The King's Gamma (#Wattys2024)

One Hundred

The war room of the Stormcutter had never felt so suffocating. Fleet Admiral Deimios stood rigid at the head of the table, flanked by his command staff, while across from him, the three vassals of Havenhell lounged with the ease of conquerors—Yonis with his scholar's poise, Fenrir sprawled like a predator, and Dennis tapping an impatient rhythm on the table. CIS lurked near the door, cataloguing every reaction with sharp eyes.

The silence stretched like a bowstring.

Then Yonis shattered it.

"Admiral," he said, voice deceptively mild, "that pendant you wear. Do you understand its purpose?" His gaze dropped pointedly to the silver wolf resting against Deimios' throat.

Deimios' fingers twitched toward it. "Protection. Hal—"

"—is the Duchess of Havenhell," Yonis finished, as casually as announcing the time.

The room erupted.

Rorin choked on air. "What in seven hells—?"

CIS let out a delighted laugh. "Oh, this is exquisite."

Deimios' face went pale. "That's impossible."

Fenrir snorted. "Tell that to the sigil burning through your shirt."

Dennis shook his head, chuckling darkly. "We would've thought she'd at least inform the poor bastard she marks. Guess our girl's getting sloppy in her old age."

Deimios' hand clenched around the pendant. "Explain. Now."

Yonis leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "That pendant only activates when a bond has taken root. It's not just protection—it's a claim. And you've been wearing hers since the battle."

A ripple of shock spread through the Nautican officers. Deimios' pulse roared in his ears. The farm boy's impossible strength, the blue fire, the way his skin had burned at every accidental touch—

Hal had never existed.

CIS, ever the provocateur, cleared his throat. "Partners. Plural." His smirk widened. "How delightfully complicated."

Fenrir bared his teeth. "Dual bloodline means dual bonds. Our Duchess never does anything by halves."

The pendant seared against Deimios' skin, a brand he hadn't consented to. His mind raced through every interaction, every glance, every moment that suddenly made terrifying sense.

And somewhere beyond these steel walls, beneath the wreckage-strewn waves or vanished into the smoke of her own making, Harley Havenhell was missing.

But the persistent warmth of the pendant suggested one undeniable truth—wherever she was, the bond still held.

Deimios' grip tightened around the pendant. His voice came out low, dangerous. "How many partners does she have?"

The vassals exchanged glances. Yonis steepled his fingers. "Two. One for each bloodline."

A muscle twitched in Deimios' jaw. "And the other?"

Yonis didn't blink. "Unknown. Even to us."

CIS let out a low whistle. "So the infamous Duchess is racing against time to hunt down a stranger while playing house with you? Charming."

Fenrir's grin was all teeth. "You should be flattered. She usually doesn't bother with courtship."

Deimios ignored him, his focus locked on Yonis. "Why the urgency?"

The room grew colder.

Yonis leaned forward, his voice a whisper that slithered through the silence.

"Because berserkers who don't claim their partners before twenty-one don't live to see twenty-two."