Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Courting Rituals
I hear my guests whispering about the swampling before I see him. Why is he here? What has he brought? How could he possibly think the prince would accept his gift over all others? Mud-farmer. Swamp-rat. Bayou filth.
At first, I cannot fathom that the House of the Trembling Earth would have sent an Omega for me to consider as a mate. Their nobility is gold-poor and has no important connections in the Capitol. Exports are few – fish and rice, mostly. There are no cities, only long sprawls of bog broken up by intermittent settlements on the bits of dry ground that can be secured against the tides. Once, the region was home to a grand city called Half-Moon for the shape of its harbor. Here, the House of the Trembling Earth was known for its splendid carnivals and vibrant music; when the City-Killer came, the storm blotted Half-Moon from the earth, smearing it across the coast like a child dragging their finger through wet paint. The region has never been the same, relegated to a literal backwater of no import to my kingdom, Stagsland.
And yet, he has come.
Each of the great Houses has sent an Omega suitor to make a bid for my hand, to offer up a fertile womb to bear my heirs and spares alike. And, as tradition demands, each has brought a gift, a representation of the riches offered by their home regions. Tonight, the gifts and the Omegas both are to be officially presented to me during a celebratory feast.
The circular terrace of the Summer Palace is packed with tables, the columns at its edge decorated with flower garlands, everything lit by enormous braziers and tiered candelabras. The Houses are separated, of course, their retinues feasting together, enjoying my musicians and other amusements. I am seated at the high table with my viziers, my aging mother the queen, and my sister Mischa. It is at midnight of the Solstice that the gifts are to be presented.
And it is only moments before we begin that the swampling appears. Alone. He edges up to the pools of light thrown by the braziers and lingers just inside the ring of columns. He has with him an intricate swampgrass basket, a small knapsack, and a dog. The beast is wild and shaggy, with high, narrow hips and baleful yellow eyes.
“This is unexpected,” Mischa murmurs to me, cutting her meat with a few practiced slices. “Must be Baron Graham’s boy. Can’t imagine what he’s brought with him.”
I murmur in assent, accepting her dismissive utterance. Outwardly. And yet.
He is fascinating. He must know that he won’t be chosen. He provides the throne with no advantages, and there are prettier Omegas here with more breeding by a thousand-fold. And yet. Here he is.
“You have to admire his courage,” I say, watching him set down the basket and lean against a pillar. A servant approaches warily, and he accepts a plate of food, eating it with his hands like a heathen, tossing scraps to the dog. The longer I watch him, the more I appreciate his features; soft, dark curls, pale unblemished skin, clear blue eyes. Something about the bow of his upper lip intrigues me. Where the other Omegas are dressed in bright colors, clothing sewn tight, with plunging necklines and bare, graceful legs and throats, he’s dressed in what is likely the best clothing he owns, brown breeches with a simple green tunic and a woven belt made of the same materials they use to craft their baskets. He is, I notice, wearing tall boots that shine, oiled to keep out water. Interesting. I assumed they all went barefoot.
I don’t have long to consider it; my mother raises a palsying hand. The music stops, and the captain of our guard, Lady Beverly, climbs the dais to command attention. She carries a velvet bag of tiles. The throng goes silent as she reaches within and pulls out the first tile. “House of Tall Forest,” she calls out, voice echoing between the thick stone columns and casting itself up to the stars overhead.
The first of my suitors is a lovely little thing. I do enjoy dark hair and blue eyes, and she suits my taste, dressed in rich red and purple velvet. She curtsies to my mother first, of course, then addresses me. “Greetings, my prince. My name is Alana of the House of the Tall Forest. In addition to my hand, I have brought you a hundred of our tallest, strongest trees, felled by the hands of our woodsmen, ready to split and shaped into whatever you desire. Ships, beams, bows — our lumber is the finest in the kingdom.”
“Welcome, my lady,” I say as she spreads her skirt again to show deference, bending just so, of course, to show off the length of her pretty neck. The lumber is a fine gift, and she’s not wrong about the quality. It must have been a brutal journey, hauling all of it here.
