Chapter 3

I did not expect there to be so many people out here. Like, too many. The paths leading up to the castle are filled with carriages of all sorts, some fancier than others. It's a mess of silk-draped women, armored guards, and horses that look like they cost more than my entire existence.

To even step foot in this ball, you need a patron—a sponsor in human language—who secures you a place. Usually, veiled families handle this, their names powerful enough to unlock the castle doors. If you come from an ascended lineage, your family can patron you. But for everyone else, it's about what you can trade. A valuable gift. A hefty sum. Maybe a favor that no one dares to name out loud. The bigger the patron, the better your prospects. The higher the prestige, the better access to powerful packs.

Me? I got patroned by Aenie's other husband, Charlie's uncle, a werewolf noble named Lord Alric Draven. Well, her husband is his favorite nephew, so he agreed to my entry with just a small gift as a formality. Convenient.

What wasn't expected? Finding myself shoved into a carriage with other women. I thought I'd be assigned a different one, considering my ranking is practically at the bottom, but apparently, all women attending the ball receive the same special treatment—at least, for the sake of appearances.

Which is how I found myself here, stuck among women dripping in jewels and confidence, watching me as if I'm some oddity to be studied. The only person I spoke to was an elven woman, who doesn't seem half bad.

Could be a mask, though.

I try again, as we step out of the carriage. "So, how does this work?"

She looks at me with those mesmerizing eyes. Seriously. She makes me question my sexuality. With a delicate fan covering the lower half of her face, she still manages to look effortlessly elegant. "They didn't prepare you for what's to come?"

I laugh, though it's more nervous than I'd like to admit. "Nope. Going in full blind."

Her sharp gaze scrutinizes me like she's looking for something specific. I raise my brows in a challenge. She hums, then responds, "You're human." Not a question. A fact.

"No human woman I know has ever been to this ball," I admit. "So, yeah. I have no one to ask."

Realization dawns in her eyes, and then she clears her throat. "Well, when you go in there, just smile. Don't show weakness. Don't attract trouble, and you'll be fine."

Right. As if I don't already know that.

I don't say it aloud, though. Instead, I mutter, "Yeah, that helps," with enough sarcasm that I know she catches it.

She tilts her head slightly. "You'd better not let your disdain for this whole thing show on your face. It's considered disrespectful, rude, and ungrateful."

Before I can respond, she turns, heading up the stairs. But just before she disappears inside, she throws one last remark over her shoulder. "I have a feeling this year's Harem Ball will be… different. My name is Lyara, by the way. Perhaps we'll see each other again—if fate wills it."

Chills run down my spine. I don't know why, but the way she says it makes me uneasy.

Inside the ballroom, I take my place at the end of the line of women trailing behind Lord Caelum Draven. The moment I step in, I'm nearly overwhelmed. The space is massive, illuminated by an obscene number of chandeliers, their golden glow bouncing off the walls of polished marble. The ceilings stretch endlessly, painted with intricate designs of celestial bodies and mythic creatures.

It's breathtaking.

And terrifying.

The guards at the entrance are another thing entirely. They are tall. Like, freakishly tall. NFL players would look like toddlers next to them. I'm not tiny by human standards—I'm 5'8", thank you very much—but in this world? I might as well be a child. Everything and everyone towers over me.

As we make our way to our designated seats, I feel the weight of dozens of eyes on me. Some are curious. Most are judgmental.

"She doesn't belong here."

"Who patroned her?"

"I heard she's human."

I ignore them and take my seat, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. If there's one thing I've mastered, it's pretending not to care.

The men aren't here yet. From what I've gathered—by eavesdropping, of course—the ceremony comes first, then the game. The Trials of Devotion.

I didn't catch much about what kind of game we're talking about, but I hope it doesn't involve any physical activity. Because if it does, I am absolutely screwed.

A hush falls over the room.

A group of men and women in impossibly fine robes take the stage, exuding authority. One of the women steps forward, a commanding presence in deep crimson. She introduces herself as the host of this year's ball.

Her speech is long. Too long. She drones on about the honour of mating, the glory of being chosen, the privileges that come with it. I stop listening halfway through.

Then she finally gets to the part that matters: the Trials.

There are five stages.

The fifth stage, known as the Stage of Introduction, is about mingling. Meeting potential packs. Dancing. Making an impression.

The fourth stage, the Stage of Selection, is when the packs start choosing who they're interested in. Women then have to compete against each other to prove they're the best choice.

The third stage, the Stage of Endurance, is where things get interesting. The host doesn't elaborate on what it entails, only that it will separate the 'capable' from the 'unworthy.'

The second stage, the Stage of Loyalty, is even vaguer. A trial, she says. A test of trust.

And finally, the first and final stage. The Stage of Devotion. Weird numbering though, I will give them that.

She doesn't say what it involves. Only that very few make it past this point.

A strange silence follows her words.

Something about the way she says it—the weight behind her tone—makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.

I glance around. The other women don't look as unsettled as I feel. They should be.

Because I don't think this is just a game.

I think this is a warning.