"Your Grace, I am Dahlia Sterling, third daughter of the Sterling pack," the lesser noblewoman stammered, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and overwhelming ambition. She kept her head bowed, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck in a classic display of wolfish submission. "I... I wish to accept your flower... if I may?"

The atmosphere in the royal garden instantly shattered, replaced by a suffocating, crackling tension. The ambient sounds of the night seemed to vanish entirely.

Doyle’s golden eyes snapped toward Elena, blazing with furious blame and disbelief. He had orchestrated this entire spectacle to break her, not to actually take a lesser noblewoman into his bed. But with hundreds of aristocratic eyes watching his every move, he couldn't simply retract his grand declaration. He forced a stiff, unnatural smile, though his jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ground together.

"Elena," Doyle barked, his Alpha aura flaring out in a heavy, oppressive wave that made the surrounding omegas whimper. "If you want this flower, I will save it for you. But if you do not come forward right this instant, I will give it to Miss Sterling. Do you understand the consequences?"

It was a blatant, desperate final warning. It was a step down for her, a chance to salvage the situation. As long as she walked over and knelt, this humiliating farce would end, and they could proceed with their betrothal.

"Elena!" Doyle roared when she didn't immediately move, his voice echoing off the marble statues.

"Elena, my poor child, stop being so stubborn," Consort Rowena chimed in, stepping out from the shadows of the pavilion. She wore a mask of benevolent concern, but her eyes glittered with malicious delight. "Do you truly wish to see another female enter the Duke's pack before you? A male needs his pride. To challenge him so publicly... it is not wise for your future."

Everyone in the courtyard finally understood the true nature of the evening. This Flower Bestowal was nothing but a psychological trap set by the Duke and his mother to violently domesticate the proud Lady Beaumont. Now, the trap had been sprung, and the jaws were closing. Words spoken by an Alpha in front of the court could not be taken back. If Elena refused to kneel, the rose would undoubtedly fall into Dahlia Sterling's desperate hands.

Would she kneel? The silence was deafening as the nobility waited for her to break.

To their absolute shock, Elena placed her teacup down and spoke with maddening, serene slowness. "The Duke's flower is indeed beautiful, but I am afraid it does not suit my tastes. Since Miss Sterling desires it with such passion, why not play the benevolent Alpha and grant her wish, Your Grace?"

She smoothly adjusted the folds of her silk skirts, her expression as tranquil as a undisturbed lake, as if the surrounding chaos and the destruction of her own engagement had nothing to do with her.

Dahlia Sterling gasped, looking up at Doyle with wide, hopeful eyes, her hands clasped together in desperate prayer.

Doyle and Rowena, however, were petrified. They stared at Elena in utter, paralyzing disbelief. Doyle felt as though he had been struck across the face with a broadsword. He never imagined that Elena, who had stood by his side for years, who had bled for him on the battlefield, would willingly let another female claim his mark. Just a month ago, she had fought him tooth and nail over a rogue female. Now, she was casually pushing him into the arms of a stranger? Was she insane?

Doyle opened his mouth, a furious growl building in his chest, but Rowena quickly stepped forward, shooting him a sharp look to keep him quiet.

Rowena turned her predatory gaze on Elena, the mask of benevolence slipping to reveal the ruthless political operator beneath. "Elena, you must think very carefully about what you are throwing away," the Consort hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Even if you are the official Duchess, if a secondary mate gives birth to the first strong pup, Doyle can elevate her status at any time. The mother of the firstborn heir holds the true power in the pack. Do you understand what you are risking?"

Every word was a calculated, vicious threat, designed to strike fear into the heart of any future bride.

Elena maintained her serene, icy smile. She looked down at the kneeling girl. "In that case, I wish Miss Sterling a highly fertile union, an early pregnancy, and a den full of strong pups once she enters the Duke's estate."

"Elena!" Doyle roared, leaping to his feet. His chair crashed backward onto the stone patio. The sheer force of his fury sent a shockwave of Alpha dominance through the air, causing several nearby nobles to drop to their knees in instinctual fear. "What is the meaning of this?!"

Elena's smile vanished, replaced by a gaze so cold it could freeze boiling blood. "You are the God of War, Your Grace. An Alpha whose word is law. Miss Sterling has knelt for your flower, fulfilling your exact conditions. Why haven't you given it to her? Or is the great Duke Valerius a male who goes back on his public oaths?"

"Elena de Beaumont, are you determined to make an enemy of my son?" Rowena snapped, completely losing her aristocratic composure. She hadn't expected Elena to display such a titanium spine; she had expected tears and begging. "You had better understand that some actions cannot be undone! Your pack is weak! Without my son's protection, who in the entire Eastern Kingdom would dare to take you as a mate? You will die a spinster!"

Elena didn't even bother to grace the Consort with a reply. She simply turned her head, her posture screaming aristocratic grace and unbothered superiority.

The nobles in the garden were dead silent, terrified of the Duke's impending, violent wrath. No one dared to breathe, fearing they would be caught in the crossfire of this disastrous broken betrothal.

