Chapter 1 THE KING’S SON.

Seren’s POV.

The market smelled of too many people and rot. Not the sweetness of baking bread but of sweat, stale oil, and the metallic tang of too little money. It was the scent of my life.

I gripped the single silver coin in my pocket, the cool metal a distraction. It felt small and meaningless. Five more were supposed to be there, but five more had gone into getting medicine for my father.

“Morning, Maeve,” I said, hoisting my chin as I approached the butcher’s stall. Maeve didn't look up, too busy cutting a slab of low-grade beef.

“Seren. Back again?” Her voice was dry. “You still owe me for the meat from last Tuesday.”

“I know, Maeve. This, today, is for bread and soup stock. Next week, I’ll have the full amount. Just need something that will last for a little longer” I placed the silver on the counter. It looked pathetic against the scarred wood.

Maeve finally looked at me, her brown eyes weary. She knew my father, knew about his failing health and the huge debt he carried. She knew I worked three jobs—cleaning, laundry, hauling goods, running errands and still, we bled slowly.

“Soup stock, then,” she sighed, scooping a handful of ingredients and put them into a faded cloth bag. It wouldn't last three days. It wouldn't even keep the hunger from settling in my father’s eyes.

“Thank you. I won’t forget the kindness.” My pride shriveled but I kept my tone level. Pride doesn’t buy protein.

As I turned from the stall, the feeling settled on me again: the crushing weight of my father’s ruined business and his debt to the Council. It was a physical chain around my throat, slowly squeezing the air out of our lungs. Every coin I earned felt like…nothing. No matter how hard I worked, the money was never enough.

I stopped and looked around. The vendors stopped shouting prices, the children stopped playing, and the villagers, seconds ago arguing over potatoes, suddenly left in a hurry.

The Prince.

It had to be. Only the presence of an Alpha, the heir to the throne could raise such terror.

I tucked the bag of scraps under my elbow and slowed my breath. I wasn't afraid of royalty in the way the others were. I was angry at them. Angry that their effortless wealth funded their pointless parades while the people they supposedly protected starved under the weight of their taxes.

He rode slowly past the people watching him. Prince Aiden. He was rumored to be fierce, skilled in combat, and detached from the realities of our lives. He looked exactly as a prince should: dark hair slicked back, a uniform of deep navy and silver that seemed to absorb all the light, and an expression that suggested he found the sight of his own people slightly…disgusting.

He was followed by two Royal Enforcers and a plump royal advisor, a man named Lord Valerius, who looked constipated.

I looked around the crowd, looking for a way out without being noticed. That's when I saw them, gathered at the stall of the old baker, Thomas.

Thomas, whose hands trembled even when the market was calm, was currently pressed against his wooden counter, his face pale and slick with sweat. The two Enforcers stood over him.

“...Three days, Thomas,” one of them, a man with a thick neck and small eyes drawled. “Three days, or the shop is gone. And maybe your kneecaps, too, if you continue to keep what the King is owed.”

Thomas whimpered, shaking his head. “I haven’t kept anything, sir. The harvest… the grain prices… have increased. My business is slowly dying.”

The enforcer laughed. He picked up a fresh loaf of Thomas’s famous bread, squeezed it until the crust cracked, and then tossed it on the floor. The waste of it, the careless destruction of another man's livelihood, made the anger in my chest tighten.

Prince Aiden had stopped less than twenty feet away. He was listening, observing the transaction with the curiosity of a child watching ants.

My blood boiled. My debt was private, but Thomas's humiliation was public, a cruel performance for a cold-eyed Prince.

I walked toward the stall. Every survival instinct screamed at me to keep my head down and my mouth shut. But watching Thomas fold, watching his men grin as they tormented an old man, felt like watching my own funeral. I couldn't. I just couldn't.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice cutting through.

The man whirled around, surprised at the interruption. His small eyes fixed on me, narrowed with irritation. “Who are you? Your parents never taught you to stay out of men’s business?”

I ignored him and addressed Thomas, my voice loud just enough to reach the Prince. “Thomas, I thought I told you not to worry about those expired goods I picked up last week. You overcharged me, remember?”

