced at him over her son's shoulder, wearing a sharp, deliberate smile. Every line on her face said what her words didn't:
"You don't belong in this moment or this place."
In the background, Mallet and Robert exchanged playful jabs, reviving an old kind of respect between great friends.
"Robert, you've aged badly. That suit looked much better on you twenty years ago," Mallet teased, his calloused fingers gripping the other's shoulders.
"And you still spit lies like a wild horse," Robert shot back, the laugh in his eyes genuine.
But while the old men laughed, the present was sharpening its blades.
Jared watched the bastard son like someone facing an unwanted reflection.
Aster was the walking reminder of his mistake — and the only true love that had been strong enough to last for years.
Oliver bit the word "Welcome" between his teeth like someone forcing down rotten food.
But his eyes screamed something else:
"You stain our name."
Clarice, the betrayed fiancée, held her chin high. She didn't even offer Aster a nod.
Her fingers, clenched tightly around her fan, had turned white — her anger leaking through the tension of that small, controlled gesture.
Aster stood still. He was fine.
He had survived worse.
He took a deep breath. His chest rose.
He was ready for retaliation — and ready to retaliate, too.
The red and gold crest of the Kadman family fluttered in the east wind, carrying the whisper of ancient seas, as if the ghosts of forgotten admirals still marched beside their lineage.
The Kadman's arrival did not go unnoticed. Their banners, crossed swords over caravels, gleamed in the sun like polished steel. Their march was imperial.
Malcolm Kadman led the way, with Elizabeth at his side, both in ceremonial attire inspired by the naval uniforms of their ancestors. Golden epaulettes, sharp cuts, the deep crimson of naval velvet, and on their lapels and cuffs, small *enameled medals*, heirlooms from ancient maritime campaigns. Each insignia told a story no one dared forget.
Behind them walked Adam Kadman, the heir.
The red and gold settled on him as if the fabric had been forged directly onto his skin.
Impeccable. Untouchable. Almost mythical.
With them were Elizabeth's brother, her sister-in-law, and their children — Matt, Mia, and Penny — inseparable, like living trenches, sharp and loyal.
Following the Kadmans came the May family.
Taylor walked between her mother, Gretta, and her brother, Gunnar.
Gretta seemed hypnotized. Her eyes drifted from banner to banner, as if inhaling an unreachable perfume.
Gunnar, though, stared at Adam — and behind that gaze burned something older than frustration: *raw, violent, silent envy.*
He didn't just want justice. He wanted *that.*
He wanted that life for his sister.
He wanted to belong to that family.
He wanted the Kadman name.
But Taylor… Taylor felt something else.
She wore their colors. A dark red dress, nearly black, with golden details that dripped across the fabric like strands of sunlight.
Wearing those colors felt like wearing a premonition.
At first, she tried to convince herself that James — the alpha Elizabeth had chosen for her — was enough.
He was handsome. Stable. Proper.
But something about that idea rotted inside her. A quiet disgust that spread like rust through an old structure.
She wanted Adam. She always had.
Furthermore, she bitterly regretted never creating the opportunity for a drunken night with Adam; a dishonest move, sure, but one that had worked for many assistants before.
In her pride, she had believed those people were the ones who were wrong.
But the truth was — she had been wrong.
The fool. The coward. The woman who didn't dare to try because she thought herself superior.
She spent her entire life being the perfect professional, the rational woman, the impeccable presence.
But deep down, she sabotaged herself.
Several times, she feigned tiredness as an excuse to show confusion and open the wrong door on business trips, where she would accompany Adam to see him sleeping, with the sheet pulled too low, his body "almost" completely exposed.
She pretended not to mind watching him change his clothes, making Adam comfortable with the situation, and Adam believed she wasn't looking.
She pretended to be above desire.
But she wasn't above it.
She just knew how to hide it.
Today, she didn't feel proud of herself.
She should have broken the mask of the strong, intelligent woman before it killed her from the inside.
She wanted to be the soap that slid over his skin, the towel that touched every inch of his body.
She wanted to be the pillow where he buried his face in dreams.
She wanted his fingers. His breath. The tired sigh at the end of the day. She wanted it all. Allowed or not.
Now, standing before the Golden Leaf Bridge, Taylor understood.
