My three beast mates

The bells of the palace rang thirteen times that morning.

Thirteen — an unlucky number in every kingdom except this one. Here, in the golden realm of Aurenhal, thirteen bells meant only one thing.

The Gifting Ceremony had begun.

Princess Ivy sat before a cracked mirror in the smallest chamber of the west wing, staring at a reflection she barely recognized. Her chestnut hair had been braided by her own hands — no maid had come to help her, as usual. The pale grey gown she wore was two seasons old, its hem frayed, its silver embroidery dulled from too many washes.

Down the hall, she could hear the laughter of servants preparing her sister.

“Princess Elara, you look like the sun itself!”

“The gods will bless you today, Your Highness!”

“Surely the greatest beast in the realm will be yours!”

Ivy closed her eyes.

She did not envy her sister the gown, or the jewels, or the perfumed oils being poured into her bath. She envied only one thing.

The voices.

The warmth in them.

No one had ever spoken to her that way.

Not once. Not ever.

A soft knock at the door made her flinch. A young maid — perhaps twelve, new to the palace and still unaware of the rules — peeked inside.

“Princess Ivy... it’s time.”

Ivy rose slowly. She smoothed her faded gown with hands that did not tremble, though her heart did.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The maid blinked, startled. No one thanked her either.

The Grand Hall of Aurenhal had been built to humble kings.

Its ceilings arched impossibly high, painted with murals of ancient beast bonds — dragons crowning emperors, lions kneeling to queens, wolves guarding kings through eternal winters. Golden light poured through stained glass windows, casting rainbows across the marble floors.

Every noble in the kingdom had come.

Every foreign ambassador. Every duke, every general, every whispering courtier draped in silk and cruelty.

And at the center of it all stood a raised platform of white stone, where the Gifting would take place.

Ivy entered from the servant’s corridor — of course — while her sister entered from the grand staircase to a symphony of trumpets.

Elara.

She descended like a goddess, golden curls tumbling down her back, sky-blue eyes sparkling with practiced grace. Her gown was spun from actual gold thread, her crown studded with sapphires the size of eggs. The nobles gasped. The Queen wept with pride. The King stood taller than he had in years.

“Our jewel,” someone whispered. “Our future,” said another. “The pride of Aurenhal.”

Ivy stood in the shadow of a pillar, unseen.

As always.

The High Priest raised his staff, and silence fell across the hall.

“Today,” he intoned, “the gods bestow upon our royal daughters their sacred beast mates. May the bonds forged this day protect our kingdom for a thousand years.”

He turned first to Elara.

Of course.

“Princess Elara of Aurenhal — step forward and receive what the gods have chosen for you.”

Elara glided to the platform. She lifted her chin. She smiled the smile of someone who had never been told no.

The great oak doors at the far end of the hall groaned open.

And in walked a lion.

Not merely a lion — a demi-lion, half-man, half-beast, standing seven feet tall. His mane was spun gold, glinting in the sunlight. His chest was broad and bare, marked with the sacred sigils of nobility. His amber eyes swept the crowd with lazy arrogance, as though the entire hall existed only to be observed by him.

The nobles erupted.

Gasps. Applause. Weeping. One woman actually fainted.

The King struck the arm of his throne. ”Magnificent!" he boomed. “A lion — a lion!— for my Elara! The gods themselves have blessed this house!”

Elara laughed like bells, the cruelest bells Ivy had ever heard.

The lion stepped onto the platform beside her, and though he did not bow, no one seemed to notice. He simply stood there, radiating power, and Elara curled her golden fingers around his massive arm like she had just won the world.

Because she had.

The High Priest turned then, slowly, toward the shadowed pillar where Ivy stood.

“Princess Ivy,” he said. His voice was flat. Dutiful. Uninterested.

“Step forward.”

Every head in the hall turned.

Ivy walked.

She did not look at her mother’s disgusted grimace. She did not look at her father’s cold, unreadable face. She did not look at Elara’s smirking lips, or the lion’s dismissive golden gaze.

She simply walked.

Chin lifted.

Back straight.

Silent.

She reached the platform, and the great oak doors groaned open once more.

But this time...

