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Katherine Harrington “Greet me,” the instructor ordered, her voice cutting through the room like a blade drawn too fast. I exhaled once, steadying the pulse in my throat, and gave a controlled bow that felt practiced rather than natural. “Good evening, gentlemen… my lady. You look stunning this evening.” The silence that followed was immediate and heavy, like the room itself was judging me. “…A little better,” she said at last, circling me with slow, deliberate steps. “But still too casual. You are not speaking to friends. You are addressing power.” I straightened at once, resetting my posture as though my body had been waiting for correction. Of course. “Again.” I obeyed without argument, lifting my chin, softening my expression until it became something measured—neither inviting nor cold. “Good evening,” I said more carefully this time. “It is an honor to be in your presence.” Her head tilted slightly, unimpressed but attentive. “Closer. But you are still asking for approval. A royal does not seek acceptance. A royal acknowledges presence.” A quiet nod from me. Again. By the third attempt, something in my voice shifted. It dropped lower, smoother, stripped of hesitation, shaped by intent rather than instruction. “Good evening,” I said. “I acknowledge your presence.” “…Better,” she admitted after a pause. My shoulders eased, almost against my will. “Now imagine you are entering a hall full of nobles,” she continued. “Some admire you. Some resent you. Some wish you did not exist. What do you do?” I inhaled slowly. Then I walked. Not rushed. Not cautious. Balanced, as though every step had already been approved by silence itself. When I stopped, I lifted my gaze—precisely aligned, neither challenging nor submissive. Silence gathered first, as if the room was waiting to see if I would collapse under it. Then I spoke. “Good evening,” I said calmly. “I see you all.” A subtle shift moved through the imagined crowd. “I do not require your approval,” I added, voice steady as stone settling into place. “Only your attention.” The instructor paused longer this time. “…That,” she said finally, “is closer to what I am teaching you.” Later, we moved through movement drills—walking, turning, pausing—each action stripped of randomness and rebuilt with meaning. “Do not rush,” she instructed. “A royal does not chase time. Time follows them.” I repeated it silently with each step, letting my body adjust to the idea rather than resist it. Slow. Controlled. Intentional. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I was imitating something foreign. I felt structured. As though something inside me had begun to align rather than break. “Final exercise,” she announced. “Enter the hall again. Without instruction.” The room went still in a different way this time. No corrections. No guidance. Just me. I walked forward and let the hall form in my mind—vast, unseen, waiting. Step. Step. Step. No fear. No apology. No hesitation dressed as confidence. Only presence. When I stopped, I allowed silence to settle completely before I spoke. “Good evening.” Simple. Clean. Certain. “I am Katherine Harrington.” A pause. “And I am your soon-to-be Luna.” Even the instructor’s expression changed slightly at that—but she offered no interruption. “…That,” she said at last, “is what we’ve been building toward.” Later, the tone shifted. “Perfect,” I murmured after the session ended. “Anything else?” “No,” came the reply. “I don’t think so.” A beat passed before I asked, “Can you tell me about Luciano?” “Tyrant Luciano Zarkov,” she answered immediately. A faint pause crossed me. “Are you correcting how I address my mate?” Her eyes snapped up, startled—then wary. I let the silence stretch just long enough to feel it. Then I laughed lightly. “I’m teasing you. Now… tell me.” She exhaled, tension loosening just slightly. “Of course. Tyrant Luciano was a rogue—said to be equal to gods in strength, intelligence, and brutality. Most importantly, he is believed to embody karma itself.” I listened without interruption. “He was a wanderer before he took Moonfall—the largest and most powerful Alpha seat in the region.” My brows drew together faintly. “Moonfall became Vagabond.” “Yes,” she confirmed. “He renamed it after taking control.” “Then he united the remaining six Alpha states,” she continued. “Killed their leaders in single combat and absorbed their territories.” Silence settled again. “So seven Alpha rulers fell,” I said slowly. “Yes.” “And from that,” I concluded, “the Vagabond Empire was born.” She nodded once. “The capital remains Vagabond. The original seat of power.” I released a slow breath, processing it like weight rather than information. “So this entire country is ruled by one man.” “Yes.” A pause. “…Impressive,” I said quietly. “Truly.” Without lingering, I turned and walked out. The air outside felt heavier than before. The Tyrant is my mate. Fuck. No. Focus. “What are you smiling at?” I lifted my gaze. Luciano. Already there. Standing as though he had always been there. I straightened slightly. “Nothing. Just thinking.” A pause. “I’ve learned about you,” I continued carefully. “Ruthless. Dominant. Equal to gods.” His eyes stayed fixed on mine, unreadable. “Good,” he said simply. No pride. No reaction beyond confirmation. Then— “State what you were taught.” I blinked. “About what?” “Your presentation.” Silence. I exhaled. “How to greet nobles and governors. How to present myself. What to say when asked about status.” He didn’t move. “Demonstrate.” My body tightened slightly. “Right now?” “Yes.” A pause. I complied. “Good evening,” I said. “I acknowledge your presence.” “Insufficient.” My brows lifted slightly. “Insufficient?” “Again.” I reset my breath. “Good evening,” I said. “It is an honor to be in your presence.” “Closer.” Then— “Lineage.” My breath caught. “What?” “State it.” “I wasn’t taught that.” Silence followed, absolute and immediate. Then his voice came again, calm as ever. “You don’t know it.” Not a question. A conclusion. My throat tightened. “Then you will learn it.” “I don’t remember anything—” “Your name is Katherine Harrington.” A beat. “Mother: Mary Harrington. Father: Richard Harrington. Both from the Omega slave lineage.” The words struck with precise weight. My breath stalled. “What… how do you know that?” A pause. “Because I verified it.” No emotion. No explanation. Only fact. I shook my head slightly. “I can’t say that.” “Why.” Not curiosity. Not debate. Demand. “Because I’m—” I stopped. “That sounds wrong.” His gaze did not change. “You are what you are.” Then, as if to end the argument entirely: “I am Tyrant Luciano Zarkov.” A pause. “And I am a rogue who took this continent.” His eyes locked onto mine. “So speak.”