The enforcer stepped closer, blocking my view of the baker. “Goods? What are you babbling about?”

“The expired goods that were borrowed to him” I replied sweetly, tilting my head. “You can’t come here requesting payments for bad market”

It was a total, ridiculous lie.

The man froze, his brain struggling to process the sudden news. He didn't want the Prince, who was still silently watching, to think he was incompetent or, worse, wasting his time on an error.

“You insolent peasant,” He snarled, lifting his hand.

“Don’t touch her, Grix,” a voice commanded.

It was Aiden.

Grix’s face went white. He dropped his hand and immediately bowed, getting on his knees on the dirty ground. “My Prince! She speaks nonsense, a distraction, sir.”

Aiden didn’t look at Grix. His eyes, a startling pale blue, were fixed on me. And I did not bow.

The pressure of his gaze felt like a physical weight but I met his eyes, my own brown eyes staring back with a challenge. I saw curiosity in his, and a faint amusement, as if I were interesting .

“Nonsense, perhaps,” Aiden said, his tone casual, almost bored. “But meaningful nonsense. The distraction worked.” He shifted in the saddle. “You have guts, girl. What’s your name?”

“Guts is cheap when you’re hungry, Your Highness. And my name is my own business.”

A slow smile touched his lips. It was the first emotion I had seen on his face, and it was unnerving. He was used to obedience, my refusal was probably just amusing to him.

He shook his head, looking back toward his advisor. He lifted a hand dismissively toward me and Grix.

“This is boring. This royal inspection I mean,” he said. “Valerius, if you ever select candidates for the ‘bride training program’ bring her. I’d like to see if that fire can last.”

He gave his reins a light tug and rode on.

I stood there for a long moment, my legs weak, watching the train of royalty disappear. Thomas was pulling me into his stall, weeping as he thanked me but I barely registered it. The Prince’s compliment hung in the air like a threat.

Bride training program. A golden cage for a few lucky, politically useful women. And me? A Beta whose only asset was a sharp tongue. It was a cruel joke.

I walked home in a daze, the tension of the market replaced by a churning dread. My father, Torvin, was slumped at our small table, the air in our hut thick with the smell of drying herbs. He was a good man, but worry was finally killing him.

“I heard the market was disturbed today,” he said quietly, not meeting my eyes.

“Just the King’s men chasing pennies,” I lied, setting the food bag down. “Nothing new.”

He took a slow, agonizing breath and finally pushed a crumpled, official-looking document across the table. It was sealed with the Council’s mark.

“They came, Seren,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I tried everything. I told them I only needed six more months to gather the rest.But the Council… they’re done waiting.”

I picked up the document and read through it. They were seizing the land, the house, and everything we owned, next week. The full weight of his unpayable debt was finally crushing us. We would be stripped of our home and forced to the streets. We would be homeless.

“Papa, no,” I breathed, “There has to be another way. We can write a petition to the King…”

“There is no King to petition,” he said, shaking his head. “The Council handles the finances. And they only listen to one thing. A debt fully paid.”

My earlier defiance had evaporated, replaced by cold terror. I closed my eyes, picturing Grix’s ugly grin, the Prince’s bored amusement, the impossibility of gathering enough to save us. Ruin was no longer a possibility; it was definitely going to happen.

Just as the sun dipped, painting the sky in a bloody orange streak, a heavy knock rattled our front door.

I opened it to find a royal messenger. He held a creame envelope sealed with the signet of the Court Advisor, Lord Valerius.

“Seren,” the messenger announced, his eyes skimming over the poor state of our home, “Seren, daughter of Torvin. You have been selected.”

He shoved the summons into my hand and left before I could speak.

I stood there, the paper pressed against my palm, staring at the Council’s foreclosure notice on the table. One hand held the ruin; the other held an invitation.

The Prince’s throwaway joke—the “bride training program” had become the answer to the debt, a single chance to save my father. The price, I knew instantly, would be far higher than silver.

I swallowed, the taste of poverty and desperation bitter in my mouth.