The Alpha's 1-Dollar Mistake Bows to the Queen

I slipped behind the heavy crimson velvet curtains draping the rear of the King's throne. The fabric muffled the echo of the great hall, shielding me from view. Through a narrow gap in the drapes, I watched the massive oak doors swing shut.

Alexander sat on the carved obsidian throne, his posture rigid and commanding.

Footsteps echoed across the stone floor.

Brandon and Victoria approached the center of the hall. The arrogant Alpha who had destroyed my motorcycle yesterday was gone. Today, his shoulders slumped, and his hands shook as he carried a wicker basket wrapped in cheap, wrinkled cellophane.

"Your Majesty," Brandon stammered, dropping to his knees. The stone smacked loudly against his kneecaps.

Victoria hurried to kneel beside him, awkwardly maneuvering her swollen belly. She kept her eyes glued to the floor, terrified of looking directly at the King.

"We bring a token of goodwill," Brandon said, shoving the meager basket forward. "From the Shadowmere council. We humbly request aid from the Crown."

Alexander leaned back against the throne. He did not spare a single glance at the basket of bruised apples and stale bread.

"You stand before the Royal Court," Alexander said, his voice a dangerous rumble. "After I seized your territory's accounts yesterday, you crawl in here asking the Crown to rescue the pack you ruined."

Brandon swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I speak for my council, Sire. We are begging for military aid. The northern borders are vulnerable, and Shadowmere is prepared to submit fully to the Crown."

"Align," Alexander repeated.

He raised a hand. Gideon, standing by the stone pillars, stepped forward and handed the King a rolled parchment.

"You submitted this alliance scroll at dawn," Alexander said.

He unrolled the parchment. The entire document was covered in thick, aggressive red ink slashes. Entire paragraphs were crossed out, the margins filled with sharp, unforgiving corrections.

"Let us review the immense value you bring to my kingdom," Alexander said.

"We offer loyalty, Sire," Brandon pushed, his voice high and desperate. "Absolute loyalty."

"Loyalty does not fund my armies," Alexander countered. He flattened the scroll against his thigh. "Article four. Shadowmere promises a twenty percent yield from their eastern iron mines in exchange for a garrison of my soldiers."

Brandon nodded eagerly. "Yes, Your Majesty. Top-grade iron."

"Your eastern mines flooded three months ago," Alexander stated. "The tunnels are submerged. You have not extracted a single ounce of iron since the spring melt. Deficit one."

Brandon's face drained of color. "Sire, we have crews pumping the water—"

"Article seven," Alexander cut him off, his tone slicing through the excuse. "A pledge of fifty thousand gold coins for the Royal Treasury, payable upon the arrival of my troops."

"A generous tribute," Brandon urged, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple.

"A fictional tribute," Alexander corrected. "Shadowmere defaulted on their regional loans twice this year. Their vault is empty. You are offering me ghost money. Deficit two."

Victoria whimpered, clutching Brandon's sleeve. "Please, Your Majesty. We just need a small detachment. Just fifty men to keep the rogue factions away from the settlement."

Alexander shifted his golden gaze to her. The absolute coldness in his eyes made her shrink back.

"I did not give you permission to speak," Alexander said.

Victoria clamped her mouth shut, tears pooling in her eyes. She pressed her face against Brandon's shoulder, hiding her expression.

Alexander returned his attention to the ruined scroll. "And the final insult. Article twelve. You claim Shadowmere will supplement my forces with one thousand trained warriors."

"They are fierce fighters," Brandon insisted, desperation making him reckless. "They know the northern terrain better than anyone."

"My scouts report their barracks are abandoned," Alexander said. "The warriors deserted because Shadowmere cannot afford to feed them. You are offering me a starved, nonexistent army in exchange for my elite guards. Deficit three."

Brandon stared at the floor, his chest heaving. The cheap cellophane on the gift basket crinkled as his shaking knee brushed against it.

"You brought me a basket of rotting fruit and a scroll full of lies," Alexander summarized.

"Please!" Brandon yelled, abandoning all pretense of dignity. He bowed so low his forehead rested against the cold stone. "The Shadowmere accounts are frozen! The Crown is our only hope! If you deny this treaty, the rogues will slaughter us. They will take everything!"

"You have nothing left to take," Alexander pointed out.

"Give me a chance to prove my worth!" Brandon begged, his voice cracking. "I will manage the mines myself! I will find the gold! Just sign the treaty, I implore you!"

From my hiding spot behind the velvet, a fierce satisfaction burned through my chest.

Five years ago, I had knelt in the mud, begging this exact man for a fraction of his mercy. I had asked for a week to recover from my illness before he banished me. He had laughed, tossed a dollar at my feet, and told me weak things deserved to die in the cold.

Now, he was the one groveling.

"You ask for my armies," Alexander said, his voice echoing through the silent hall.

"Yes, Sire," Brandon cried out, keeping his face pressed to the stone.

"You ask for my gold and my protection."

"I will do anything," Brandon promised, a pathetic sob tearing from his throat. "Anything you ask."

Alexander stared down at the ruined Alpha for a long, silent moment. The tension in the great hall pulled tight, thick enough to choke on.

Then, Alexander rolled the heavily marked parchment.

He tossed it casually over the edge of the dais. The scroll hit the stone floor with a sharp smack, unrolling slightly to reveal the glaring red ink, coming to a rest right next to the pathetic gift basket.

"That depends on my Queen," Alexander said coldly. "You must beg her."