Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

War.

The sound of marching feet echoed through the eastern capital like a grim dirge. Banners of House Phuchongphisut, deep green edged in silver, snapped against the wind. Soldiers lined the main road, spears gleaming in the late morning sun.

On the highest balcony of Prince Ramil’s wing in the palace, Paytai stood in silent vigil, the cold stone biting at his bare feet. He clutched his arms around his waist, the thin silk of his robe doing little to ward off the chill, a chill that had nothing to do with the summer air.

His mind replayed the last image of his alpha, his mate, Prince Ramil, astride his powerful black stallion. Ramil, his face a mask of grim determination, had been barking orders to his officers, his silver-threaded cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war, a stark contrast to the whispered promises of peace they had shared.

Paytai’s heart twisted with a grief that had no time to be fully realized.

"Ramil..." he whispered, his voice a ghost on the wind.

He remembered their conversations, the stolen moments in the quiet of the night, where they had dreamed of a life far removed from the constant, brutal games of crowns and power. A life of quiet solitude, a simple life away from this endless cycle of violence. But those dreams were now shattered, their fragments scattered by the harsh reality of the King’s order: 

Conquer Bhujar. Whoever seizes victory wins the crown.

The command had come down with the finality of a guillotine, accelerating everything, leaving no space for grief or even a single, full breath.

A sharp, cruel voice sliced through the silence of the balcony, shattering Paytai’s fragile reverie.

“You should dress, Paytai. You’re bringing shame standing there like that.”

He turned to face Prince Ratchata, the serpent of the royal court. The years had etched more lines of cruelty on his face, but his eyes were as sharp and venomous as ever. He was dressed in crimson, the color of blood and power, and one hand, heavy with rings, rested lazily on the hilt of his sword.

“Why bother, your highness?” Paytai’s voice was a thin, exhausted thread. “There is no banquet today. Only war.”

A flicker of cold amusement crossed Ratchata’s face. “And soon, victory. If my son has any spine.” He took a step closer, his breath smelling of stale wine. “Though one wonders… his mate seems more fragile than steel these days.”

Paytai’s fingers clenched against the stone railing, his knuckles white. But today, there was no fight to give. He was hollowed out, drained and tired more than usual.

Ratchata chuckled, a sound like stones scraping together, and brushed past him. “Your own father would be disgusted. Ah, the mighty Minister of Defense… gone now.” His voice dropped to a gleeful whisper. “Killed. A pity. In a war my son now leads. You see the irony, don’t you?”

Paytai’s breath hitched in his throat, a sudden, sharp pain.

Killed? The word was a foreign body, an impossible lie.

He spun around, the fragile calm he had been clinging to splintering into a thousand pieces.

“What... what did you say?”

His throat was suddenly too tight to breathe.

“Did no one tell you?” Ratchata’s smile was a thin, cruel line.

“Your father fell in the clash with the Bhujari guards this morning. Speared through the chest, I hear. No doubt defending one of your prince’s over-eager advances.” He shrugged, a gesture of casual indifference. “You should thank him. His death will bring us glory.”

No. The word was a silent scream in Paytai’s mind. It couldn’t be true. His father, a man of strength, a master strategist who moved with the precision of a hawk. He would not fall so easily, not in some blind, foolish charge.

“You lie,” Paytai whispered, the words trembling on his lips.

“I have no need,” Ratchata said, his voice laced with patronizing finality. “Ask your prince when he returns… if he returns. If he does not botch this for us.”

Just then, a frantic rush of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Mira, one of Paytai’s few loyal attendants, skidded to a stop at the entrance of the balcony, her face a mask of crumpled grief. “My lord…” she choked out, her voice thick with unshed tears. “It’s true. Your father... he is gone. The guards just brought word.”

A sound tore from Paytai’s throat, a ragged, half-gasp, half-sob of pure agony. His legs gave way beneath him, and he would have collapsed if Mira hadn’t rushed forward to catch him, her frame trembling under his weight.

Ratchata’s cold, triumphant laughter filled the space, a sound as sharp and merciless as the iron blade of a sword.

“Grieve later, boy. The crown does not wait for your tears.” 

Paytai sat on the edge of Ramil’s immense bed, the silken sheets a stark contrast to the rough grief that consumed him.

The scent of his mate, of their nights spent tangled together, was still faint on the air, a cruel, ghostly reminder. He wrapped his arms around himself, a tight, protective embrace against the cold emptiness that had settled in his chest. His breath hitched in ragged, uneven gasps.

No word from Ramil. Not a single message, not a rider, not a whispered promise. His mate had gone to war and left him here, a ghost in the palace, utterly alone.

His father was gone.

Dead.

Murdered in a war Ramil now led.

And Ramil... where was he? Did he even know? Did he care? Paytai’s throat tightened, a bitter knot of love and betrayal.

He flinched when the heavy oak door creaked open, the sound echoing in the silent room. Mira entered, a worried figure carrying a silver tray with a bowl of steaming broth.

“My lord, please…” she whispered, her eyes pleading. “You must eat something.”

“I can’t,” Paytai choked out, shaking his head. “I can’t…”

The thought of food was a violation, an act of normalcy in a world that had become monstrous.

Mira’s brow furrowed with concern. She placed the tray on a nearby table, her gaze flickering from Paytai to the tall arched window, as if she were checking for spies. She returned to his side, her voice barely a whisper. “There’s more.”

A cold dread coiled in Paytai’s stomach. “What?” he rasped, fearing another blow, another terrible truth.

The woman hesitated for a long moment, then knelt on the plush rug beside him, her hands clasped. “It is not only grief, my lord. You are… different.” She searched his face, her expression gentle, yet firm. “I think...”

“No,” Paytai cut her off, his voice sharp with denial. He knew what she was about to say. He’d felt it himself, the subtle changes, the deep-seated shift in his body, a rhythm no longer his own.

“Don’t say it.”

“My lord,” Mira pressed softly, her voice full of a gentle pity that tore at his heart. “You have not had your heat this month. And… your scent…” Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and urgency.

“It has changed. You are with child.”

The words hung in the air, a final, definitive hammer blow. Paytai’s heart stopped.

No.

No.

Not now.

Not in this broken life.

Not in this cursed, gilded cage.

The thought of bringing a new life into this palace, into this war-torn world, was a terror far greater than any grief.

A child! Ramil’s child… inside him?

A wave of bitter clarity washed over him. Ramil was lost to ambition, to the endless game of war, to his father’s cruel grip. This child wouldn’t be a blessing, but a pawn, another piece to be sacrificed on Ratchata’s bloody chessboard. Would Ramil even care? Or would he see this child as just another tool for power?

Paytai rose abruptly, the movement sending a wave of dizziness through him. He swayed for a moment, clutching the bedpost, but his mind was crystal clear. “I won’t stay here.”

Mira looked up at him, her face stricken. “My lord? What do you mean?”

