Chapter 91

Chapter 91: Chapter 91

Freya stood behind her mother, practically vibrating with the effort of staying still. Her eyes were fixed on her brother, drinking in every detail—the way he stood, the way he held himself, the way his dark eyes crinkled at the corners when he looked at their mother.

Don’t wave, she told herself fiercely. Don’t run. Don’t shout. Don’t—

Soren’s eyes found hers. And for just a moment, his carefully neutral expression cracked into something warm and surprised and achingly fond.

"Freya," he said. "You’ve grown."

Freya’s composure nearly shattered. "I’m taller now," she managed, her voice barely steady. "And my wolf finally came."

"I know. Mother wrote to me." He almost smiled. "I’m proud of you."

The King stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. "We have much to discuss. But first—" He turned to the assembled students, his voice carrying across the silent courtyard. "My son has trained among you for years. He has bled alongside you. He has earned his place as Sword Sovereign through skill and strength, not through birthright. Whatever you felt about him before—whatever you feel about him now remember that he chose to stand among you as an equal. That is the mark of a true king."

The students exchanged glances. Some looked awed. Some looked resentful. Some looked like they were still trying to process what had just happened.

"Now," the King continued, "let us proceed with the welcome feast. Tomorrow, the showcase begins. And I expect to be impressed."

The formal procession reformed, students and instructors filing toward the grand hall. But the whispers didn’t stop. They followed Soren like a shadow as he walked—the crown prince, the crown prince, the Sword Sovereign is the crown prince—and Nyra watched him go with her heart in her throat.

He glanced back at her once. Just once. His dark eyes met her silver ones across the crowded courtyard, and in that brief, fleeting moment, he was not the crown prince. He was just Soren. Her Soren. Her mate.

She nodded slightly. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

He nodded back. I know. I love you.

And then he turned and followed his father into the hall.

The welcoming ceremony continued speeches from Lady Isolde, introductions of the senior staff, a formal procession into the grand hall where the welcome feast had been prepared. Nyra watched from her position in the crowd, her heart pounding. The King was here. The Queen was here. Freya was here the little sister Soren had told her about, the one who built snow forts and challenged palace guards to duels.

The one who had no idea that her brother’s secret mate was standing twenty feet away, disguised as a boy.

The welcome feast was a lavish affair, the grand hall transformed into a glittering palace of silk and candlelight. The long tables were piled high with roasted meats and fresh bread and bowls of summer fruit. Musicians played in the gallery. Students and dignitaries mingled in careful, formal clusters. The King and Queen sat at the high table with Proctor Kane and Lady Isolde, their conversation low and serious.

Freya sat beside her mother, picking at her food and trying very hard to look dignified. It was torture. Absolute torture. Her brother was right there at the far end of the high table, looking handsome and serious and utterly unapproachable and she couldn’t even talk to him.

She lasted through the first course. She lasted through the second. By the third, her patience had worn paper-thin.

"Mother," she whispered, "may I be excused? I need to... freshen up."

The Queen gave her a knowing look. "You will return promptly."

"Yes, Mother."

"You will not cause any diplomatic incidents."

"I never cause diplomatic incidents."

"You caused three at the last state dinner."

"Those were minor incidents. Barely incidents at all."

The Queen sighed, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Go. But be back before the final course."

Freya slipped out of her chair and made her way through the crowded hall with the careful dignity of a princess who was absolutely not sneaking away to find her brother. She ducked through a side door, navigated a maze of corridors, and finally found herself in a quiet garden courtyard, away from the noise and the crowds.

She wasn’t alone for long.

"Freya."

She spun. Soren stood in the doorway, his formal coat discarded, his dark hair slightly disheveled. He looked less like the Sword Sovereign now and more like her brother—the one who had taught her to fight, who had carried her on his shoulders through the palace gardens, who had promised he would always protect her.

"Soren!" She abandoned all pretense of dignity and launched herself at him. He caught her with a grunt, his arms wrapping around her as she buried her face in his chest.

"I missed you," she mumbled into his shirt. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, little star." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You’ve gotten so tall."

"I told you I grew."

"You did. But I didn’t believe you until now." He pulled back and looked at her, his dark eyes warm. "Your wolf came."

"Three weeks ago. I wanted to tell you in person. I wanted it to be a surprise."

"It’s a good surprise. The best." He cupped her face in his hands. "I’m proud of you, Freya. So proud."

Freya beamed. Then, over Soren’s shoulder, she noticed they were no longer alone.

Three figures had appeared in the garden doorway. One was massive and scarred, with the kind of face that made people cross the street to avoid him. One was leaner and sharp-eyed, with a book tucked under his arm. And the third was silver-haired and slender, with eyes the color of moonlight and a smile that was trying very hard to be neutral.