Lady Beverly slips her hand into the bag again and withdraws the next tile. “House of the Long Tusk.”
The Omega offered to me is a sensual and seductive creature dressed in gold. She is called Margot. There is a hard-edged sense about her and her smiles hold something back. Her region is known for livestock, and they’ve brought me prize horses to ride, and cattle and boars to eat. She is of the Verger clan, and while their wealth and connections are tempting, the bloodline is intermittently tainted with insanity. I fought with Margot’s brother during the Bastion War; Lord Mason thought nothing of sending entire battalions to their deaths to gain a few yards of muddy ground. Bad for morale and a waste of resources. I once saw him gut his valet from groin to neck for stepping on his freshly-polished boot.
The Omega offered by the House of Vines is beautiful indeed, dripping with elegance, dressed in lavender and violet, her textured hair gathered up and decorated with pearls. The Houses are well aware, it seems, of my preferences, evidenced by their offering of Lady Bella, and the hundred casks of wine of varying grapes and vintages, including several bottles of their region’s finest, oldest blends. While the House of Vines is a steady presence in Stagsland, their longevity is tied to their ability to resist intrigue and be satisfied with moderate power and influence. They don’t have much to offer that I do not already possess.
My only other male Omega suitor, besides the swampling, presumably, is from the House of Fertile Fields, rulers of Stagsland’s bread basket. It comes as no surprise that he’s offering grain and produce, seeds from their carefully cross-bred crops, and potted plants dripping with gorgeous flowers. He has the sturdy build and amiable nature, it seems, that his region is known for. There would be no question of issue; the House of the Fertile Fields is fertile in all ways, known for their enormous families, their homes crawling with sticky-fingered cubs. He has a similarly homely name – Lord Brian.
There are only two tiles left in Lady Beverly’s bag. Mischa leans over to me and whispers, “Hope for House of the Mountain. It makes for a better story. Let the swampling cap off the evening.”
I have to agree with her. Our collective desire is sated when Lady Beverly calls out, “House of the Mountain.”
The largest retinue of all stands before our table now, every member dressed in the finest fabrics. Even the valets and maids wear jewelry, gold glittering in their ears and on their fingers. Their Omega is almost vulgarly dripping with riches, wearing a deep blue dress sewn with gems and bits of hammered gold and silver. I’ve been aware of Lady Bedelia for some time; she is as beautiful and cold as a diamond, and a connection to her house would provide the greatest benefit to the throne. Control of the mines is tantamount to the continued prosperity of the kingdom, and a close alliance can only facilitate our wealth.
“Prince Hannibal, Princess Mischa, and our beloved Queen,” Lady Bedelia greets with a graceful sweep of skirts. “It is my honor to bring you the fruits of our deepest mine, and the most luxurious creations of our artisans.” Attendants step forward and open several velvet-lined wooden cases. Upon the cushions within rest several pieces of jewelry, displaying a rainbow of cut gems and gorgeously crafted settings of gold and silver.
Lord Tobias, my mother’s favored vizier, leans closer to her drooping head and says, “She would make a fine queen, Your Majesty. Our troops guarding the border in the Tural mountains in exchange for a percentage of the mines would benefit everyone.”
My mother hums in approval. I know her only hesitation is that Lady Bedelia is older, and her relatives have not reliably brought cubs to term. Her younger brother, an Alpha called Francis, has yet to impregnate his mate, despite her being chosen from the House of the Fertile Fields. The strength of the bloodline is dwindling, and an heir is not assured.
The House of the Mountain is a known quantity. The House of the Trembling Earth, however, is most certainly not, and I am uncharacteristically impatient, twitching my finger against the table, waiting for the swampling to come forward and speak. Alone.