“I won’t have this child here,” Paytai said, his voice gaining strength, his resolve hardening like steel. “Not under his shadow. Not under that man’s cruelty.”

“But… the prince?” 

“Ramil is lost.” The words hurt, a jagged shard of glass in his throat, but they were true. “I loved him. I still do. But I can’t…” His throat caught on the sob that threatened to rise. “I can’t bring a child into a life of being a weapon or a bargaining chip. I can’t do that to our child.”

By dawn, Mira had packed a plain cloak and coins. The old servant’s tunnels beneath the east wing still opened into the lower city. His father had introduced them to him, just in case. And now If he moved fast, no one would know.

Standing in the dark, one hand on his belly, Paytai whispered:

“For you... for us... I will find another life.”

And he slipped away, unseen, leaving behind the war, the crown, and the prince he had loved.

Smoke still curled over the jagged, broken outer wall of Bhujar’s first fortress, a grim marker of the day's bloodshed.

It was a hollow victory. The deeper cities remained untouched, the war still in its infancy.

In the command tent, a cavernous space of canvas and shadows, Prince Ramil stood, his hands trembling as he stared at the map-strewn table.

The name “Ronawee” was a brand on his mind.

Paytai’s father. A man he respected, a man he had promised to protect. Now, he was dead, fallen in a reckless, premature surge not ordered by him, but by his own father, Prince Ratchata.

Ramil raked a hand through his sweat-matted hair, a gesture of sheer desperation. Every instinct screamed at him to abandon this cursed campaign and ride back to the capital.

To find Paytai. To hold him. To tell him that none of this was supposed to happen.

A messenger arrived, breathless and covered in dust. “My prince, the Bhujari reinforcements are moving toward the river pass. Prince Ratchata demands immediate action.”

Ramil’s jaw clenched. He was trapped.

“Tell him… tell him I will respond at dawn. I need the full report first.”

The messenger bowed and fled, leaving Ramil to the suffocating silence of the tent. He pressed his palms to the map, breathing hard. His army needed him. If he abandoned the field now, it would be seen as weakness, a betrayal of his duty. His father would never allow it, and it would give Khanin, his main rival for the crown, a devastating advantage. But all he wanted was to ride back, to see Paytai, to hold him.

“Damn this crown,” Ramil whispered, the words thick with bitterness.

A rustle of the tent flaps made him snap his head up.

Charan, the Assavadevathin bodyguard to Khanin, entered.

He moved with the effortless grace of a blade unsheathed, his dark eyes gleaming with a sharpness Ramil knew all too well.

“Prince Ramil,” Charan said, his voice a low, composed murmur. “A word.”

Ramil’s mouth curled into a thin, weary smile. “From the northern camp already, Charan? Not even pretending this is a friendly visit?”

Charan stepped forward, his posture rigid. “I came to tell you your house’s tactics are reckless. You endangered the entire campaign with that premature assault.”

A muscle jumped in Ramil’s jaw. “It was not my order.”

Charan’s eyes flickered, but his composure held. “Then perhaps your leash is too short.”

Ramil stiffened, his own anger rising. “Careful.”

But Charan’s voice only sharpened. “Men are dying. Bhujar’s forces are not as weak as you think. And now a respected minister is dead. Whispers are already moving through the camps.”

Ramil’s heart twisted at the mention of Paytai’s father, but he pushed the pain down, his voice turning to ice. He could not show weakness here.

Not to Charan.

“Is that why you came?” Ramil said, his tone dripping with disdain. “To lecture me about war?” He leaned in, his voice dropping with venom. “Or perhaps… you smell the crown slipping from your beloved prince’s hands. I wonder… does Khanin know how deep your loyalty truly runs?”

For the first time, a brief, violent flicker of emotion crossed Charan’s face. His iron composure cracked just for a second.

Ramil laughed bitterly. “Oh, you hide it well, but not from me. I see the way you look at him. As if he were more than a prince to serve.”

“Watch your tongue,” Charan said quietly, his shoulders taut. “You speak of things that will ruin us all.”

Ramil took a step closer, his own fury masking the deep pain and frustration. “And you’re so eager to tear me down. Is this about war? Or do you dream of a softer king? A boy you can guard in bed as well as on the field?”

Charan’s hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw. His gaze was pure iron. “Think what you will, your highness,” he hissed. “But this war and this throne will not be won through blood alone. And if you continue to fight like your father… you may find you win nothing at all.”

Without another word, Charan turned on his heel and left.

Ramil stood alone in the tent, his breath ragged, the silence deafening.

“Damn him,” he thought. Damn them all.

This was never what he wanted. He looked at the map again, but all he could see was Paytai’s face.

Chapter Text

The sun burned over the broken gates of Bhujar’s capital, casting long shadows through the smoldering streets.

The battle was over.

Ramil had led his forces to victory. Yet standing atop the stone steps of the battered citadel, surrounded by the charred remains of war, he felt none of the triumph that should have followed such a conquest as he has expected. It was bizarre.

Before him stood King Hawl of Bhujar, stripped of his armor, his robes torn but his posture still proud. Around them, Ramil’s men formed a tired but disciplined line, their faces marked by exhaustion. They watched in silence as Hawl raised his voice.

“Prince Ramil,” the king began evenly, “you have broken my gates and taken my city. I cannot fight you further without sacrificing what remains of my people. Therefore, I submit.”

At his side stood a small figure, an omega whose presence was quiet but impossible to miss. Pale, slight of frame, dressed in formal court robes now smudged with smoke and ash, the young man bowed his head with practiced grace.

“This is my son, Jay,” King Hawl continued. “I offer him to your house, not as a prisoner, but as a gesture of peace. Let him serve at your side as a sign of Bhujar’s loyalty to your reign.”

Ramil’s gaze settled on Jay.

A young man, perhaps eighteen at most. Short, almost delicate in build, with pale skin that seemed to glow in the afternoon sun. His dark hair hung loose, framing a soft, fine-featured face. His mouth, pressed into a faint line, revealed the edges of small, rabbit-like teeth that flashed briefly when he smiled. His large eyes, framed by thick lashes, met Ramil’s with something between curiosity and wary resolve.

He’s cute, Ramil thought absently and in that same instant, the old ache for Paytai flared in his chest.

The prince glanced sideways; already his men were murmuring amongst themselves. The meaning of the offer was clear to all: an omega prince handed over to a victorious enemy could mean only one thing. Many of Ramil’s officers assumed the prince would take Jay as a concubine, adding him to the royal household as a spoil of war. Some exchanged knowing glances, some looked quietly scandalized, but none dared speak it aloud.

Ramil ignored them.

Publicly, to reject the king’s offering outright would risk dishonoring a defeated but proud house and undo the fragile peace that was forming. Privately, however, Ramil’s mind was already made. He had no intention of bedding this boy.

He thought instead of Paytai, whose absence weighed heavier with each passing day. No word had reached him about his mate, no messages from the palace, no news beyond the battlefield.

