Chapter 199: A Night of Incense and Instinct

The Great Hall was a shimmering, golden chaos of victory and velvet, but for Reiner, it had become a personal exercise in patience. He was currently being steered around the dance floor by Ezek, whose idea of a "waltz" was more akin to a tactical march. Reiner’s eyes, however, weren’t on his dance partner’s clumsy footwork, they were glued to the retreating backs of Zarius and Cherion.

He was still reeling. The image of Cherion’s hands, those frantic, wandering fingers, sliding over the Duke’s body stayed stuck in his mind. He had seen the flush on Zarius’s face, a sight more rare than a summer blizzard in the North. Reiner felt a surge of professional failure. Had he not lectured his master on the rigidity of Northern etiquette? Had he not explained that a Duke’s waist was not a public playground?

Reiner’s focus was no longer on the music or the man currently steering him across the floor; his eyes were fixed on the far end of the Great Hall, tracking the hurried, almost frantic exit of Cherion and the Duke. He watched them disappear.

His brow furrowing as he noticed Flio suddenly detach himself from the crowd to follow them in a rush. Reiner’s mind raced through a dozen protocols and safety concerns, his mind blaring warnings so loud the music faded into the background.

Reiner was so lost in the sight that he completely forgot he was still in the middle of a waltz. The sudden, sharp yelp from his partner was the only thing that snapped him back to reality.

"You stepped on my foot," Ezek hissed, his face contorting as he hobbled slightly, though he didn’t let go of Reiner’s hand. He looked down at his boots and then back up, his voice dropping into a dry, accusatory drawl. "I’m going to go out on a limb and hope that was also an ’accident’."

"Oh, that again," Reiner snapped. You had better find someone else who is actually interested in that topic because I am clearly not."

He left Ezek sputtering on the dance floor and marched toward the edge of the hall, where the scent of the room was suddenly shifting. It wasn’t the usual smell of sweat, ale, and roast meat. It was something sharper. But as he began weaving through the nobles, he realized with a surge of irritation that the heavy thud of boots was still right behind him. Ezek was following anyway.

He found Flio standing by a massive stone pillar, looking like a commander during an ambush. Flio was gesturing frantically to a group of bewildered maids.

"More!" Flio was saying, his voice a low, urgent hiss. "Bring the winter-bloom incense! The heavy stuff. And the cedar oil burners. I want this hall to smell like a flower shop had a head-on collision with a timber mill. Move!"

Reiner looked toward the nearest table, where Marielle and Elios were currently slumped over their wine, oblivious to the sensory crisis.

The two of them had clearly passed the point of "celebratory" and were now firmly in the "unfiltered" zone. Marielle was currently using a silver fork to draw patterns in a puddle of spilled wine, while Elios was staring at the ceiling with the intense focus of a man trying to remember his own name.

"I think," Marielle slurred, leaning her head on Elios’s shoulder, "we should do this every day. The subjugation is over. The snacks are great. Why leave?"

Elios let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Because, Marielle, if we did this every day, I’d be fired. Zarius has no tolerance for staff who smell like straight-up liquor at ten in the morning."

"Then find another job," Marielle scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "You’re talented. You could... I don’t know, herd sheep. Sheep don’t care about hangovers."

"I can’therd sheep," Elios muttered, his voice full of drunken tragedy. "I have to stay close to the Duke. I have to protect him and the North."

Marielle pulled back, squinting at him. "You’re obsessed with my brother, aren’t you? It’s weird, Elios. Honestly. It’s a little bit of a complex."

Elios let out a dry, hacking laugh. "Obsessed? Me? That’s rich coming from the woman who spent thirty minutes tonight talking about how the Duke’s new cape ’really brings out his authority.’ It’s a shame I didn’t bring a mirror, Marielle."

As the two of them spiraled into a petty, nonsensical argument about who was more devoted to the Duke, Reiner stepped into his brother’s space, his nose wrinkling. "Flio? What on earth are you doing? You’re going to give the entire court a migraine."

Flio grabbed Reiner by the elbow, pulling him into the shadow of the pillar. His eyes were wide. "It’s a scent-war, Reiner. Lord Cherion is in heat. If I don’t mask this room right now, every un-bonded Alpha in this hall is going to start acting like a starved wolf."

Reiner’s heart did a slow, heavy thud against his ribs. The color drained from his face. "In heat? Now? But he... I thought he... Oh..."

Reiner gasped, his mind racing through the potential traumatic outcomes. A heat was no joke.

"Reiner, listen," Flio said, his voice grave. "I’m worried. Can you go to the chamber? Just check. If the heat is too much, he might need the suppressants."

Reiner nodded, his professional instincts overriding his fear. "I’ll go."

"Reiner turned to go, then noticed Ezek still trailing behind him. "No," he cut in sharply, spinning back and pressing a firm hand to Ezek’s chest. "You’re staying right here. Ok?"

Reiner didn’t wait. He slipped out of the hall, his boots echoing softly against the floor as he walked down the quiet corridor. He expected to hear shouting, or the sound of furniture being overturned, or the "traumatic" noises of a feral mating.

Instead, there was nothing.

He reached the heavy doors of Cherion’s chamber and knocked. "Lord Cherion? Your Grace?"

Silence.

He knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. Panic flared in his gut, what if they’d killed each other? What if something went wrong because of the heat? He pushed the door open, his breath catching in his throat.

The room was empty.

The curtains swayed in the cold night air, moving restlessly in the wind. The balcony doors were wide open, and a dusting of snow had already begun to settle on the fine Northern rugs. The bed was a disaster, the silk sheets were twisted and ripped, a testament to a struggle that had clearly moved elsewhere.

On the small side table, weighted down by a heavy silver cufflink Zarius had been wearing earlier, was a scrap of parchment. Reiner’s hands shook as he picked it up. It was a mess of sharp, messy strokes, like whoever wrote it was barely holding it together.

We’ve left. If anyone asks, tell them the Duke is busy ’breaking in’ his fiancé.