It was no longer a desire. It was destiny. It was hunger. It was urgent.
She needed this. She needed him.
She didn't know if she loved Adam — or if she loved who she became when she was near him.
But she needed to be happy.
She needed to exist around him.
And then her eyes met Adam's.
He smiled.
That kind of smile you can't rehearse.
The kind you don't train.
The kind that only appears when the heart recognizes what has always been its own.
Taylor felt it.
She felt the exact moment she crossed the invisible line between expectation and collapse.
She didn't want to be loved anymore. She wanted to be chosen. To belong. To be the presence no one else could erase. Because if he wouldn't be hers, then he shouldn't belong to anyone.
That was the beginning of the disaster.
And she wouldn't turn back.
The palace gardens buzzed under the golden twilight, a human sea of silks and brocades where every fold of fabric told a story of ambition.
At the center of this private universe stood the grand stage of black marble, lit by torches that cast dancing shadows over the eager faces of the nobility.
Upon this altar of vanities, the Great Families displayed themselves in full splendor, their vivid colors painting a map of power across the night air.
The Phillips commanded their space with the solemnity of ancient forests, their deep emerald greens adorned with golden threads that shimmered like hidden ore beneath the earth. Every stitch, every medal spoke of a story written in blood and gold.
Beside them, the Campbells stood like cliffs against the sea, their royal blues cut by the immaculate white of ancestral insignias. The lighter shades of some garments resembled waves breaking against rocks — a discreet but calculated concession.
At the heart of the stage, the Kadmans burned like live embers.
Their blood-reds and golds didn't ask for attention — they demanded it.
The naval uniforms, heavy with medals and past glories, seemed crafted from the very essence of power.
The Wilson's, still absent, let their golden yellows shine by omission.
Their reserved space on the stage seemed even more present because they weren't there, as if absence itself dressed in expectation.
The Hartley's planted themselves with the solidity of the lands they governed, their earthy browns and bronzes telling stories of harvests and silent fortune. Nothing glittered excessively — theirs was a wealth that did not need to announce itself.
The Drakes moved like purple shadows among the vibrant colors, their deep purples and silver weaving a carefully curated aura of mystery. Every fold of fabric, every jewel was placed to **remind**, not to please.
The Astor's stood out by refusing to stand out. Their ivories and pearl-grays were elegance made flesh — a quiet declaration that true nobility never needs to shout.
The Rowans carried lilac and gold like an unintentional banner. There was youth in their colors, but also the weight of inherited responsibilities they hadn't fully understood.
The Ravencrofts stood as sentinels in silver-gray and red. Their garments were armor, their jewels — weapons. Nothing was ornamental; everything was functional, even when beautiful.
Finally, the Morvens set their space ablaze with vibrant oranges and deep blacks. Like controlled flames, their colors spoke of a wild energy that could, at any moment, break free.
And so, beneath the darkening sky, the colors of the Great Families danced on the stage like flags on a silent battlefield.
Every shade, every nuance, every choice of fabric and adornment was a word in this mute dialogue of power that would precede the real words.
The air was heavy with the scent of melting wax, cut flowers, and the bittersweetness of untouched wine.
The night had barely begun, but everyone already knew — this was no ball. It was the prologue.
Adam Kadman, immaculate in his ceremonial uniform, let his eyes sweep over the crowd, not looking for alliances, but for absences.
For the one who had not yet arrived. "Damián".
Since the day he had left the mansion without saying goodbye, Damián's name weighed on Adam's shoulders more than any ancestral medal.
It wasn't just a lover who had gone.
It was his omega.
Absence was a flaw.
It was an affront.
It was the silence of someone who didn't want to be found.
And there was a crack that wouldn't heal: *doubt.*
Because Damián never explained everything.
He was never willing to talk about his past — and that was the deadliest poison.
He hid behind impeccable indifference, leaving Adam trapped in a maze of assumptions where he always had to decide, alone, what to believe.
Their first meeting had been almost mythical. As if the universe had staged it.
Their second meeting — an inevitable irony.
Adam investigated. He dug deep. But there always seemed to be a missing piece.
When he found out that his personal driver had been bugged, the conclusion was simple and brutal: Damián was the culprit.
But the person who set up the wiretap disappeared.
The witness who reported the crime was murdered.