Still, Paytai’s image remained sharp in his mind. And as Ramil looked again at Jay’s pale, wary face, an idea stirred.

Perhaps this prince, unexpected though he was, could become something else entirely. A friend for Paytai. A companion, not a pawn. Perhaps Jay’s presence would be a small comfort in the cold halls of the palace. Another omega who might understand his predicament.

That hope he kept close to his heart, unspoken.

Aloud, Ramil answered, voice steady, “Your offer honors House Phuchongphisut, King Hawl. Prince Jay will be treated with dignity in my household. He will travel under my protection.”

Jay bowed his head in silence, but his dark eyes lingered on Ramil’s face for a long, unreadable moment.

Three days later, the wounded were tended, the city stabilized, and the march home began. The green and sliver banners of Phuchongphisut flew high above the gates of conquered Bhujar, while within the columns, Prince Jay rode under light guard, surrounded by Ramil’s officers.

Among the soldiers, the whispers continued. Their prince had claimed a new concubine, they said. An omega of rare beauty, a prize befitting his victory. But Ramil gave no sign of confirming the rumors, he offered Jay no public favor, nor any invitation to his tent. The young prince remained untouched, seated quietly among the noble retinue, his gaze cool and composed.

As word of Ramil’s victory spread, the other ruling houses reacted sharply. The Davichmetha family’s heir, Princess Ava, sent a cold, formal message, her congratulations thinly veiled with disdain. The Meenanagarin heir, Prince Calvin, was the only one to openly congratulate Ramil, his respect genuine and rare in these fractured times.

But all shared a silent, burning resentment for Ratchata Phuchongphisut, Ramil’s father, whose ruthless ambition had shattered alliances and led many to question the cost of this crown.

How would he rule after this victory guaranteed him the crown? Half of Emmaly was terrified.

But there was no news from Khanin, Ramil’s men often would say he was being a sore loser but then midway through the march, troubling news reached Ramil.

Khanin had fallen into an unexplained coma. The message was brief and vague. No wound, no illness, no explanation. Ramil frowned over the parchment in his tent, unease prickling beneath his skin. The timing was too strange.

Before he could question it further, another blow followed.

Charan rode into camp late that night, wild-eyed with grief. The moment he saw Ramil, his face twisted with fury.

“You!” Charan spat, voice ragged. “You’ve done this. You poisoned Khanin! Just as you’ve ruined everything else!”

Ramil rose to his feet sharply. “I know nothing of this!”

But Charan was already moving. His blade flashed, a sharp, clean strike aimed not to threaten, but to kill. Ramil twisted aside, the sword slicing across his side. Pain flared as blood soaked into his robes.

Guards rushed the tent. In moments, Charan was disarmed and dragged to the ground, snarling and cursing, his rage consuming him.

Before dawn, Ratchata himself rode to the camp. He glanced at his wounded son only briefly, eyes gleaming with something like satisfaction.

“An open attack on my heir,” he said coldly. “Let the traitor rot in the darkest cell. The path must be cleared now, while the gods favor us. Phithakthewa line ends here.”

And so, it was done.

Charan was dragged away in chains. The soldiers whispered once more but this time, their tones were hushed, fearful.

Ramil stood alone in his tent, the bandage at his side soaking slowly through with blood. The war was won. The crown was closer than ever.

The march home continued, toward a capital that would no longer be the one he had left.

Chapter Text

They called the western wind a truth teller.

A saying Mira remembered from her childhood, a superstitious phrase whispered by nursemaids and lowborn servants in the shadowed halls of her ancestral home. That was before the fire, before the stone walls cracked and her house name, like so many others, was reduced to ash on a cold proclamation scroll.

Now, that same wind tore through the canyon pass like a restless ghost, scraping along the jagged cliffs as if to strip the layers of deception from her very skin. She pulled her cloak tighter, the coarse wool doing little to warm the chill that settled deep in her bones, and cast a careful glance at the figure riding beside her.

Paytai.

Fragile. Quiet.

Utterly unaware of the intricate threads of fate Mira herself was weaving around him.

His gloved hand rested near the gentle curve of his belly, a new, unconscious habit she had noticed, protective and tender. Mira had seen enough to know the undeniable signs. He would carry Ramil’s child safely, of that she was certain, if only she could guide him through the labyrinth ahead.

But her duty, her true duty, was far more complicated than simple protection.

She had sworn herself to House Assawadewathin, not merely out of gratitude for the mercy they had shown her after Prince Ratchata had so ruthlessly wiped out her family, nor simply as a favor. She was a blade in the dark, a weapon sharpened against the enemies of the throne, meticulously crafted for the shadows.

And Paytai?

Sweet, soft, beautiful, and foolishly brave, was now an unwitting piece in a game far larger than his compassionate heart could comprehend.

He believed her his protector, his loyal attendant.

But she was his watcher, his shadow.

The city appeared ahead just as the sun began to bleed over the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues. Mira allowed herself a small, inward breath, a rare moment of release. Still beautiful, she thought, a jewel against the western plains. Still utterly decadent.

This was Davichmetha, the Western jewel of Emmaly.

Unlike the cold austerity of the Eastern Capital or the rigid, martial precision of Phuchongphisut banners, Davichmetha thrived on spectacle, on shimmering illusion. From this vantage, the banners fluttered in impossible pinks edged with gold thread, crowned by the sharp, eternal figure of a phoenix, wings spread wide in immortal flame.

They crossed into Davichmetha lands just after sunset, the sky still burning orange and gold, casting long, purple shadows. The hills rolled softly beneath their borrowed horses, like silk underhoof, but Mira did not relax. Beauty, she knew, was often a lie. In Davichmetha, it usually meant someone was watching, hidden behind the glittering facade.

Paytai rode beside her, cloaked and quiet, his face mostly hidden. He had asked no questions, not when they slipped into the lesser-traveled trails Paytai knew from his father, and not when Mira changed out of her simple clothes into expensive, yet surprisingly effective, camouflage-like outfits and cloaks for both of them, nor when she meticulously arranged horses for their escape without Ratchata’s guards so much as noticing their departure. He simply followed.

He trusted her. The absolute, unshakeable nature of his trust made her chest ache with a quiet, persistent pain.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Pim Dao, a dusty gem mining town long forgotten by the royal court, stars had begun to bloom like scattered diamonds across the velvet sky.

The tavern they sought was old and crooked, its faded sign half rotted and hanging precariously by a single chain. Inside, the timbered walls leaned with age, and the mingled scents of worn leather, old coal smoke, and brewed rice spirits clung to everything, a heavy, comforting blanket. They secured a corner room on the second floor. Mira handed coin to the grizzled barkeep, an old, unusual coin from a dead house, pressed into his hand with a warning smile that conveyed more than words. She told him nothing. He, in turn, asked even less.

“I didn’t think you knew places like this,” Paytai said quietly, sitting on the edge of the cot as Mira systematically checked the shutters, ensuring their privacy.

