The citadel learned how to whisper.
Veyla felt it the moment she stepped beyond the inner corridors—into the outer gallery where courtiers, attendants, and visiting envoys were permitted to pass. The air changed. Not in scent, but in attention.
Eyes followed her.
Not openly.
Not rudely.
Carefully.
She walked with measured grace, hands folded lightly before her, posture immaculate. The morning light poured in through tall arched windows, illuminating the pale gold embroidery along her sleeves.
Aurelion royal colors.
They were meant to command respect.
Today, they invited curiosity.
She could hear it in the pauses of conversation. In the subtle hush that rippled outward as she passed. In the way bodies leaned back just a fraction when she drew near—not recoiling, not quite—but calculating.
The cursed princess.
The failed offering.
The variable.
The bond pulsed beneath her skin, quieter than it had been the night before but undeniably present. The ache had settled into a low, constant pressure, easier to endure but harder to ignore.
Distance helped.
Public space did not.
Across the gallery, Alpha Khorg Ironmaw stood near a column, flanked by two members of the Northern Clans. His presence was unmistakable—broad, scarred, a living declaration of strength.
The moment Veyla entered the space, his nose twitched.
His wolf snapped to attention instantly.
Mate.
Khorg stiffened.
He forced himself not to turn immediately, jaw tightening as he cataloged the shift in the air. The scent reached him faintly here, diluted by distance and movement, but it was enough to set his instincts humming.
Not nausea.
Not yet.
More like anticipation sharpened to a dangerous edge.
He inhaled slowly through his mouth, minimizing exposure, grounding himself in discipline drilled through years of command.
*Control,* he reminded himself.
When he finally looked at her, he did so deliberately.
Their eyes met across the open floor.
The bond tugged.
Veyla felt it—a sudden awareness, like being seen in a way that had nothing to do with sight. Her breath hitched, barely noticeable, but she steadied herself.
She did not look away.
Khorg's wolf surged, pleased by the contact, even as his human mind warned him of the consequences.
Five paces.
Seven.
Nine.
He counted unconsciously, tracking the distance between them as she moved.
Across the gallery, Vinculus Noctaryn observed the exchange from the shadowed edge of the room.
He had positioned himself strategically—far enough that the scent did not overwhelm him, close enough that he could feel the subtle disturbance it caused in his blood. The instability hummed beneath his calm exterior, a reminder that even absence had weight.
He followed Veyla's progress with cool interest.
The way she held herself.
The way she did not flinch under scrutiny.
The quiet defiance in her eyes when she sensed being watched.
*Remarkable,* he thought.
And dangerous.
A ripple of murmurs followed her path.
"She looks normal."
"I heard the Alpha nearly collapsed—"
"They say the Vampire King bled—"
"Impossible—"
Veyla reached the center of the gallery.
She stopped.
The ache flared briefly, then settled again.
This was the first true test.
No sigils.
No chalk lines.
No containment charms strong enough to silence attention.
Just bodies.
Distance.
And eyes.
A noblewoman approached her, smile polite, curiosity thinly veiled.
"Your Highness," she said, inclining her head. "It's… good to see you recovered."
Recovered.
Veyla returned the gesture. "I was never ill."
The woman blinked, thrown off balance.
Before she could respond, another presence joined them.
Khorg.
He had moved without realizing it.
Three steps closer.
Too close.
The shift was immediate.
His stomach tightened sharply as the scent thickened, the fermented edge scraping against his senses. At the same time, his wolf surged forward, exultant at the reduced distance.
His breath hitched.
Veyla felt it too—the pull snapping taut, heat flaring in her chest.
Her fingers trembled at her sides.
The noblewoman paled. "Alpha—"
Khorg stopped himself just short of disaster, planting his feet firmly.
"Forgive me," he said roughly. "I misjudged the space."
The apology stunned the onlookers.
Alpha Khorg Ironmaw did not apologize.
Vinculus's eyes narrowed.
Interesting.
The ache sharpened for him too now, a low throb in his veins as proximity shifted. He straightened slightly, attention sharpening to a blade's edge.
This was not contained.
This was visible.
Madame Zora appeared from nowhere, slipping into the scene with infuriating ease.
"Well," she said brightly, "if this isn't a social experiment waiting to explode."
Veyla exhaled slowly.
Zora leaned in close, voice low. "Remember what we practiced."
Veyla nodded almost imperceptibly.
She took one careful step back.
The effect was immediate.
Khorg's nausea eased just enough for him to breathe again. His wolf snarled in protest, furious at the retreat.
Vinculus felt the absence like a hairline crack spreading beneath his composure.
The noblewoman swallowed. "Is… everything all right?"
Veyla lifted her chin.
"Yes," she said calmly. "Everything is under control."
The words rang hollow to anyone who knew how to listen.
The murmurs resumed, louder now.
Speculation bloomed.
Whatever had happened in the ritual hall was no longer a secret confined to stone walls and council chambers.
It was alive.
And watching.
As Veyla moved on, the ache pulsed steadily beneath her ribs—a reminder that restraint had a cost, and that every step she took in public now carried weight beyond herself.
Khorg watched her go, chest tight, wolf pacing restlessly.
Vinculus followed her retreating figure with narrowed eyes, mind racing.
This would not remain manageable.
Not with an audience.
And as the whispers spread through the citadel like fire through dry leaves, one truth settled heavily over them all:
The bond had entered the world.
And the world had begun to notice.