Chapter Text
In the Kingdom of Sethratanapong, crowns were not made only of gold.
They were made of bloodlines.
Of duty.
Of sacrifice.
And sometimes, of children forced to grow up before they even understood what loss meant.
The kingdom stood in the heart of the modern world, hidden behind glass towers, diplomatic offices, luxury hotels, and private military compounds. To humans, Sethratanapong was simply one of the wealthiest constitutional kingdoms in Asia, known for its advanced technology, elite schools, and old royal family.
But beneath the polished surface, there was another truth.
Sethratanapong was ruled by werewolves.
Purebloods sat at the top of society, their names carved into history. Mixed-bloods lived carefully, always reminded that they were not quite enough. Humans worked, served, and survived under laws written by people who were stronger than them.
And slaves existed, though the government called them debt-bound servants.
It sounded cleaner that way.
Less cruel.
But a collar was still a collar, no matter what name the palace gave it.
At the very centre of this world was a seven-year-old girl named Kornnaphat Sethratanapong.
To the public, she was Princess Orm.
To her family, she was simply Orm.
And to the kingdom, she was the future.
Orm was not just any alpha. She was a pureblooded werewolf alpha, born with the rare silver-gold eyes of the royal line and a presence that made grown wolves lower their heads without knowing why. Even as a child, her scent carried command. Not loud, not violent, but undeniable.
She had been raised in the palace with care, discipline, and expectation.
Her mother, Mae Koy, taught her kindness.
“A queen does not rule because people fear her,” Mae Koy would say while brushing Orm’s hair at night. “She rules because they trust her.”
Her father, Papa Oct, taught her strength.
“Power is not biting first,” he would tell her during training. “Power is knowing when not to.”
For seven years, Orm believed the world made sense.
She believed her parents would always return after meetings.
She believed the palace was safe.
She believed her baby brother, Utt, would one day sit on the throne while she stood beside him, protecting him.
That had been the plan.
Orm was raised as the heir, but only until Utt was old enough. He had been born barely a few months ago, tiny and round-cheeked, with soft black hair and a cry that made the palace nurses panic. Mae Koy used to laugh and say he had the lungs of a future emperor.
Orm used to stand beside his crib, arms crossed, pretending to be serious.
“You are too small,” she would tell him. “How are you supposed to rule like this?”
Utt would only blink at her.
And Orm, despite herself, would smile.
She did not mind giving him the crown one day.
She had never wanted the crown for herself.
Not then.
Not before the ambush.
The day everything ended, Orm was at school.
Royal International Academy was built for children of diplomats, noble families, wealthy business leaders, and high-ranking wolves. Its classrooms had bulletproof windows, private security, and gardens so carefully maintained that not a single fallen leaf stayed on the ground for long.
Orm hated math class.
She sat at her desk, pencil in hand, frowning at a worksheet while her classmates whispered around her. None of them dared tease her. Not because she was cruel, but because she was royal.
Because even at seven, Orm had already learned the loneliness of being above everyone else.
She had just written the wrong answer for the third time when the classroom door opened.
Her teacher froze.
Two palace guards entered first.
Then came Ling Ling Sirilak Kwong.
Orm looked up immediately.
Ling Ling was no longer her official babysitter, but to Orm, she still felt like safety. She was older, gentle, and quiet, with soft eyes that always noticed when Orm was pretending not to cry. She was half-human, half-werewolf, and an omega, which meant the nobles often looked at her as though she was something fragile or lesser.
Orm had never understood that.
Ling Ling was the one who stayed beside her during storms.
Ling Ling was the one who sat through her tantrums without flinching.
Ling Ling was the one who taught her how to braid ribbons into her hair when Mae Koy was busy.
To Orm, Ling Ling was not lesser.
She was home.
But that day, Ling Ling’s face was pale.
Too pale.
Orm’s pencil slipped from her fingers.
The room became silent.
Ling Ling walked to her desk and knelt in front of her. She did not speak at first. Her hands trembled slightly before she folded them tightly together.
Orm’s chest tightened.
“Phi Ling?” she asked.
Ling Ling swallowed.
That was when Orm knew.
Something was wrong.
Something terrible.
“Your Highness,” one of the guards said softly, “you need to come with us.”
Orm did not move.