“I know places,” she replied, hanging her cloak over the cracked window screen, her voice flat. “It is part of the job.”

He frowned, a ripple of confusion crossing his face. “The job?”

Mira hesitated, her gaze distant, a shadow passing over her features. She offered no further explanation, unwilling to burden him with the truths of her shadowy world. Instead, she sat near the window, peeling back a sliver of curtain to watch the narrow street below.

Dusk sellers were already hawking their gemlight trinkets and steam fans, their calls echoing softly in the twilight. Children ran past in gold pink flashes, chasing unseen sprites. She watched it all in silence, her senses alert.

“You are tense,” Paytai observed, his voice soft, perceptive. “Is it because of where we are?”

“I do not like Davichmetha,” Mira said flatly, her gaze still fixed on the street. “Too much sparkle hides too many knives.”

Paytai’s laugh was dry, devoid of real humor. “You think they will recognize me?”

“They will not,” she assured him, finally turning from the window. “You are safe.”

Safe .

The word tasted false, brittle on her tongue. Mira had sent word days ago, a coded message. The response had come swiftly, a terse confirmation. Discretion was mandatory. They were not, under any circumstances, to reveal their presence to the local royalty. That, she knew, included Ava.

Mira closed her eyes briefly, a fleeting image of Princess Ava Davichmetha, her old friend from academy days, flashing in her mind. Back then, before the world had turned cruel, Ava had worn bright pink silks with a fierce grin. She had always been impossible, always luminous. Mira took a breath, trying not to think about the last time she had seen Ava, before her own family had fallen, before Ratchata had ordered her parents’ execution, before House Assawadewathin had taken her in, reshaped her, and repurposed her into something cold and efficient.

“Why did you really bring me here, Mira?” Paytai’s voice was quiet, yet sharp enough to cut through Mira’s carefully constructed composure.

She turned toward him. His dark eyes, usually so soft, are sharp now, suspicion coiling around the edges of his expression like smoke.

“You said the West was safest,” he added, his voice low and even. “But you do not act like someone who believes that.”

“I brought you here because your life is in danger,” she said simply, trying to keep her tone calm. “And Davichmetha is far from the politics of the East.”

“Then why do you not go to sleep?” he pressed, his gaze unwavering. “Why do you flinch at every sound? Why do you keep checking the window like someone is coming for us?”

She did not answer, the silence stretching between them, taut and fragile.

He sat forward, leaning towards her. “You are hiding something.”

“I am protecting you,” she said, the words sharper than intended, a defensive edge creeping into her voice.

Something flickered behind his eyes...hurt, swiftly masked by a new wariness. “You are lying,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Mira stood abruptly, crossing the room to him in three swift strides. “My lord, I beg you, believe me when I say I am not your enemy.”

His jaw tensed, a muscle jumping. “Then tell me who you serve.”

Mira met his gaze steadily, her voice calm but unwavering, laying bare the truth she had guarded so closely.

“My loyalty is to House Assawadewathin, yes. But I serve you first, my lord. Since you became Prince Ramil’s consort, I’ve stood by your side! As your maid, your shield, your watcher.”

Paytai’s eyes sharpened, piecing together the implications. “You told them I was with you?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I sent word I was escorting Ramil’s prized omega westward. That you were safe.”

He stilled, every fiber of his being freezing. Something profoundly shifted in his face, a raw, complex emotion. “And my baby?” he asked, the words soft, yet weighted like lead, like stones dropped into a deep well.

“I’ve kept that from them. No one else knows.”

At once, his expression fractured, hurt and fury folding over each other like a blade snapping in its sheath. He stood, slowly, deliberately, like something dangerous and wounded was stirring in his chest.

His hands hovered, then pressed over his belly, an instinctive gesture, as if to shield the child from her, from this sudden, chilling revelation.

“You told them I was gone,” he said, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. “But you kept the child secret?”

“I swore I would, my lord,” Mira said, her voice gentle, pleading. “And I meant it.”

His breath hitched, shallow and sharp. “So you chose what parts of me they get to claim.”

“That’s not -”

“You think this doesn’t matter?” he hissed, his eyes wide now, shimmering with unshed tears and burning indignation. “This baby is everything to me. I am not just some relic from Ramil’s court to smuggle across borders.”

“I know,” she said, stepping forward, reaching out a hand, then pulling it back. “My lord!”

“No.” He pulled back further, shaking his head. “You say you’re protecting me. But you made choices without me. Again. Just like they did.”

There was venom in the way he said it, a bitter accusation aimed at all of them: the royals, the court, even Ramil, and now, Mira herself.

Mira’s throat tightened, a sudden, unfamiliar ache.

“I didn’t tell them because I wanted to protect you. And the baby. The moment they know, you stop being a person. You become leverage. A bargaining chip.”

His eyes searched hers, desperate for a truth she couldn’t fully offer, but his trust was frayed, unraveling like a precious thread. “So I’m just a secret to you, too. A mission. Something to manage.”

“You’re not,” she said, her voice raw. “You’re -”

“Be honest,” he interrupted, his voice steel. “If they ordered you to hand me over, would you?”

She didn’t speak.

Not immediately. The silence stretched, too long, too damning. The very air in the small room seemed to thicken with it.

Paytai’s jaw trembled, his arms wrapping tighter around himself, a vulnerable, self-protective gesture. “That’s what I thought.”

The western wind moaned low against the tavern walls, like it could hear everything, a mournful lament.

“I want to believe you,” he said, quieter now, his voice brittle as dry leaves. “For my child’s sake. But I don’t know if I can.”

Mira felt something in her chest splinter, a sharp, cold shard of pain. “Then let me prove it, my lord. Day by day, moment by moment. Whatever it takes.”

Paytai gave a short, bitter sound. Not quite a laugh, more a sigh of weary resignation. “It won’t be easy.”

“No,” she agreed softly, her gaze unwavering. “But it will be worth it.”

He turned away, his back to her, one hand lingering protectively on his belly, as if to remind her, and himself, of what truly mattered now.

The truth pressed against the room like wind under a closed door, whispering all the difficult, unspoken things neither of them dared to articulate aloud.

The capital was a riot of sound and vibrant color, a stark contrast to the grim battlefields Ramil had left behind.

Banners of House Phuchongphisut, snapped from every spire. Confetti, dyed in celebratory greens and silvers, rained down from balconies. The air thrummed with the cheers of the populace, a deafening roar that vibrated through Ramil’s very bones as he rode through the main thoroughfare. Drums pounded a triumphant rhythm, a relentless beat that seemed to mock the ache in his side and the heavier ache in his heart.

He rode his own warhorse, a powerful black stallion that had carried him through the heart of Bhujar. Behind him, shrouded in rich, drawn curtains, a gilded carriage followed. Within it rode Prince Jay, a silent testament to the 'peace' Ramil had forged, his presence confirming the rumors of a new "prize" for the victorious prince.

The cheers were for him , the conquering hero, the prince who had delivered the crown. Yet, with every smiling face, every flung flower, Ramil felt a growing emptiness.

