The palace had never seen anything like it.
Crates of supplies clogged every corridor—linens from the eastern provinces, wine from the southern vineyards, candles from the northern forests. Carpenters hammered in the great hall, building temporary seating for the thousands of guests expected. Their saws sang, their hammers echoed, and clouds of sawdust drifted through the torchlight.
Cooks argued in the kitchens about menus that seemed to change hourly—should the northerners have their traditional blood sausages? Would the southern alphas accept venison prepared in the royal style? Marga, the head cook, had threatened to quit three times already.
Guards patrolled in double shifts, their faces tired but alert. Every entrance, every corridor, every window was watched. The Pure Blood League had promised protests, not violence, but no one was taking chances.
