"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.