He longed for Paytai, for the gentle presence that had always anchored him, imagining him waiting in their chambers, radiant in his beauty, his aura soft and submissive, ready to offer comfort and quiet devotion after the long campaign.

He pictured Paytai’s eyes, wide and filled with adoration, his body leaning into Ramil’s embrace, his unique scent a balm to his weary soul.

Ramil yearned to apologize, to make amends for the attention he had withheld, consumed as he was by the relentless chase for the crown. Their mating had been declared, yes, but no proper ceremony, no grand public recognition had ever cemented Paytai’s status as his true consort, his beloved omega, his partner for life. He had been so focused on proving his worth to his father, on securing a throne he now questioned, that he had utterly failed to properly treasure the most precious thing he already possessed.

This victory, this crown, felt like ash in his mouth without his mate beside him.

The procession culminated in the grand parade ground before the palace, where dignitaries and minor nobles jostled for a glimpse of the victorious prince.

Ramil dismounted, the cheers swelling around him, a cacophony that muffled his thoughts. Prince Ratchata, now secured in his position as King due to his son’s conquering of Bhujar, stood on the royal dais, a preening, triumphant figure. His eyes, fixed on Ramil, gleamed with a chilling satisfaction, a hunger for power that had finally been sated. He looked like a man drunk on ambition, his presence radiating a sharp, almost manic energy.

As Ramil began to ascend the steps, the cheers from a frantic attendant jostled him, tearing at the still healing wound on his side. This was the same wound Charan’s blade had left, a brutal reminder of the violent consequences of his father's ruthless campaign. A fresh sting, a wet warmth, spread beneath his tunic.

He ignored it, his gaze sweeping the throngs of people, a faint, expectant smile touching his lips, wondering if Paytai would be among the onlookers, perhaps waving from a balcony.

The subsequent feast was even more stifling. The Great Hall was ablaze with light, filled with the boisterous laughter of newly promoted officers, the clinking of goblets, and the shrill, simpering voices of sycophantic beta courtiers.

Ramil sat at the high table, a gilded cage, enduring endless platitudes and toasts. His wound throbbed beneath the layers of linen, but the deeper pain was in his chest, a subtle anxiety that Paytai hadn't yet appeared.

He picked at the rich food, the scent of roasted meat and sweet wine cloying, doing little to mask the lingering coppery tang of his own blood.

Ratchata, meanwhile, was in his element. He held court at the head of the table, his booming laughter echoing through the hall, his eyes bright with a predatory glee. “A new age dawns for Phuchongphisut!” he declared, raising his goblet. “A new age of strength! Of unparalleled dominion!”

Prince Calvin Meenanagarin, heir to the southern house and a beacon of quiet strength, offered a polite nod to Ramil from across the table. Ramil was surprised to see him, as most other houses had sent only mere ministers to represent them, not their direct heir. Calvin's presence was a rare sign of genuine respect amidst the usual courtly pretense, his eyes carrying a shrewd, assessing intelligence that transpired his calm demeanor.

"Your Highness," Calvin's voice was measured, clear. "A remarkable conquest. The South applauds your swift victory."

Ramil, momentarily pulled from his anxious thoughts, offered a curt nod in return. "Prince Calvin. Your house's commendation is valued. Truly." He offered a more genuine, albeit brief, smile. "It is good to see you here. Many of your peers sent mere envoys."

Just then, Prince Jay, having been delayed by attendants settling his quarters, appeared at the entrance to the high table, a delicate, almost ethereal figure in the boisterous hall.

His pale beauty, even smudged with the dust of travel, was undeniable. He offered a shy, uncertain glance towards the gathered nobility, clearly expecting Ramil to notice him and escort him to a seat, but Ramil, lost in his own turbulent thoughts of Paytai and the day's events, was oblivious to Jay's silent plea.

Prince Calvin's gaze, sharp and perceptive, fell upon Jay. A subtle flicker crossed Calvin's features, a hint of something beyond mere curiosity as he took in the Bhujari prince. Calvin excused himself politely from the ongoing conversation and walked towards Jay, a quiet kindness in his eyes. He gently guided Jay to an empty seat a few places down from Ramil, ensuring the younger prince was comfortable.

As Jay settled, a stern faced minister from the small kingdom of Arow, known for their rigid adherence to tradition, approached Calvin. His voice was a low, disapproving murmur, "Your highness, surely an omega, especially one recently pledged to Prince Ramil, should not be escorted by another alpha in such a public manner. It is... improper."

Calvin turned, his expression unwavering. "The South does things differently, Minister," he replied, his voice calm but firm. He then turned slightly towards Ramil. "My apologies, Prince Ramil, for any perceived impropriety. In the South, we simply extend courtesy."

Ramil, still consumed by thoughts of Paytai and the general chaos of the feast, barely registered the apology. He offered a tight, noncommittal smile, his gaze sweeping the hall again. "Oh, that?" he said dismissively, waving a hand vaguely. "It matters not. He is nothing more than a peace offering."

Calvin's brows subtly rose, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes at Ramil's utter indifference.

Ratchata’s voice boomed again. “To Ramil, the Conquering Prince!” The assembled nobles cheered, blind to the darkness that radiated from the old alpha.

Ramil watched his father, a knot of revulsion tightening in his gut.

This was not the future he had dreamed of with Paytai. This was a nightmare of power and ruthlessness. He felt like a pawn, a weapon sharpened and then discarded, now expected to play the part of the triumphant, grateful son. The lingering question of Paytai's absence from the celebrations pricked at him.

He couldn’t endure another moment of this farce.

He pushed his chair back abruptly, the scraping sound momentarily cutting through the din. Several eyes turned his way, but Ramil paid them no mind. He needed to be free, if only for a moment. He needed to see Paytai. Slipping through a side door and down a secluded corridor, he moved with practiced ease through the palace’s less traveled passages, past sleepy guards and whispering shadows. The cool air of the deserted halls was a blessed relief after the oppressive heat of the feast.

He reached his wing, and his heart pounded with a desperate hope, a mixture of anticipation and a faint, unacknowledged dread.

He pushed open the heavy oak door to their shared chambers, his breath catching. The air was still, heavy with disuse.

He stepped inside, expecting to be enveloped by the familiar warmth of Paytai’s presence, the subtle blend of vanilla and lily that always clung to his mate.

Instead, he found only a faint, heartbreaking whisper, an echo that was almost imperceptible, clinging faintly to the silk drapes and the pillows on their vast bed. He inhaled deeply, desperately, but found only the ghost of a memory. He ran his hand over the embroidered spread, over the fine, soft fabrics Paytai had favored. The bed was cold, undisturbed. The absence was a physical blow.

The faintness of the scent, the undisturbed silence of the room, screamed the truth: Paytai had not been here for a long, long time. 

A surge of raw, untamed fury, hotter and fiercer than any battle rage, consumed Ramil.

