At the moonstone-encrusted claw-ring on his finger, worth at least a hundred thousand in pack currency. The shadow-silk coat draped across his shoulders, easily eighty thousand. The drake-leather boots on his feet, another six thousand at minimum.
My brow furrowed.
Struggling pack?
Hunting his way through the Academy?
Were we talking about the same wolf?
He was dressed more like old bloodline nobility than I was—and I was the actual Alpha Heir here.
Anyone who'd ever worked with Moon-ink knew how easy it was to get the sacred pigments everywhere. That's why most rune-scribes wore cheap, stain-resistant pelts to work in.
But Darian...
I watched the comments continue to gush over his "admirable dedication" and "humble circumstances."
I had no words.
Before I could even respond, tears began streaming down Darian's face.
"I know you're some wealthy Alpha Heir who doesn't care about tribute prizes this small," he choked out. "But for me, this rite standing represents an entire cycle's worth of Academy fees. I need this tribute. I can't survive without it."
His eyes were red-rimmed, glistening with moisture. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees before me.
Thud.