Leonidas Auricryn

The private chambers at the top of the packhouse were dim and cool, stone and glass holding the night at bay while gold lit sconces traced sharp lines along the walls. He fastened the last cuff at his wrist with precise, unhurried movements, black fabric tailored to his frame like it had been carved onto him rather than worn. The weight of his signet ring settled against his knuckle, gold, warm, familiar. Below it all, his scent simmered, restrained but potent, coiled dominance waiting to be unleashed among the masses. He stepped into the corridor, boots striking stone with measured authority, and the packhouse responded the way it always did, subtle shifts, quiet awareness, bodies straightening as he passed. It was there, halfway to the grand stair, that he caught the offending scent.

Smoke.

Leonidas stopped. Klaus lounged near one of the open archways, shirt hanging open and unapologetic, tattoos bared beneath the low lights as he drew lazily from whatever he was smoking, exhaling without a shred of concern. Gold eyes flicked up, feral amusement already curling his mouth. Leonidas did not raise his voice. “Put it out,” he said, tone flat, lethal. “And close your damn shirt. This is a mating ball, not a gutter.” Klaus grinned, slow and sharp, clearly considering pushing his luck, then something in Leonidas’ gaze shifted. The grin faded just enough. With exaggerated slowness, Klaus crushed the smoke beneath his boot and tugged his shirt closed, muttering something vulgar under his breath. Leonidas did not linger. Discipline delivered, he continued on, descending the broad staircase toward the heart of the estate.

The grand ballroom opened before him like a living thing. Gold and black draped the vaulted space, towering columns etched with the Auricryn crest, catching the light of massive chandeliers above. Music rolled low and rhythmic, vibrating through bone rather than air. Lycans filled the room in layers of power and scent, packs intermingling in a rare, fragile truce. Desire, ambition, and instinct hung thick, threaded with challenge and promise. As Leonidas stepped inside, the room felt him. Conversations softened. Bodies shifted. Eyes followed. Submission rippled outward in an almost imperceptible wave as his gold gaze swept the hall. He crossed the marble floor with unhurried dominance, every step deliberate, every breath a reminder of who ruled this ground.

Fenros awaited him near the dais, posture controlled, expression carefully neutral, but his respect was immediate and absolute. Leonidas inclined his head once in acknowledgment, brief but unmistakable, the exchange silent and sufficient. Then the King moved on. He wove through the crowd like a blade through silk, accepting bowed heads and lowered gazes without pause. His attention drifted across the room, assessing, measuring, cataloguing strength and weakness alike. Somewhere tonight, bonds would be formed. Bloodlines secured. Fates entangled. And Leonidas would watch it all unfold from the center of his dominion, gold eyes burning as the music swelled and the mating ball truly began.