His mate, his omega, his beloved, was gone. Vanished.

While he had been fighting this senseless war, chained by duty and his father’s ambition.

He slammed a fist against the sturdy wardrobe, the impact jarring his entire body, and a sharp, fresh pain flared through his side as the wound from Charan’s blade, already stretched taut by his rapid movements, began to bleed anew beneath the bandages. He barely registered it. He stumbled back, his vision blurring, not from tears but from pure, incandescent rage. His hand flew to his side, tearing at the now soaked bandages without a thought. The linen came away, soaked through with dark blood that immediately welled up, hot and viscous, staining his tunic. But he barely noticed the pain. It was nothing compared to the agony in his soul.

With a growl that tore from his throat, Ramil stormed out of the chambers, leaving a trail of blood on the polished floors. He strode back towards the Great Hall, his gait uneven, his unbound wound bleeding freely down his side. The scent of his own anger, sharp and dangerous, began to seep into the air around him.

The heavy doors to the Great Hall burst open under his furious push, startling the revelers into a sudden, stunned silence. All eyes turned to him. The festive lights caught the fresh blood on his tunic, making it stark against the deep green fabric. His hair was disheveled, his eyes blazing, and the primal scent of a dominant alpha, raw and untamed, began to fill the hall, cutting through the cloying scents of wine, perfume, and the mingled pheromones of alphas and omegas, silencing laughter and murmurs alike.

Ratchata, mid toast, paused, his goblet halfway to his lips, his eyes narrowing in cold surprise. "Ramil? What in the...?"

Ramil stalked forward, oblivious to the horrified gasps, to the officers stiffening, to the sudden fear in the eyes of the courtiers. His gaze locked onto his father, unwavering, fearless. The usual mask of duty and obedience was stripped away, revealing a ferocity Ratchata had never seen.

"Where is he, Father?" Ramil's voice, though barely above a growl, resonated through the stunned silence, amplified by the sheer force of his presence and the heavy thrum of his pheromones. His wound pulsed, fresh blood darkening the front of his tunic, but he stood tall, unwavering. "Where is Paytai?"

Ratchata's face twisted, a flicker of annoyance, then calculated disdain. "The omega? He fled, Ramil. Good riddance. You have a kingdom to oversee, not a flighty consort to chase."

"He fled ? When?" Ramil's voice rose, edged with incredulity and betrayal. "And you said nothing? You let me march to war, believing...!"

His gaze swept the horrified faces of the court, then landed back on his father, blazing with a terrifying intensity.

"Where is Paytai?"

The question hung in the air, a challenge, a declaration of defiance, dripping with a terrifying alpha dominance that had the entire hall holding its breath.

For the first time, Prince Ramil had chosen his mate over his crown, and the air crackled with the devastating consequences.

Chapter Text

The air in the Great Hall crackled, thick with the scent of a dominant alpha's unchecked fury.

Ramil’s demand hung heavy, cutting through the stunned silence that followed his outburst. Prince Ratchata's face, initially a mask of icy disdain, now contorted into something genuinely ugly. The gilded goblet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor, forgotten amidst the sudden, palpable tension. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide with disbelief, then quickly, with an answering rage.

“You dare?” Ratchata’s voice was a low snarl, barely audible over the thrumming silence, yet it reverberated with a power that had always compelled obedience. “You dare question your future king, in front of the entire court, for a flighty omega? A bed warmer that means nothing now that the crown is ours? You disgrace yourself, Ramil!”

Ramil took another step forward, his wounded side screaming in protest, but he ignored it. His blood, still seeping through his tunic, was a testament to the battle he’d won for his father’s ambition, a battle that felt worthless without Paytai.

“He is not a bed warmer,” Ramil hissed, his voice raw, shaking the very chandeliers.

“He is my mate. My pledged consort. And you are keeping him from me.” His eyes, usually in a cool almost bored gaze, blazed with a fire Ratchata had never seen, a fire fueled by a primal protective instinct that transcended politics and royal decree.

Fear flickered in the eyes of the gathered courtiers, a terrified realization that the relationship between Prince and his father had violently splintered before them.

Ratchata, regaining a semblance of control, straightened his robes, his voice regaining its chilling composure, though his eyes remained fixed on Ramil with a dangerous glint.

"Guards! Escort Prince Ramil to his chambers. He is unwell. These festivities will continue."

But no guard moved immediately, caught between the sheer dominance emanating from Ramil and the longheld authority of Prince Ratchata.

Ramil’s gaze swept over them, a silent challenge that dared them to approach.

“No,” he stated, the single word ringing with absolute finality. “I am not unwell. And I will not rest until I find him. And when I do, Father, we will speak again.”

With that, Ramil spun on his heel, intent on leaving the stunned, hushed hall in his wake. He ignored the whispers, the horrified glances, the faint scent of fear and pity. His heart throbbed with a desperate urgency. He had to find Paytai.

But before he could take another step, the combined effect of his bleeding injury and his overstimulated, raging pheromones overwhelmed him. His vision blurred, the festive lights of the hall exploding into fragmented stars. A gasp tore from his throat, and he lurched, his legs giving out beneath him. He crashed to the marble floor with a heavy thud, his furious alpha scent spiking wildly before fading into something closer to pain and unconsciousness.

It was then, with the immediate threat of Ramil’s dominance momentarily extinguished, that the guards finally sprang to action. Two alphas rushed forward, hesitantly, then with more purpose, to hoist the unconscious prince from the floor.

Prince Ratchata’s voice immediately boomed, "The Prince is clearly drunk and delirious from the journey! A temporary weakness, nothing more!" He clapped his hands sharply, his gaze sweeping the musicians’ stand. "Play! Resume the music! The festivities will continue as planned!"

The restarted music was jarring, a false cheer attempting to paper over the raw fissure that had just split the Great Hall.

Prince Jay was already overwhelmed by the cloying scents and boisterous clamor of the feast, found Ramil’s explosive display and the subsequent surge of untamed alpha pheromones unbearable.

It hit him like a physical blow, making his head throb and his stomach clench. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, trying to suppress a whimper, and instinctively sought escape from the suffocating intensity. With a quiet, almost imperceptible nod to a nearby attendant, he murmured a polite excuse, his voice thin, and slipped away from the high table.

He moved quickly, his sole thought to find the quiet solace of his assigned chambers. But the palace was a labyrinth of echoing halls and unfamiliar turns. His mind, still reeling from the emotional turmoil and the lingering phantom pressure of Ramil's rage, was disoriented. Every corridor looked the same, every turn led to another dead end. Panic began to set in, a cold wave washing over his already fragile state.

He felt utterly alone, vulnerable, and profoundly lost in this foreign land.

His worries about his father, the true King of Bhujar now held captive, gnawed at him. And his beloved Bhujar, his home, was now occupied, its fate uncertain, its people at the mercy of the conquering Emmaly.