Her eyes stayed on Ling Ling.
“Where is Mae?” she asked.
No one answered.
“Where is Papa?”
The teacher turned away.
Ling Ling’s eyes filled with tears.
Orm stood so quickly her chair fell backward.
“Where is Utt?”
Ling Ling reached for her, but Orm stepped back.
“No,” Orm said.
It was one small word.
A child’s word.
But every wolf in the room felt the command in it.
The guards lowered their eyes.
Ling Ling’s tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Orm…” she whispered. “There was an attack.”
Orm stared at her.
“The convoy was ambushed on the way back from the airport.”
“No.”
“Mae Koy, Papa Oct, and baby Utt…” Ling Ling’s voice broke. “They did not survive.”
The world stopped.
Orm heard nothing after that.
Not the teacher crying.
Not the guards speaking into their earpieces.
Not the distant sound of school bells.
She only heard one thing.
Her own heartbeat.
Loud.
Fast.
Wrong.
She waited for someone to correct it. For Papa Oct to walk through the door and say it was a security drill. For Mae Koy to scold everyone for scaring her. For Utt to cry from another room, alive and demanding attention.
But no one came.
Orm’s eyes burned, but no tears fell.
She was seven years old.
And suddenly, she was alone.
The palace changed overnight.
The flags lowered.
The gates closed.
News helicopters circled above the city like vultures.
The royal family’s official statement was short and carefully written.
Their Majesties Emperor Oct and Empress Koy, together with His Royal Highness Prince Utt, passed away in a tragic act of terrorism during their return from a diplomatic visit. The palace asks for privacy as Her Royal Highness Princess Kornnaphat mourns this devastating loss.
But the kingdom did not care about privacy.
It wanted certainty.
It wanted an answer.
It wanted a ruler.
And according to the bloodline law, there was only one person left.
Seven-year-old Orm.
The council gathered the next morning.
Old pureblooded alphas in tailored suits sat around the long black table, discussing the future as though the future was not a child sitting silently at the head of it.
Orm wore a black dress. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were dry.
Ling Ling stood behind her chair, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
No one had invited Ling Ling to the meeting.
She was there because Orm refused to enter the room without her.
“The princess is too young,” one minister said.
“Obviously,” said another. “A regency council must be formed.”
“Her uncle from the western branch—”
“No,” Orm said.
Everyone stopped.
The room fell silent.
The minister cleared his throat. “Your Highness, with respect, you are a child.”
Orm looked at him.
A seven-year-old girl with the eyes of a wolf born to rule.
“My parents are dead,” she said quietly. “My brother is dead. I know I am a child.”
No one spoke.
“But the crown belongs to my family.” Her small hands curled into fists on the table. “And I am the only one left.”
A few council members exchanged glances.
One of them smiled faintly, the way adults smiled when they thought children were saying something emotional but meaningless.
Orm saw it.
She remembered it.
She would remember every face in that room for the rest of her life.
“The law allows a regent until you are of age,” the minister said.
“Then choose one,” Orm replied. “But they will not wear my crown.”
The smile disappeared.
Ling Ling looked down at Orm with something between fear and pride.
That was the first time the council understood.
Orm might have been young.
But she was not weak.
After the funeral, Orm stopped speaking unless necessary.
The palace became too large.
Every hallway reminded her of someone.
Mae Koy’s favourite sitting room still smelled faintly of jasmine.
Papa Oct’s office still had his reading glasses on the desk.
Utt’s nursery remained untouched, the mobile above his crib slowly turning whenever the air-conditioning moved.
Orm went there only once.
She stood at the doorway for five seconds.
Then she turned around and never went back.
The servants whispered that grief had hardened her.
The ministers said she was becoming difficult.
The guards said nothing, but they watched her carefully, as though she might shatter if anyone spoke too loudly.
Only Ling Ling remained the same.
She still prepared warm milk before bed.
Still folded Orm’s clothes herself, even when senior servants told her not to.
Still sat on the floor beside Orm’s bed during the nights when the young empress woke from nightmares but refused to cry.
One night, Orm finally spoke.
“Did they suffer?”
Ling Ling’s heart cracked.
She was sitting beside the bed, back against the wall, the way she used to when Orm was smaller.
Orm lay under the blanket, facing away from her.