"Ragnar!" Freya launched herself at the scarred Alpha with the same enthusiasm she’d shown her brother. "You’re still alive!"

"Barely," Ragnar said, catching her with a laugh. "Your brother keeps trying to get me killed."

"That’s because he’s terrible at everything except fighting."

"I heard that," Soren said.

"You were meant to."

Freya pulled back and looked at the other two figures. "Who are your friends?"

Soren gestured. "This is Jasper Reed. He’s one of our roommates. And this—" He paused, just for a moment. "This is Thorne Astrlyn. He’s... a friend."

Nyra stepped forward and bowed—a formal, princely gesture. "Princess Freya. It’s an honor to meet you. Your brother has told me a great deal about you."

Freya studied her with sharp, assessing eyes—so like Soren’s. "You’re the prince of the Astrlyn pack. The third largest in the kingdom."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Are you the one who survived the Mistwood with my brother? The one he carried through the forest?"

Nyra’s cheeks flushed slightly. "I... yes. That was me."

Freya looked at her for a long moment. Then she looked at Soren. Then back at Nyra. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.

"You’re her," she said quietly. "Aren’t you? The silver-haired one. The one the seer spoke of."

Nyra’s heart stopped. "I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness."

"I think you do." Freya stepped closer, lowering her voice. "The seer came to the palace before we left. She said there was a silver-haired woman at the academy. A woman of the old blood. The Moonblood. She said this woman was connected to my brother. That she could be his salvation or his destruction." Her dark eyes were bright with curiosity. "Is that you?"

The silence stretched like a wire about to snap.

Then Nyra let out a slow breath. "Yes. It’s me."

Freya’s smile widened. "Good. I was hoping it was." She turned to Soren. "She’s pretty. I approve."

Soren blinked. "You... approve?"

"Someone has to. You clearly can’t be trusted to make good decisions on your own." Freya turned back to Nyra. "Is he treating you well? If he’s not, I can have him thrown in the dungeon. I have that power now. I’m a princess."

Nyra laughed—a surprised, genuine sound. "He’s treating me well. Most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"He can be a bit overprotective."

"That’s the Lycan in him. It’s very annoying." Freya linked her arm through Nyra’s with the casual confidence of someone who had decided they were friends. "Tell me everything. How did you meet? When did you know? Has he been insufferable about it?"

"Freya—" Soren started.

"Hush. I’m bonding with your mate."

The word hung in the air. Mate. Freya had said it so casually, so naturally, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And perhaps to her, it was.

Jasper watched the exchange with sharp, knowing eyes. Ragnar was grinning like a fool. And Soren—Soren was looking at his little sister with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and overwhelming love.

"She’s going to be insufferable about this," he muttered to Ragnar.

"She’s already insufferable. It runs in the family."

"I heard that," Freya called over her shoulder.

"You were meant to!"

The garden filled with laughter—real, warm, genuine laughter—and for a little while, the weight of the showcase and the King’s arrival and all the dangers that lay ahead seemed to lift. Freya asked Nyra a thousand questions, and Nyra answered as many as she could. Jasper observed everything with quiet amusement. Ragnar told embarrassing stories about Soren’s childhood until Soren threatened to challenge him to a sparring match.

And when it was time for Freya to return to the feast before her mother noticed she was missing, she hugged her brother one last time.

"I’m glad you found her," she whispered. "I’m glad you’re happy."

"I am happy," Soren said quietly. "More than I ever thought I could be."

"Good. You deserve it." She pulled back and looked at Nyra. "Take care of him. He pretends to be tough, but he’s really very fragile."

"I’m not fragile," Soren protested.

"He cries at sad stories."

"I do not cry at sad stories."

"There was that one about the wolf and the moon—"

"That was years ago. I was twelve."

"Still counts."

Nyra laughed—a bright, warm sound—and Soren looked at her with so much love in his eyes that Freya had to look away.

"I should go," she said. "Mother will send a search party."

"Go. We’ll see you at the showcase tomorrow."

Freya nodded and slipped out of the garden, her footsteps light on the stone path. When she reached the door to the grand hall, she paused and looked back.

Her brother was standing with his arm around Nyra’s shoulders. Ragnar was still grinning. Jasper had opened his book. And the silver-haired woman—the Moonblood heir, the one the seer had spoken of—was laughing at something Soren had said, her eyes bright with joy.

She’s the one, Freya thought. The salvation. Not the destruction.

She smiled and slipped back into the feast.

The King was here. The showcase was tomorrow. And whatever storm was coming, Freya knew—with the absolute certainty of a thirteen-year-old who had read all the old stories—that her brother and his mate would face it together.