The thought was a crushing weight. He stumbled blindly, his breath hitching, until he found himself in a quiet, deserted section of an unknown hall. The silence here, a stark contrast to the distant, forced revelry, was too much. The walls seemed to press in, the weight of his helplessness, his fears for his father, and the invasion of his homeland became overwhelming.

A sob tore from his throat, raw and uncontrolled, and he slid down against a cool stone pillar, burying his face in his hands, shaking with silent, desperate tears.

He didn't hear the soft footsteps approaching until a gentle hand settled on his shoulder. Jay gasped, flinching back, his head snapping up, his eyes wide and tear filled.

Standing over him, his expression one of quiet concern, was Prince Calvin Meenanagarin. The Southern Alpha's presence was calm, a steady anchor in Jay's storm of distress.

Calvin knelt slowly, his movements unhurried and non threatening, his own alpha scent muted, carefully controlled to be comforting rather than overwhelming.

"Prince Jay?" he asked, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "Are you alright?"

Jay could only shake his head, fresh tears streaming down his face, unable to articulate the crushing weight of his despair.

Calvin offered him a clean, folded handkerchief, his eyes radiating a deep, genuine empathy that cut through Jay's isolation.

"The palace can be disorienting," Calvin said gently, his gaze unwavering but kind. "And tonight's events... they were much for anyone to bear, let alone an omega of your sensitivity."

He didn't pry, didn't demand explanations, simply offered a quiet understanding. He sat beside Jay, not too close, but close enough to convey warmth and silent support. The beautiful omega, broken and lost, leaned instinctively, subtly, into the quiet comfort Calvin offered, a small, fragile solace in the overwhelming darkness.

After a few more moments of shared, silent understanding, Calvin rose to his feet. He turned, signaling discreetly to two of his own attendants who had been waiting patiently a short distance away.

"Please ensure Prince Jay is safely escorted to his own attendants," Calvin instructed, his voice low and clear. "See that he has everything he needs, and that he is undisturbed for the remainder of the evening."

As Jay, still somewhat dazed but grateful, was gently led away, Calvin’s gaze followed him until he disappeared around a corner.

Then, Calvin turned to his head attendant, a grizzled, older beta named Pat.

"Pat," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his eyes now sharp with an almost predatory intelligence that belied his earlier gentle demeanor.

"Send word to the South. Delay our departure by at least two weeks. Fabricate a reason, a sudden diplomatic illness, a need for further consultations with the Phuchongphisut ministers, anything. Just ensure we remain in the capital."

Pat nodded, his expression unreadable, already turning to carry out the order.

Calvin’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "It seems," he murmured to himself, his gaze drifting towards the distant clamor of the Great Hall, "things are about to get very interesting indeed."

Far to the North, in the heart of the capital of House Assavadevathin, whose golden banners bore the proud emblem of a horse, Prince Tharin paced his study, the rich furs lining the floor doing little to absorb the restless energy that vibrated from him.

Tharin, the current ruler of the Northern Capital, was known throughout Emmaly not for military might, but for his profound generosity and the deep, nurturing bond he shared with his kin.

His heart ached, a constant thrum of worry for his son, Khanin. Not only had Khanin lost the crucial race to capture Bhujar, a defeat that had far reaching implications for their house's standing and succession, but his beloved son lay in a mysterious, unexplained coma since his return from the campaign.

The healers offered little hope, their whispered diagnoses vague, their efforts fruitless. Tharin cherished Khanin, and this unknown affliction was a torment.

King Thipokbowon, Tharin's venerable father and the current sovereign of Emmaly, often visited his son's chambers, his regal features etched with a grim frustration.

The old King had groomed Tharin’s line to succeed, but Khanin’s incapacitation and the loss of Bhujar to the upstart Phuchongphisut House had thrown the royal succession into disarray. The Eastern region was renowned for their advancements in medicine. This reputation, coupled with the political gains from Bhujar and the capture of Charan, fueled King Thipokbowon's and Prince Tharin's certainty of Phuchongphisut involvement in Khanin's mysterious coma.

Beyond the immediate crisis of his heir, a profound personal anguish gnawed at King Thipokbowon: the fate of Charan, their loyal guard.

Charan had indeed attacked Prince Ramil in a fit of rage, deeply distraught by Khanin's inexplicable coma, a state he fiercely blamed on Ramil and the Eastern House, especially given his unacted upon, profound feelings for the omega prince.

Ratchata, ever the opportunist, had seized upon this act of treason, capturing Charan and using the valid charge to publicly humiliate and weaken the Northern House.

The King knew Ratchata had been excited to do so, recognizing the calculated insult to Assavadevathin's honor.

Why, if not through some insidious design, would Khanin remain in such a state, especially after Ramil had secured the victory for their house, removing a key rival? The Phuchongphisut's renowned medical prowess which often included profound knowledge of poisons, and their antidotes only deepened their suspicions, hinting at a deliberate and insidious act of poisoning, a silent war waged through clandestine means.

King Thipokbowon, who viewed Charan almost like a grandson, felt a burning indignation and a deeply personal resolve to see him freed. The disappointment concerning the succession was a palpable weight in the Northern palace, yet the injustice done to Charan was a sharp, bitter pill indeed for the King.

Later that night, King Thipokbowon held a clandestine meeting in a hidden chamber beneath the throne room, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and ambition. Only his most trusted, and equally ruthless, advisors were present.

The King, a master of strategic calculation, settled into his high backed chair, his gaze sweeping over their faces, a predator assessing his pack.

"Ratchata’s insolence grows unbearable," he stated, his voice a low, precise instrument of power, cutting through the heavy air.

"To parade Charan, a Phithakthewa, in chains...it is a direct challenge to our very lineage, to the blood that flows through our veins and secures our rule. This is not merely about a guard, but about the bedrock of Assavadevathin power. We will have him back. And we will do so in a manner that weakens Ratchata, without risking open war at this delicate juncture."

A faint, almost imperceptible sneer touched the King's lips as he considered the surprising success of Ramil's campaign.

"Despite the... diversions we put in his path," he mused, his tone dry, "That Ramil secured Bhujar with an unexpected swiftness. A frustrating display of competence, yes, but it changes little for our ultimate goals. Bhujar's riches will eventually serve our treasury, one way or another."

Just then, a shadow detached itself from the corner of the room, resolving into a figure wrapped in the dark, non descript robes of a royal spy, their presence as silent and unsettling as a ghost.

"Your Majesty," the spy murmured, bowing low, their voice devoid of emotion. "A report from the East. Our contact, Mira, has indeed spirited away Prince Ramil's omega, Paytai."

King Thipokbowon’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something calculating. He waved a dismissive hand.

"That omega is utterly worthless now. His father, Lord Ronawee, died in the conquest of Bhujar, stripping him of any political leverage. Ramil, that fool, has already acquired a new plaything from Bhujar, that Prince is a far more strategic acquisition, in fact. Ronawee's omega son is a liability, a loose end." The King drawled.

