The platform had been measured.
Not by steps.
By breath.
Veyla knew this because the chalk marks—faint, almost invisible—were not placed for ceremony, but for survival. Three paces from the left pillar. Five from the center line. Seven from the Alpha's designated position.
Nine from the Vampire King.
Numbers that looked harmless to the untrained eye.
Numbers that could mean collapse if ignored.
She stood at the center of the raised dais, sunlight spilling across polished stone, the banners of three realms hanging motionless behind her. Below, the inner court gathered—nobles, envoys, commanders, scribes.
An audience curated to observe stability.
Veyla inhaled slowly.
Distance held.
The ache beneath her ribs remained tolerable, a steady pressure like a held note that never resolved.
Across the open space, Khorg Ironmaw stood rigid, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere above her shoulder. His wolf paced violently beneath his skin, every instinct screaming at him to close the distance.
Mate too far.
Mate watched.
Mate vulnerable.
The scent reached him in thin threads—enough to tighten his chest, enough to stir nausea just below the surface. His nostrils flared despite himself, the wolf trying to map her position by instinct alone.
He clenched his jaw.
*Do not move.*
Nine paces saved him.
Nine paces tormented him.
Further still, Vinculus Noctaryn observed from his place near the eastern column. His posture was flawless, hands folded loosely behind his back, expression serene.
Inside, his blood rebelled.
The absence of proximity gnawed at him with surgical precision, a hollow ache spreading slowly through his veins. Not pain—*deprivation*.
A humiliation.
To want without touch.
To need without control.
He despised it.
The herald's voice rang out, formal and steady, announcing the Princess of Aurelion and the council's declaration of managed presence.
Veyla listened without reacting.
Her attention was elsewhere.
On the way the bond stretched—taut, vibrating, alive.
On the way both men anchored themselves to stillness with visible effort.
On the way the world leaned in, waiting for failure.
When she finally spoke, her voice carried effortlessly across the space.
"I stand before you not as a symbol," she said calmly, "but as a responsibility."
A murmur rippled.
Khorg's wolf stilled, ears pricking at her tone.
Vinculus narrowed his eyes slightly.
"I have been called cursed," Veyla continued. "Afflicted. Dangerous."
She paused.
The bond pulsed sharply, reacting to the tension.
"I will not deny the danger," she said. "But danger can be measured."
Her gaze swept the crowd, unflinching.
"And measured danger can be managed."
The ache flared suddenly—stronger than before.
Khorg sucked in a sharp breath as the scent thickened for half a heartbeat, his stomach lurching violently. His wolf surged forward, furious, confused, desperate.
He staggered a fraction of a step.
One pace lost.
The chalk line blurred.
Veyla felt it instantly.
The bond snapped tight, heat flooding her chest, breath catching painfully in her throat. Her fingers curled into her sleeves, nails biting into fabric as she forced herself to remain still.
Across the dais, Vinculus stiffened.
The shift sent a spike of sensation through him—sharp, intoxicating, wrong. His blood reacted violently, craving proximity even as his mind recoiled.
Too close.
Too sudden.
Zora's voice cut through the tension, light but razor-edged.
"Alpha," she called pleasantly, "unless you're planning to faint dramatically, I suggest you step back."
Khorg froze.
For a heartbeat, instinct warred with command.
Then discipline won.
He forced himself back, jaw clenched, reclaiming the lost distance.
The nausea eased just enough for him to breathe again.
The ache in Veyla's chest dulled, leaving behind a trembling awareness of how close they had come to catastrophe.
Silence gripped the platform.
Then the murmurs resumed—hushed, frantic, electric.
Veyla steadied herself.
She lifted her chin.
"This," she said evenly, "is why I asked to choose."
Her eyes flicked briefly to Khorg—not accusation, but acknowledgment.
Then to Vinculus—who met her gaze with an intensity that made her pulse jump.
"I will not pretend this is comfortable," she continued. "But discomfort is not failure."
The words landed harder than any proclamation.
Khorg exhaled slowly, wolf pacing but quieter now.
Vinculus felt something shift—an unfamiliar sensation tightening his chest.
Respect.
The address concluded soon after.
As the court dispersed, the tension lingered like static in the air.
Khorg remained rooted in place, fists clenched at his sides.
Vinculus watched Veyla descend the dais, every step measured, controlled, alone.
She passed between them—never crossing the lines, never breaking the rules.
Yet the bond hummed louder than ever.
Zora leaned against a column, arms folded, eyes sharp.
"Well," she murmured to herself, "that didn't end in blood."
She smiled faintly.
"Promising."
As Veyla exited the platform, the ache beneath her ribs pulsed steadily—a reminder not of weakness, but of consequence.
She had survived being seen.
But the distance that kept them alive was beginning to feel thinner than breath.