Chapter 13: The Alpha Kneels

The weight of Alistair’s kiss lingered on Seraphina’s knuckles, a warm contrast to the absolute zero that had settled over the rest of the Grand Obsidian Ballroom.

Seraphina looked down at the silver-haired god kneeling before her. A faint, amused smile danced on her rosebud lips.

She felt entirely secure, entirely untamed, wrapped in a protective cocoon of Firstborn power that no mortal Alpha could ever pierce.

Slowly, Alistair rose.

His massive six-foot-five frame straightened, instantly reclaiming his position as the terrifying apex predator of the room. He didn't let go of her hand. His long, pale fingers remained locked with hers, anchoring her to his side.

He turned his head slightly, his dark purple gaze finally sweeping over the trembling, kneeling crowd on the floor. When his eyes brushed past the stone steps of the dais, they caught Kilian.

Kilian was still fighting.

His face was a slick, pale mask of cold sweat, his jaw locked so tight a thin line of blood trickled from his lower lip where his fangs had pierced the skin.

His broad shoulders were violently shaking beneath his bespoke tuxedo jacket. He was an Alpha—the sovereign of the Silver Moon.

His primitive pride demanded that he stand, that he look the Firstborn King in the eyes.

But Alistair hadn't even released his full pressure yet.

"I believe there was a misunderstanding regarding the attendance of tonight’s summit," Alistair’s voice broke the silence. It was a low, velvet purr that carried flawlessly to every corner of the frozen room.

He didn't look at Kilian. He looked at the cowering pack elders.

"The Rothschild shadow empire does not negotiate with unrated territories. We do not sign treaties with bankrupt lords."

Alistair lifted Seraphina's hand slightly, drawing the entire room's attention to the solid black-gold crest glinting in her palm.

"The only reason the Firstborn knights crossed into this city tonight... was to escort my honored guest."

A collective, choked breath was sucked out of the room.

"And," Alistair continued, his voice dropping into a dangerously deep, rumbling octave that vibrated the very glass of the frozen champagne fountains, "my chosen future Queen."

Queen.

The word dropped like an atomic bomb.

Elena let out a sharp, hysterical sob from her hands and knees at the base of the dais. Her mind completely fractured at the announcement.

She had ruined her family, poisoned her parents, and drained the pack's bank accounts just to steal a regional Luna crown—only for the sister she threw into the snow to be named the empress of the entire supernatural world.

But it was Kilian who received the true, fatal whiplash.

The moment Alistair spoke the word Queen, something catastrophic happened inside Kilian’s mental landscape.

The invisible, frayed remnants of the fated mate bond—the ghost-strings he had carelessly ripped out four years ago—suddenly snapped back into his consciousness like a whip made of liquid fire.

His inner beast, which had been sullen and repressed for forty-eight months, completely broke its chains.

The wolf went savage. It didn't attack Seraphina; it turned inward, ruthlessly tearing Kilian’s own mind apart.

Goddess! the beast screamed in his head, a deafening, agonizing roar that made his vision flash with white spots. You threw away a Goddess! Tainted blood! Fool! Fool! Crowned in starlight and we threw her to the frost!

The psychological torture was unbearable. The agonizing, poisonous jealousy that flooded Kilian’s veins was a physical entity, choking him, burning his lungs.

He stared at Seraphina’s flawless porcelain skin, her magnificent emerald silk gown, and the way her copper hair perfectly complemented the dark velvet of Alistair's suit.

She was beautiful. She was untouchable. She was the supreme ruler of his entire world.

And she was supposed to be his.

He had owned that soul. He had held the divine alignment in his hands, and he had thrown it into a frozen ditch because he thought she was weak.

The realization was a jagged silver blade twisting in his gut, spilling his pride onto the floor.

"Sera..." Kilian choked out, his voice a raspy, pathetic whimper. He took one desperate, shaking step forward, his hand extending toward her hem.

"Sera... look at me. Please. The bond... it’s still..."

Seraphina slowly turned her head.

Her emerald-green eyes locked onto his desperate face. There was a faint glimmer of dark amusement dancing in her eyes, a chillingly calm satisfaction that made her look like a cat watching a mouse bleed out in a golden cage.

She didn't answer him. She didn't give him the dignity of a rejection. Her silence was a localized execution.

Alistair’s dark purple pupils instantly bled into a pitch-black, lethal void as he heard the mortal brute dare to speak her name.

The possessive beast inside the Lycan King woke up, craving blood.

Alistair didn't lift a weapon. He simply turned his full, unmitigated royal pressure directly onto Kilian’s position.

BOOM.

It was a physical impact. The air around the dais warped, a sudden, localized gravity spike shattering the dark mahogany table beside Kilian into hundreds of splinters.

Kilian’s knees didn't just buckle—they gave way completely.

The absolute, god-tier weight of the Firstborn bloodline slammed into his spine like a falling meteor. A sharp, wet crack echoed from his joints as his legs gave out.

The Alpha of the Silver Moon Pack plunged face-first onto the hard, frost-coated marble, his chest slamming against the stone steps, his forehead striking the floor right at Seraphina’s feet.

He lay there, gasping for oxygen that had been entirely sucked from the air, his fingers clawing at the frozen floorboards as he vomited a thin stream of dark blood from the internal pressure. He was completely, utterly defeated.

His pride was reduced to dust. He was a king kneeling before his own discarded shadow.

Seraphina stood directly above his head, her emerald gown lightly brushing against his trembling, scarred knuckles. She didn't step back.

She simply watched him writhe, taking a slow, elegant sip of her champagne through the rim of her glass.

Alistair stepped forward, his heavy, polished handmade boots stopping right beside Kilian’s ear.

The platinum-haired giant looked down at the writhing Alpha, his handsome Nordic features twisted into a mask of pure, aristocratic disdain.

His low, velvet voice cut through the terrified silence of the ballroom like a guillotine.

"You dare stand in her presence?" Alistair whispered, his words carrying a lethal, bone-chilling promise that echoed off the frozen chandeliers.

He leaned down a fraction, his violet-black eyes burning into the back of Kilian's skull.

"Know your place, dog."