The entire terrace is enveloped in the same cold, distant silence that cradles the stars above the open-air feast. The only sound as Baron Graham’s son takes his place in front of the dais is the snap and crackle of the fires in the braziers, and the gentle tick-tick of his dog’s nails against the flagstone floor. The Omega has a resolute, haughty look locked on his face, as if all of this is a great inconvenience for him, being in our – my – presence. He does not look at me until he’s taken his place, making a small motion with his hand for the dog to sit, but there are patches of color on his cheeks that betray him.
He sets down the basket, and at last meets my gaze before executing a perfectly acceptable courtly bow. “Your Majesty,” he addresses my mother first. The swamp people honor matriarchy. “Your Highness.” Collectively to Mischa and I. “My name is Will. Baron Graham is my father.”
A titter of laughter ripples in a cruel undercurrent through the amassed courtiers. It may be in response to his plain words, or the way he says them, with an unmistakable Trembling Earth accent moments from the patois developed over generations of shifting immigration. He ignores it, and continues. “I’ve come to offer myself. To you.” This he directs my way, and I feel a momentary boyish flutter in my chest that is utterly unreasonable. “And these are my gifts.” He gestures to the dog and the woven basket that I have just realized has a lid on it with a braided handle. It is beautifully crafted, to be sure. But it is clear to everyone present that it is most decidedly not a pile of jewels.
He opens the basket. A solitary fly buzzes up from within and suddenly every nerve in my body is on the alert.
I can smell death.
Will, Omega son Baron Graham, reaches into the basket and withdraws a severed head.
A collective gasp roils up from the crowd. Within portions of a second, Lady Beverly has leapt from the dais and has her sword half-drawn, which earns her a growl from the bristling dog. The swampling, however, is resolute, immobile, stone-faced, his grip on the hair attached to the decaying head unwavering.
“Hold.” I hear myself say the word, though I have no memory of my lips forming it. Lady Beverly heeds me, but the commotion increases, a symphony of gasps and disgusted muttering.
“It’s Lord Francis!” someone from the House of the Mountain screeches, the words edged in panic. It is. I recognize the scar on the lip, and the stump of the neck seems as thick as I remember his being. It’s hard to tell if the eyes match, as they are sunken back into the skull. I’d wager it was severed four days ago.
“This is my gift to you, Prince,” Will says, calling out to me over the din as the other Omegas and their retinues edge further and further away from him. His voice drapes a hush over them as every eye fixes itself on him. “Lord Francis was a traitor. He’s been conspiring against you with someone, ah… close . Somebody who has your mother’s ear. He was going to kill you tonight, frame one of your advisers… then, uh, influence the queen to change the laws of succession so that a Beta could sit on the throne. Endgame, he was gonna try and marry the princess.” Will reaches into a pouch on his belt with his free hand and withdraws a bundle wrapped in oilskin, offering it to Lady Beverly. She snatches it out of his hand and unties it, revealing a packet of letters. “Proof that what I say is true,” Will proclaims. He’s still holding the head by the hair, casually, at his side, with a seasoned killer’s nonchalance.
Lady Beverly rifles through the letters in the deafening silence. Gathering them back up in the bundle, she looks up at me, her dark eyes hard and flinty. “It’s true, Your Highness. Lord Tobias arranged for Lord Francis of the House of the Mountain to kill you. It’s all here, stamped with his seals.”
Lord Tobias is agape. “I-I did… no such thing!” he stammers, backing up and out of his seat. My mother is aghast, her clouded eyes now sharp with the pain of betrayal. The House of the Mountain are on their feet, plates abandoned, chairs tipped and cups overturned, their offered Omega and the gift boxes now in the center of their party, a protective ring formed around them. Lady Bedelia’s face is ghastly white, but she doesn’t shed a tear or betray any other outward reaction to her brother’s severed head being held at Will’s side like a jug of wine or a bag of apples. There are more flies around it now.
Tobias is at the edge of the dais. I’m not sure where he means to go, but I am on my feet in an instant in case he should try to attack my sister or my mother. There is no escape, and he knows it.