Just as the tension reached a breaking point, a heavy, rhythmic clanking of armored footsteps echoed from the garden entrance. A voice, deep and devoid of any inflection, rang out: "Lady Elena de Beaumont, this is my master's jade flower. Please accept it."

The crowd gasped collectively. A towering knight, clad in dark, battle-scarred armor, strode into the light of the lanterns. He was covered in the dust and grime of a long, grueling journey. It was Rook, the most trusted enforcer and Beta of Prince Alexander Valerius.

"Lady Elena!" Rook stopped a respectful distance before her, his massive, armored frame dropping to one knee with surprising grace. He bowed his head deeply, presenting a dark, heavy ebony box resting on his gauntleted palms. "My master, Prince Alexander Valerius, has achieved total, crushing victory over the rebels in the Northern Wastes. He will soon return to the capital in triumph. Hearing that the Flower Bestowal was taking place tonight, he ordered me to ride ahead without rest to present this to you. Please, my lady, accept his offering."

Prince Alexander's flower!

The surrounding noblewomen turned ashen, instinctively backing away as if they had just been handed a death sentence. The whispers that broke out were laced with pure terror.

Prince Alexander was the Kingdom's undisputed God of Slaughter. Rumors from the frozen north painted him as a monstrous, feral Alpha—hideously scarred from years of brutal combat, possessing a savage, bloodthirsty temperament, and wielding a massive silver greatsword that could cleave a dozen rogue Lycans in half with a single, devastating swing. He was a true demon of the battlefield, a male who inspired nightmares, not romantic fantasies. Now that he was returning with unparalleled military merits, the King would surely grant him whatever he desired, including a mate. Did this mean the God of Slaughter had set his terrifying sights on the elegant Lady Elena?

Doyle’s body went rigid, radiating a freezing, murderous intent that made the air heavy and hard to breathe. "Does your master not know that Elena is my betrothed? How dare he interfere with my mate!"

Rook kept his head bowed, completely ignoring Doyle’s overwhelming Alpha aura. His voice remained steady and entirely respectful. "My master said that until the mating mark is bitten into the flesh and the vows are sealed before the Moon Goddess, anything can change. Furthermore, my master merely wishes to express his profound admiration for Lady Elena's brilliance and grace, nothing more."

He pushed the ebony box closer to Elena, the lid slightly open to reveal a stunning, crystalline bloom that pulsed with a soft, internal silver light. It was the legendary Night Star, a flower that only bloomed in the harshest blizzards of the north. "My lady, this is my master's sincere offering. Regardless of whose pack you ultimately join, please know of his deep respect and unwavering admiration."

Before Elena could even process the sheer political magnitude of the gift, Doyle snarled, taking a threatening step forward. "Elena, do not forget you belong to me! You will reject that box immediately!"

Elena, who had initially been considering how to politely decline such a politically explosive gift, felt a sharp, furious sting of rebellion at Doyle's possessive, commanding tone. He had just tried to humiliate her, he was currently standing over a kneeling female he had offered his own flower to, and yet he dared to order her around like a piece of property? A cold, dark laugh escaped her lips.

"If Your Grace can so casually offer your flower to another female, why can't I accept a respectful gift from another male?" Elena asked, her voice ringing with crystal clarity across the silent garden.

"Elena!" Doyle's face darkened with an ugly, purple rage, his fists clenching so tightly his leather gloves creaked. "Do not push my patience! You are playing a dangerous game!"

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Elena completely ignored his furious growling. She reached out with steady hands and accepted the heavy ebony box from Rook. The cool, soothing light of the Night Star washed over her face, instantly erasing the humiliation Doyle had tried to inflict upon her.

Doyle's chest heaved with heavy, furious breaths, a dry, rasping cough escaping his lips—his telltale sign of mounting, uncontrollable stress.

Rook’s stern eyes lit up with genuine joy. He remained kneeling, looking up at Elena. "Since you have graciously accepted my master's gift, my lady, would you be willing to bestow your scent token upon him? Something small, so I may return to the frozen north with proof of your favor?"

Doyle looked ready to draw his sword and murder the knight where he knelt. "Don't you dare, Elena! I forbid it!"

Elena sneered internally. What didn't she dare to do? He had already shattered their trust; she owed him no loyalty.

She reached up to her intricate hairstyle and unpinned the silver Beaumont crest—a delicate hawk mid-flight, infused with her natural scent of jasmine and rain. She placed it gently into Rook's waiting, calloused hand.

Rook was ecstatic, his stoic demeanor breaking into a wide, triumphant grin. "Thank you, my lady! My master swore on his honor that he would return to the capital within ten days! Please, wait for him!"

With his mission accomplished, Rook secured the silver crest inside his breastplate, right over his heart. He rose to his feet, bowed once more, and turned, vanishing into the night as swiftly as he had arrived, leaving a trail of stunned silence in his wake.

Finding the rest of the banquet utterly tedious and the air polluted by Doyle's suffocating anger, Elena turned her back on the fuming Duke, the kneeling Dahlia, and the scheming Consort. With Zosia trailing nervously behind her, she left the royal gardens early, her head held high, the Night Star glowing brightly in her arms.