Chapter 109: Chapter One Hundred and Seven: Pretence

The sound of distant horns still echoed in the halls long after the nobles from Solara had arrived.

Alarion remained by the stained-glass window of the eastern wing, staring blankly at the gilded carriages unloading silk-draped guests onto the palace steps. His arms were crossed over his chest, posture rigid, breath tight. From this distance, they all looked like puppets; dancing, preening, waiting to flatter.

It wasn’t the guests that bothered him.

It was who he had to become the moment he stepped into that throne room.

“Your Highness,” came the voice of the steward behind him, polite but cautious. “They’re ready.”

Of course they were.

Alarion gave a small nod, adjusted the silver sash across his chest, and headed toward the Hall of Thrones.

The throne room shimmered in soft gold and crimson. Incense burned faintly from the iron sconces, and noble voices hummed beneath the formal hush of protocol. They all rose the moment Alarion stepped in.

He didn’t smile or bother to wave.

His eyes found the far end of the hall where the King sat, regal and silent, his wolf-gray cloak draped like a mantle of storms.

His father’s face betrayed nothing. Not pride. Not disdain. Just the chilling stillness that had always hovered between them like a blade no one dared touch.

Alarion walked to his designated place beside the high dais, where a smaller throne, his throne, awaited.

And beside it...

Amora.

She was already seated, dressed in pale gold with rubies at her throat. Her hair was coiled into a perfect chignon, not a strand out of place. Her hands folded delicately on her lap. Her smile was soft, angelic.

A perfect image of devotion.

“Your Highness,” she greeted gently as he took his seat beside her.

He didn’t answer.

The nobles bowed. One by one, they came forward… offering tributes, updates from their provinces, and gifts meant to flatter and impress. Alarion acknowledged them with nods, a few words of formality, nothing more.

Through it all, Amora played her role flawlessly.

She leaned in to whisper charming comments when appropriate, her laughter light and melodic. She bowed her head with grace, complimented wives on their brooches, praised children for their etiquette.

If he hadn’t known better, he’d think she believed the lies she told.

But Alarion knew the ugliness behind the mask.

And every time she reached to rest her hand near his, every time her shoulder brushed his in feigned closeness, it was like swallowing poison for the sake of tradition.

Because she was still his wife in the public eye.

Still the woman they believed would be queen someday.

And Kaelia...

Kaelia couldn’t be mentioned. Couldn’t exist. Not here.

So Alarion wore his own mask. Polished and imposing.

Hours passed. Nobles came and went. The throne room dimmed with the approach of dusk, and with one final bow from a lord of the northern isles, the formal court session was dismissed.

But his duties weren’t over.

“Your Highness,” Amora said with a soft smile once they were alone in the hallway. “We have a visit to make.”

He turned to her. “Visit?”

“To the orphanage in the outer ring,” she said as if it were obvious. “For the festival week. It’s tradition to donate early.”

His jaw clenched, but he nodded. Of course. Appearances.

He followed her down the corridor, their entourage of guards trailing a respectful distance behind.

—

The orphanage was small, nestled between a crumbling chapel and a patch of wildflowers that had overgrown the fence. Children rushed to the doorway when the royal carriage stopped, their faces beaming, clothes worn but eyes wide with excitement.

Amora stepped out first, regal as ever, her arms filled with neatly wrapped gifts.

Alarion followed, expression unreadable.

Inside, the matron bowed so low her knees popped. “Your Highness. My Lady... it’s an honor.”

Alarion gave her a small nod. His gaze drifted across the dim room; rows of children’s drawings taped to stone walls, chipped toys lined against shelves, a small boy holding the frayed hem of a blanket like a shield.

He didn’t belong here. Not because he was royal. But because... nothing about this felt real anymore.

Amora bent to one knee, offering a ribboned box to a little girl who looked like she hadn’t smiled in days.

“What’s your name, sweet one?” Amora cooed.

The child hesitated, but then whispered, “Alia.”

Amora smiled gently. “Alia. That’s a beautiful name.”

Alarion watched from a distance. Her voice, her posture, the kindness… he could almost believe it.

Almost.

But he knew better.

His chest ached with something heavy and restless. Kaelia should be here, not in this orphanage, but here in his life. In the open. In the sun.

Instead, Alarion stood in the shadow of someone else’s fantasy.

And he hated it.

By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in streaks of rose and lavender, the children had gone quiet again, the gifts unwrapped and their visitors gone.

Alarion sat in the carriage with Amora beside him.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because no words could fix what had already splintered.

And no performance, no ribbon, no carefully placed smile could hide the truth from him now.

The festival was days away.

The castle would soon glow with light and music.

But in his chest, Alarion’s storm was just beginning.

As the carriage rolled back toward the palace, lanterns flickering to life across the kingdom’s spires, Alarion closed his eyes for a moment. The scent of Amora’s perfume clung to the velvet seat, sweet and artificial. His fists rested on his knees, still, but every nerve beneath his skin was burning.

They were all playing their parts.

The nobles. The servants. The courtiers and the crowd…

The stage is set and everyone's in character.

He might just set the stage on fire. Because every moment of this torturous pretense is driving his wolf crazy.