I glance at the guards placed on either side of the archway that leads back inside the palace proper. “Seize him,” I suggest.
Chaos erupts as the guards race forward from several directions and capture Lord Tobias, who, despite everything, gives in to the human desire to run. Disgraceful.
“Take him to the dungeon and put him in irons,” Lady Beverly orders, crossing the flagstones with long strides, her legs unhindered by skirts, as she wears the light leather armor and maroon and black livery of our guards –the only indicator of the formal occasion is the way her hair is braided into a halo around her head and threaded with silver ribbon. “Your Highness,” she says to me as she marches past, “It’s not safe. Please withdraw to your apartments.” More guards have been alerted and are waiting to escort us to safety.
I turn back to the clamoring crowd and their Omegas. This is unprecedented, that the solstice night of a Choosing end with no mate selected. I know the oracles will call it a bad omen, not that I put any stock on their alleged powers. The Gods cannot be swayed by offerings or ceremonies; they are capricious and serve only their own amusement. This, right now, this chaos, must be a rare form of entertainment for them. But such things are not for a prince to say aloud.
What I do say is, “By royal order, all of you return to your regions. Take your gifts if you will, leave them if you wish, but your suitors and their retinues must stay clear of the Capitol until this treachery is resolved. Go. Now. Be gone by sunrise.”
Mischa is helping my mother down the steps of the dais, and calls over her shoulder to me, raising her voice to heard over the eruption of courtiers scrambling to follow my directive, grappling with the tumult of civil uncertainty Stagsland has just been plunged into. “Hannibal! Come!”
The swampling Omega, Lord Graham, Will, sets the head on a nearby table and closes the basket. He looks back at me, his sapphire eyes flashing gold a moment, then whistles to the dog. Turns to leave.
My body moves. I leap down from the dais in a smooth motion, trailing my thin warm-weather cape behind me. I mean to say, you there , or Lord Graham, halt , but instead, I say, “Will.”
He turns and looks at me, the gold ring in his eyes expanding again. It is in his nature to obey an Alpha, his prince no less, but I can see the tension wire through his body.
And it is in my nature to be both commanding and comforting to an Omega. Especially one that smells as good as he does. Swamplings are supposed to stink, plastered constantly in filth. He smells like clean earth and something sweetly spicy mixed with blossoms. His nails, however, are admittedly atrocious, though this is easy to ignore when I admire how capable the hands look. A warrior knows another warrior’s hands, though mine have gone soft as of late.
Hearing about a foiled attempt on my life did not raise my pulse, but his nearness somehow does. There is something beautifully feral about the stubble on his cheeks; I’m desperate to trace it with my fingertips. Despite the riot at my core, courtly life has instilled grace in me from a young age and I do remember my manners. “I’m afraid I must ask you to stay.”
He nods, unsurprised, it seems. Lady Beverly reappears, her boots heavy on the stones. “Your Highness, we need to secure your safety.” She pauses, eyeing the Omega carefully. “I have a cell ready for him as well. I need him tucked away until we can understand the depth of Lord Tobias’s treachery.”
She moves as if to take him by the arm, but one disapproving look from me halts her. “Lord Graham is our honored guest. Bring him to the royal apartments to ensure his safety as well.”
“Your Highness, we don’t know the extent of his involvement, either. Or his true motivations.”
Will crosses his arms, fixing her with a baleful blue stare. “I think my intentions are pretty damn clear. I brought the prince the most valuable gift.”
This pleases me more than it should. “Lady Beverly. Inform the staff. Give him the valet chamber adjacent to mine.”
She doesn’t like it; I can tell by the turn of her mouth, but she knows better than to object a second time. Within moments we are whisked away by a phalanx of guards, walking shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by black and maroon on all sides. I fix my eyes on the tooled leather stag’s head stitched to the back of Lady Beverly’s livery and try to ignore the increasingly mouthwatering Omegan scent that tortures my nose. The dog trots at Will’s side, her yellow eyes as wary as her master’s.