King Alaric finally rose, his voice echoing through the hall. "Enough of this display. You came here to speak, not to fight."
He looked over the four men: Marek, proud; Theron, controlled; Lucien, unreadable; and Galen, steady.
"My daughter is the heiress of Lycanthria. She will not be taken by anyone. The Moon's will is unclear, but my word is law. She will remain here until the Goddess reveals what is coming."
The hall fell silent. For a brief moment, even the air seemed still. Lucien leaned back in his chair, a smile ghosting across his lips, like someone who knew more than he let on. Marek looked ready to protest again. Theron clenched his jaw but held his composure. Galen only exhaled quietly.
Dinner continued, but the peace was thin, fragile. Every glance, every word held an edge. And Aveloria sat in the middle, four men bound to her, each ready to fight for her hand, while her father tried to hold a kingdom together.
