Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 2: The Duke Who Did Not Bow

Lyria’s POV

I could not move.

My body stood frozen in the shadowed corner of the Grand Hall while my heart fractured into something unrecognizable.

Corvin walked toward Jacinta with the easy confidence I had seen a thousand times before — the same relaxed stride he used when approaching me in the gardens, the same gentle curve of his lips that had once belonged to my name alone. He stopped before her, lowered himself into a flawless bow, and then, to my utter devastation, reached for her hands.

He lifted them.

And kissed the back of her gloved fingers.

A soft, reverent kiss.

The breath punched from my lungs as though I had been struck.

He was the only one who did it. The only one who had kissed her hand, and I was trying to reconcile the fact that he was the same person who had told me that he couldn’t imagine kissing my sister after what she had done to me.

None of the other candidates dared touch the princess so boldly. They bowed, they inclined their heads, they kept their hands clasped respectfully behind their backs. But Corvin — Corvin crossed that invisible line as if it had never existed.

As if she belonged to him.

As if I had never existed at all.

A sharp ache bloomed behind my eyes, but I refused to let tears fall. I swallowed hard, my fingers curling painfully into the rough fabric of my skirt as I watched him straighten, his smile warm and charming as Jacinta flushed faintly in pleased surprise.

The hall erupted into whispers.

”They look perfect together.”

”Did you see that? How daring.”

”Oh, they would make such a beautiful pair.”

”He suits her so well.”

”Perhaps the fates favors him.”

Each word felt like a blade sliding between my ribs.

I wanted to disappear. To dissolve into the shadows and never return. My chest burned with betrayal so sharp it made breathing feel like a chore. The memory of his voice from the previous night echoed mercilessly in my mind — the warmth in his eyes, the sincerity in his words, the way his hand had brushed mine as he told me I was not invisible to him.

Was it all a lie? I didn’t know. I couldn’t understand.

I shifted instinctively, the movement sending a flare of pain across my back. My jaw tightened as I bit back a hiss. The injury beneath my dress — still raw, still healing poorly — reminded me why I could not simply flee. If I did, I would be punished, and I couldn’t afford to receive another injury on my back again. It would open up old ones, and the pain was intense.

I wasn’t like others. I didn’t heal as fast as a werewolf should. Everything about me was different.

So I stayed.

I stood there and watched the man I loved take his place beside the other candidates as though he had not promised to be my mate just the previous night. As if he had not kissed me all over and called me beautiful names the previous night.

He did not look toward the shadows again.

Not once.

My vision blurred slightly, but I forced myself to focus on the dais instead. On Jacinta’s pleased expression. On the way she subtly straightened her shoulders, clearly savoring the attention. On the small, triumphant curve of her lips as the whispers continued to coil around her like praise.

Then the footman lifted his scroll again.

”And finally,” he announced, his voice ringing clearly through the hall, ”His Grace, Duke Evander Valenridge of Blackmere.”

A murmur rippled instantly through the crowd.

No one stepped forward.

Seconds passed.

Then more seconds.

The footman hesitated, his brows knitting together. He cleared his throat and called the name again, louder this time.

”His Grace, Duke Evander Valenridge of Blackmere.”

Still nothing.

A restless tension crept through the attendees. Nobles exchanged puzzled glances. Some craned their necks toward the great doors at the far end of the hall. Others whispered behind gloved hands.

I felt a strange tightening in my chest.

The name was not unfamiliar to me.

Valenridge.

Even I, hidden from court life as I was, knew that name carried weight heavier than anything else in the whole kingdom. House Valenridge controlled Blackmere — the largest trade territory in the kingdom, its ports feeding half the empire’s commerce. Their caravans supplied grain, steel, textiles, glass, spices, and rare ores. Their vaults overflowed with wealth so vast that even the royal treasury had borrowed from them more than once.

And yet they were a dukedom.

Not royalty. They were not related to the royal family like how Lucien was. They had earned their position as a dukedom from the immense wealth they had accumulated.

And that had always unsettled my father.

House Aurelgrave ruled by prophecy and divine symbolism. House Valenridge ruled by tangible power — ships, armies, coin, loyalty, infrastructure. They sheltered rogues and displaced wolves, offering sanctuary where others offered chains or death. They gave wolves who had been abandoned a chance. And that was another reason the royal family hated them. Numerous people who had been sentenced to death had escaped to the Blackmere territory, and if proven not guilty, they accepted them into their territory, giving them a place. They avoided court politics with deliberate precision, rarely attending royal functions unless absolutely necessary.

And their Duke was a ghost. Actually, that was inaccurate — the current Duke, who was the son of the previous Duke, was a ghost, and anyone who wasn’t in their territory only had rumors about him.

Evander Valenridge almost never appeared in public. Rumors about him varied wildly — some said he was reclusive, others claimed he was dangerous, feral, unpredictable. Jacinta, on the other hand, found him fascinating. She often spoke of him with curiosity, wondering what kind of man ruled Blackmere with such quiet dominance.

My father despised him and the whole territory though. And perhaps that was why I could see his eye twitch in annoyance right now.

The silence stretched uncomfortably.

The footman dabbed sweat from his brow, then cleared his throat once more. ”His Grace, Duke Evander Valenridge of Blackmere,” he called again, his voice now edged with uncertainty.

Still no answer.

A ripple of awkward laughter fluttered through parts of the crowd.

”Perhaps he declined.”

”How disrespectful.”

”Did he even intend to attend?”

”Typical Valenridge arrogance.”

I folded my arms loosely over my middle, my fingers unconsciously pressing into my sleeves.

Just as the footman opened his mouth to speak again —

The massive double doors creaked open.

Every head turned.