"A king may wear a crown, but the wolf wears no mask. When the bond calls, it strips away titles, duty, and pride, leaving only truth."
Alaric's POV
The courtyard of the Northern Palace was deceptively calm that morning. Sunlight spilled across the pale stone, catching on the carved spires and banners fluttering lazily in the breeze. The sharp scent of pine and frost lingered in the air, carried down from the mountains. A king's morning should have been filled with paperwork and audiences, but Marcus insisted I play. So there we were, two kinds of people seated across a heavy oaken chessboard at the courtyard's heart.
"You're distracted," Marcus drawled as he slid a knight forward with surgical precision.
I grunted, staring at the carved board, and the white pieces gleamed like ivory, while the black pieces looked like polished obsidian. My queen sat vulnerable, though I refused to admit it. "I'm not distracted. I'm watching your hand twitch before you move."