Ling Ling did not lie.
“I don’t know.”
Orm was silent.
Then she asked, “Did Utt cry?”
Ling Ling closed her eyes.
“I don’t know, Orm.”
The little girl gripped the blanket.
“I should have gone with them.”
“No,” Ling Ling said immediately.
Orm turned her head. Her silver-gold eyes shone in the dark.
“If I went, I would be dead too.”
Ling Ling crawled closer and reached for her hand.
Orm let her.
“You survived,” Ling Ling whispered. “That is not something to be guilty for.”
Orm stared at her.
“Why?”
Ling Ling did not understand. “Why what?”
“Why did I survive?”
There was no answer that could fix a question like that.
So Ling Ling gave the only truth she had.
“Maybe because the kingdom still needs you.”
Orm’s expression changed.
Not comfort.
Not relief.
Something colder.
“Then the kingdom took everything from me.”
Ling Ling’s hand tightened around hers.
Orm looked back at the ceiling.
“I don’t trust them.”
“The council?”
“Everyone.”
Ling Ling went still.
Orm’s voice became softer.
“Except you.”
For a moment, Ling Ling could not breathe.
Because she was only Ling Ling Sirilak Kwong.
A half-blood omega.
A debt-bound servant.
A girl sold to slave traders by her own family when their debts became too large and their shame too heavy. She had been brought into the palace years ago to accompany the lonely little princess. The royal family had treated her better than the traders did, but kind treatment did not erase ownership.
She still had papers.
She still had a price.
She still belonged to the palace.
And now the child who owned nothing but grief trusted her more than the entire kingdom.
Ling Ling bowed her head and pressed Orm’s small hand to her forehead.
“Then I will stay,” she whispered. “For as long as you need me.”
Orm did not cry.
But that night, she did not let go of Ling Ling’s hand.
A week later, the coronation was held inside the Grand Hall.
It was not supposed to happen so soon.
Royal coronations usually took months to prepare. There were rituals, negotiations, international guests, blessings from the old wolf clans, and public celebrations that lasted three days.
Orm’s coronation lasted less than an hour.
The kingdom was unstable.
The council wanted a symbol.
The people wanted reassurance.
The nobles wanted control.
So they placed a crown on the head of a grieving child and called it duty.
Orm stood on the platform in a white ceremonial dress embroidered with silver thread. The ancient crown of Sethratanapong was too large for her, so palace jewellers had adjusted the inner frame overnight.
It still looked heavy.
Ling Ling stood below the platform with the other attendants.
Her hands shook when the High Priest lifted the crown.
“For the blood of the first wolf,” he declared.
The hall answered, “For the kingdom.”
“For the line unbroken.”
“For the kingdom.”
“For the crown carried through grief, war, and time.”
“For the kingdom.”
The crown was lowered onto Orm’s head.
For a second, she swayed.
Ling Ling almost stepped forward.
But Orm steadied herself.
Her small chin lifted.
The hall knelt.
Hundreds of people, wolves and humans alike, lowering themselves before a seven-year-old girl who had lost everything.
“Long live Empress Kornnaphat of House Sethratanapong.”
The words echoed through the hall.
“Long live the Queen’s Crown.”
Orm looked out at the kneeling crowd.
At the ministers who wanted to use her.
At the nobles who doubted her.
At the soldiers who were waiting to see if she would break.
Then her eyes found Ling Ling.
Ling Ling was kneeling too, but her gaze was different.
Not hungry.
Not calculating.
Only sad.
Only loyal.
Only hers.
Orm understood something then.
A crown did not make someone powerful.
People did.
The people who stayed.
The people who protected you when you were too young to protect yourself.
The people who saw the child beneath the title and still chose to kneel, not out of fear, but out of love.
Orm placed one small hand over the crown to keep it steady.
Then she spoke her first words as empress.
“I will remember who stood with me today.”
The hall went silent.
Her voice was young, but it carried.
“And I will remember who waited to see me fall.”
A chill passed through the room.
Ling Ling stared at her.
The council members lowered their heads a little further.
Orm looked at them all.
A child.
An alpha.
An empress.
A survivor.
The crown was too heavy.
The throne was too large.
The kingdom was too cruel.
But Orm Sethratanapong did not fall.
Not that day.
And not in the years that followed.