And in the end, Damián and Aster presented a perfect alibi — too clean, too calculated, with one detail that never gave Adam peace: "it was too perfect to be real, but still, something was missing."
He wanted to believe.
He was willing to forgive anything.
Willing to forget anything.
But he couldn't ignore that something had always been out of place.
The truth? He could have handled it if Damián had simply been guilty.
Because the guilty can be saved.
The guilty can be fixed.
But Adam knew — it wasn't just guilt. It was manipulation.
It was what Damián wouldn't say.
It was what he was hiding.
And that was what ate him alive.
How could his omega lie?
How could he conceal?
How could he build a wall between them, and still Adam waited, still hoping Damián would return, because he said he just needed time to cool off.
The secondary families were gathering in neat rows. Some stretched upward, reaching for light. Others, like dry plants, only tried not to disappear in the swamp of greater names.
And one question drilled into his chest like a cold nail:
"Why? What's the reason? What could be so deep that Damián feels the need to hide it even from me?"
It was the kind of thought that left no room for love to breathe.
The kind of doubt that starts small and ends in war.
And Adam knew — he would find out.
The sound of heavy wheels, well-trained horses, and shining metal stopped just before the golden bridge, silencing part of the commotion. It was a firm, rhythmic noise — the sound of weight, of power, of legend.
Benjamin Williams had finally arrived.
The black flags with silver borders fluttered like storm warnings, and when the first carriage stopped, Benjamin Williams was the first to step down. Impeccable. Dominant.
The undisputed knight of his time.
His black suit, sharply cut with raw elegance, was pure modern-day wild west.
The wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his eyes, his boots gleamed, and the belt with its white gold buckle bore the Williams family crest — a pair of horses on an empty field.
He was the man who had rewritten the economic history of the continent and had raised Country Y to the rank of a global superpower.
And he knew how to move.
Benjamin stepped down slowly, with no hurry, and crossed the crowd like a seasoned politician, like a king without a crown, like someone who had never abandoned his roots.
He greeted everyone with a firm handshake, calling some people by name, others with a smile that felt personal, even when it wasn't.
"It's an honor to see you here."
He said it with ease, touching shoulders, complimenting medals, and families as if each person there truly mattered.
The crowd responded with contained excitement, admiration, and impact.
He was a man who didn't need a podium to dominate a space.
Beside him, Andrews Williams, his eldest son, followed the same cowboy-chic aesthetic — black hat, fitted white shirt, riding pants, tall boots, and sharp, watchful eyes. Andrews, however, was more reserved. He greeted people with a sober posture, always keeping one step behind his father.
Right behind, the second carriage opened smoothly.
Damián.
Mason.
Ziggy.
Three Victorian pieces of aristocratic luxury.
All three wore the signature black of the Williams family, but styled from another era.
Voluminous ruffled shirts, fine white stockings, velvet breeches, long coats, lace, and near-baroque detailing.
An unexpected blend — cowboy and Victorian, west and past, steel and velvet.
All three wore outfits once worn by Tristan, Damián's omega father, in several tournaments.
Damián wore his father's clothes, perfectly tailored to his body — a silent tribute.
In his hair, a slim arching tiara with white gold and diamond wings — a jewel that once belonged to Tristan, inspired by the airplanes his father had owned.
The wings rested there as a memory — a personal mark.
Ziggy wore his white ruffles with effortless ease.
The tiara also adorned his head, sitting on his light strands as if it had always belonged to him.
Mason completed the trio with a white ruffled shirt and a black waistcoat embroidered with thin gold lines.
Pinned to his chest was a small wing-shaped brooch — subtle but visible, a link to the Williams family story.
His hair was braided on the side with simple black ribbons, a delicate nod to Victorian luxury.
He walked with a curious smile, soaking in the spectacle around him.
They crossed the crowd with measured steps.
They didn't wave. They didn't smile like Benjamin.
But they didn't hide either.
Their presence was a statement.
Benjamin climbed the stage with natural charisma, nodding to the main families waiting for him, his boots striking firmly on the stone.
The families already gathered on the platform watched closely.
Everyone was present, each in their power-drenched attire, their colors clearly marked.
Everyone's eyes were on the entrance of the Williams family.
Adam's eyes searched for Damián.
And when he found them, the world seemed to freeze for a second.