Caught by the Mad Alpha King Chapter 276: Guests perform for him

Altera’s central airport was not the kind of place that indulged chaos.

It wasn’t grand in the theatrical sense Rohan preferred, with no glittering arches or endless carpets to remind visitors how fortunate they were to step foot on them. Instead, it carried the quiet authority of a capital that had weathered crises and did not find spectacle useful. Everything ran with a level of precision that bordered on unnerving. Security moved like a single organism. Diplomatic corridors flowed smoothly, purpose guiding every motion. Even the air felt orderly, as if the city refused to tolerate disorder for more than a heartbeat.

Which made the arrival from Rohan feel even more painfully out of place.

Marianne Lancaster stepped off the jet bridge first.

Tall and composed, with her long brown hair coiled neatly at the back of her head, she carried herself with the kind of disciplined grace that ca from years spent managing soldiers instead of courtiers. Her eyes swept the terminal with the expertise of a strategist, cataloguing guard positions, surveillance coverage, exit routes, sniper perches, and how quickly she could get the entire envoy out if diplomacy collapsed into sothing far less civilized.

This was survival instinct dressed in tailored navy wool.

Behind her, the rest of the diplomatic party followed with far less composure.

Advisors.

Political technicians.

Legal minds.

And then... The storm in lavender silk.

A very small hurricane wearing expensive lavender silk.

Princess Heather.

Fifteen. Spoiled beyond mortal comprehension and absolutely convinced the world existed to applaud her.

Heather adjusted the diamond-studded headband in her perfectly styled brunette curls as if her personal discomfort was the most pressing crisis currently challenging international stability.

The princess looked around with all the subtlety of a spotlight.

"This is it?" she said, her voice sailing far too clearly through the antiseptic quiet of the secure wing. "This is the royal diplomatic terminal? It’s cold. It’s... institutional. Where are the banners? Where is the proper reception? Where is the welco?"

One of the aides, who had clearly already aged a decade during the flight, leaned closer.

"Your Highness, this is the restricted diplomatic zone," he whispered. "Formal ceremony isn’t perford here..."

"Which makes it worse," Heather cut in, irritation blooming across her face. "If this is for dignitaries and royalty, should it not look like it?"

Marianne shut her eyes for a brief, quiet second.

She had been through war zones. She had endured Rohan’s parliant. She had faced Dax of Saha across a negotiation table, with the entire continent holding its breath around them.

None of that compared to two days trapped on an aircraft with Heather.

Agreeing to bring her had been a mistake. She admitted it freely.

King Varlen’s order still echoed in her mind.

Which left Marianne in the deeply unenviable position of transporting a pampered princess into the territory of the most territorial king on the continent, if not in the world, while also ensuring said princess did not do anything catastrophically stupid.

She already knew she was going to fail at least half of that.

Heather smoothed her designer dress dramatically and sighed.

"Honestly," she continued, half to herself, half to anyone trapped in earshot, "if they want to be taken seriously as modern royalty, they really should learn presentation. When His Majesty marries , I will fix this entire aesthetic."

Marianne stopped walking.

She turned, very slowly.

"Your Highness," she said with unnervingly gentle patience, "repeat what you just said. Out loud. So I can be absolutely certain I heard you correctly."

Heather blinked, surprised that this required clarification.

"When His Majesty marries ," she repeated with the earnest certainty of soone who had never encountered reality unsupervised. "Or makes a royal consort, if he insists on getting dramatic about titles. Either way, I will be living here eventually, and when that day cos, I refuse to tolerate airports that look like governnt dical facilities."

Across the group, several mouths tightened. A diplomatic secretary genuinely contemplated fake fainting.

Marianne smiled in the cruelest way the princess had ever seen and dismissed.

"Princess Heather," she said, her voice suddenly far steadier than before, "you are here as an observer. You will sit. You will listen. You will speak when directly addressed. And if you attempt to misbehave in front of King Dax or Consort Christopher, you will not argue with when I put you back on a plane ho."

The princess scoffed, indignant and utterly unafraid.

"You cannot order ho," she snapped. "My father..."

"I do not answer to your father when I am standing in a foreign capital," Marianne interrupted softly. "And neither do you. Not when we talk about Dax of Saha."

Heather lifted her chin, ready to argue further... And then the doors at the end of the corridor opened, and Altera swallowed the conversation whole.

Royal guards in black and gold stepped forward in seamless coordination, undeniably formidable, each movent disciplined, each formation unapologetically strategic.

A reception line awaited them: senior officials, perfectly poised, faces composed into impeccable civility that held neither eagerness nor apology.

Authority without grandstanding. Confidence without arrogance.

This was not a court desperately eager to impress.

This was a capital that understood its own gravity and did not beg others to orbit it.

Heather’s breath stalled. For the first ti since disembarking, she stopped talking.

The head of reception stepped forward and inclined his head with polished grace.

"Welco to Altera," he said. "We appreciate your journey. Security will escort you to your convoy. The official greeting has been scheduled for later today."

Heather’s shock thawed into indignation again.

"Later?" she echoed, incredulous. "You are telling us we are not eting royalty upon arrival? We are royalty."

The official smiled pleasantly.

"There is a difference between importance and urgency," he replied. "Today, Your Highness, you are important. You are not urgent. That is a privilege."

Marianne nearly applauded.

A familiar presence appeared at her side.

Sahir was perfectly dressed, his silver mantle catching the spotlight. Eyes far too perceptive to ever be comfortable to stand under.

"Lady Lancaster," he said smoothly. "Your Highness. Welco to Palatine."

Marianne inclined her head.

"Pri Minister," she returned. "It is a pleasure to et again."

Heather straightened imdiately, irritation lting into a preened sort of delight at being addressed again.

Sahir regarded her with the gentlest possible politeness.

"Princess Heather," he said with impeccable courtesy, "if His Majesty wishes to greet you, he will. But it is important you understand sothing about our king before the theater of expectation begins."

Those lavender eyes widened, curiosity pricking despite pride.

Sahir’s voice dropped into the tone he used when speaking with his toddler grandchildren. "He does not perform for guests," he said softly.

"Guests," he continued, after a brief pause, "perform for him."