No trumpets played.

No priests chanted.

No nobles gasped in awe.

Instead, the hall filled with the harsh, ugly sound of chains dragging across marble.

Three figures were pulled into the hall by six armored guards.

The first was a man in heavy iron chains — so many that Ivy wondered how he could even walk. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair falling messily over piercing silver eyes. Faint dragon scales shimmered along his neck and forearms, catching the light like scattered stars. A jagged scar ran across his exposed chest. He did not stumble. He did not flinch. He walked as though the chains were decoration.

Zareth.

The second was a rugged man with ash-brown hair and sharp amber eyes, wolf ears half-hidden beneath his hair. His body was mapped with battle scars — old ones, deep ones, the kind that told stories no one wanted to hear. He moved with the disciplined silence of a soldier who had seen too much and forgotten how to feel.

Roonan.

The third was smaller, slimmer, with soft honey-blond hair and fluffy rabbit ears that twitched nervously. His hazel eyes were warm, his cheeks slightly flushed. He looked out of place among the other two — like a lamb dragged into a wolf’s den.

Rio.

The nobles took one look at them.

And burst into laughter.

"A dragon in chains?!" one duke roared. “He looks half-dead!”

"A retired wolf soldier!" cackled another. “Past his prime by ten years!”

"And a rabbit!" a duchess shrieked, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “A little bunny for the little unwanted princess!”

The laughter swelled. It filled the hall. It bounced off the ceilings, off the murals, off the golden light.

The Queen leaned toward the King, her lips curled in cruel amusement.

“Fitting,” she whispered, just loud enough for Ivy to hear. “Worthless mates for a worthless daughter.”

The King barked a laugh.

Elara covered her mouth, giggling behind gloved fingers.

Even the lion smirked.

But Ivy did not cry.

She had promised herself, long ago, that she would never cry in public.

Not for them.

Not ever.

She lifted her chin higher instead. She squared her shoulders. She turned to face her three “gifts” — these three chained, laughed-at, discarded souls — and she looked at them.

Truly looked at them.

Rio was the first to meet her gaze. His hazel eyes went wide, and something in them softened — surprised, almost tearful, as though no one had looked at him with kindness in a very long time.

Roonan glanced at her next. His amber gaze flickered from her face down to her worn gown, then to her trembling hands hidden in her skirts. His jaw tightened. Something ancient and protective stirred behind his soldier’s mask.

And then...

Ivy’s eyes met Zareth’s.

Silver on grey.

The world stopped.

His chains rattled — just once — as his entire body went rigid. His silver eyes widened, then narrowed, then glowed— a soft, otherworldly light that no one else in the hall seemed to notice.

Ivy felt it before she understood it.

A pull.

Deep. Ancient. Terrifying.

Something inside her — something buried so far beneath years of silence and shame that she had forgotten it existed —woke up.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Her breath caught.

For one impossible moment, the laughter of the nobles faded into silence. The gold light dimmed. The hall vanished.

There was only her.

And him.

And the whisper of something ancient uncurling in the space between them.

Mine, whispered a voice in her head that was not her own.

Zareth’s lips barely moved.

But she read the word he mouthed.

“You.”

The High Priest cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

“By the will of the gods,” he droned, “these three beasts are bound to Princess Ivy of Aurenhal. May the gods... have mercy on her.”

More laughter.

The King waved a dismissive hand. “Take them to her quarters. And keep them chained — we don’t need a dragon breathing fire in the west wing.”

Guards yanked the three men forward. Rio stumbled and Roonan caught him with quiet ease. Zareth’s silver eyes never left Ivy’s face — not once — as he was dragged past her.

Ivy stood frozen on the platform, her heart still thundering.

Elara sidled up beside her, golden curls bouncing.

“Enjoy your pets, sister,” she whispered sweetly. “Try not to let the rabbit die of fright.”

She laughed her bell-like laugh and floated away with her lion.

The nobles began to disperse.

The ceremony was over.

Ivy remained on the platform, alone, hands trembling now that no one was watching.

Because deep inside her chest, something had awakened.

And it was whispering three names.

Zareth.Roonan.Rio.

Mine.