"Send word to Mira, immediately. Instruct her to abandon the omega. Her efforts would be far better utilized elsewhere. Make her rebuild her connection with Princess Ava Davichmetha. Davichmetha's influence is growing, and we need eyes and ears within their court. Tell her to be subtle, to weave herself into Ava's confidence. Her loyalty to us, and her skill, are paramount."

His advisors nodded, their faces grim, understanding the depth of their King's resolve and the intricate, often morally ambiguous, paths they were now expected to tread to protect the golden lineage.

Mira had gone out to secure fresh provisions and Paytai found himself truly alone in the tavern room.

The quiet was a stark contrast to the thrumming anxiety within him. His hand instinctively went to his neck, his fingers closing around the small, cool silver ring that hung on a thin chain beneath his tunic.

It was a simple band, intricately carved with a tiny snake emblem, its eyes two sparkling silver gemstones. Ramil had given it to him during the first, heady blooms of their romance, whispering that it had belonged to his own mother, a cherished heirloom.

Paytai had always believed it signified a unique and profound bond, a testament to Ramil's deep affection and his own irreplaceable position. He squeezed it now, a desperate hope clinging to the cold metal.

A wave of memory washed over him, a flashback to that stolen moment of tender intimacy.

The soft glow of the light gems cast a warm, intimate hue across Ramil’s chambers. Their flickering light danced over the rich tapestries and polished wood. The air was thick with the scent of vanilla and lilies and something deeper, more primal... a musk that made Paytai’s heart race as he stood before Ramil, his hands trembling slightly.

Ramil’s eyes were dark, intense, and filled with an adoration that made Paytai feel both cherished and exposed. The alpha’s presence was overwhelming; his broad shoulders and commanding posture a constant reminder of his dominance. Yet, in that moment, there was a tenderness in his gaze that made Paytai’s breath catch.

“Paytai,” Ramil murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion. He reached out, his large hand enveloping Paytai’s smaller one, and pressed something cool and smooth into his palm. Paytai looked down to see a silver ring, its surface etched with intricate patterns that caught the light.

“My mother’s,” Ramil continued, his thumb brushing over Paytai’s knuckles. “She wore it always. Now… I want you to have it. To wear it.” His voice dropped to a whisper, raw and vulnerable. “You are everything to me, Paytai.”

Paytai’s cheeks flushed, his heart swelling with a mix of awe and disbelief. He felt treasured, truly chosen, as if the weight of Ramil’s devotion had settled deep within his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he simply nodded, his fingers curling around the ring as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Ramil’s lips curved into a soft smile, and without warning, he pulled Paytai onto his lap. The omega let out a small gasp as he found himself straddling Ramil’s thighs, their bodies pressed close. Ramil’s hands settled on Paytai’s hips, his grip firm but gentle, anchoring him in place.

“Do you understand what this means?” Ramil asked, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Paytai’s spine. His eyes bore into Paytai’s, searching for something, a confirmation, perhaps, or surrender.

Paytai swallowed hard; his pulse quickened. “I… I think so,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Ramil’s smile deepened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against Paytai’s ear. “Good,” he murmured, his breath hot against Paytai’s skin. “Because I intend to show you just how much you mean to me.”

Before Paytai could respond, Ramil’s hands moved, sliding up his sides and then down to the hem of his tunic. With a single, deliberate motion, he pulled the fabric over Paytai’s head, leaving him bare from the waist up. The cool air of the chamber kissed Paytai’s skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Ramil’s gaze as it roamed over his body.

“So beautiful,” Ramil breathed, his hands returning to Paytai’s hips. His thumbs traced slow circles over the sensitive skin there, sending sparks of pleasure through Paytai’s veins. “Every inch of you is perfect.”

Paytai’s breath hitched, his body responding instinctively to Ramil’s touch. He could feel the alpha’s arousal pressing against him, hard and insistent, and it only fueled his own desire. He shifted slightly, grinding down against Ramil, and was rewarded with a low growl that vibrated through the alpha’s chest.

“Eager, aren’t we?” Ramil teased, his hands tightening on Paytai’s hips. He leaned in, capturing Paytai’s lips in a searing kiss that left the omega dizzy. Ramil’s tongue swept into his mouth, claiming him with a possessiveness that made Paytai moan softly.

When they finally broke apart, Paytai was panting, his lips swollen and his mind hazy with need. Ramil’s hands moved again, this time to the laces of Paytai’s trousers. He undid them with practiced ease, pushing the fabric down until it pooled around Paytai’s ankles.

“Look at you,” Ramil murmured, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of Paytai’s naked form. His hands roamed over Paytai’s thighs, his touch both reverent and possessive. “Mine.”

The word sent a thrill through Paytai, and he couldn’t help but whimper as Ramil’s fingers brushed against his entrance. The alpha snickered, clearly enjoying the way Paytai squirmed in his lap.

“Patience, love,” Ramil chided gently, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. He reached for a small vial on the table beside them, coating his fingers with the slick liquid inside. Then, without warning, he pressed one finger into Paytai, stretching him slowly but firmly.

Paytai gasped, his back arching as pleasure shot through him. Ramil’s finger moved in and out, each thrust sending waves of heat coursing through Paytai’s body. When a second finger joined the first, Paytai couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped his lips.

“That’s it,” Ramil encouraged, his voice rough with desire. “Let me hear you.”

Paytai obeyed without hesitation, his cries growing louder as Ramil’s fingers worked him open. The alpha’s other hand gripped his hip tightly, holding him in place as he added a third finger. The stretch was intense, but the pleasure that came with it was overwhelming.

When Ramil finally withdrew his fingers, Paytai whimpered at the loss. But before he could protest, Ramil was lifting him slightly, positioning him over his hardened length.

“Ready?” Ramil asked, though it was clear from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t really asking.

Paytai nodded anyway, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, Ramil lowered him, inch by agonizing inch, until Paytai was fully seated in his lap. The omega let out a shaky breath, his body adjusting to the sensation of being so completely filled.

“Perfect,” Ramil growled, his hands gripping Paytai’s hips tightly. “Now move.”

Paytai obeyed, lifting himself slightly before sinking back down. The friction was exquisite, and he couldn’t help but moan as pleasure coursed through him. Ramil’s hands guided him, setting a steady rhythm that quickly had both of them panting.

“Faster,” Ramil commanded, his voice rough with need.

Paytai complied, his movements becoming more frantic as the pleasure built within him. Ramil’s hands moved to his ass, squeezing firmly as he thrust up to meet Paytai’s downward motions. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and muffled moans.

“You feel so good,” Ramil groaned, his grip tightening on Paytai’s hips. “So tight.”

Paytai could only nod, his mind consumed by the sensations coursing through him. He could feel himself getting closer to the edge, his body trembling with the effort of holding on.

“Come for me,” Ramil urged, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down Paytai’s spine. “Let go.”

With a cry, Paytai obeyed, his body convulsing as pleasure overtook him. Ramil followed soon after, his own release spilling deep inside Paytai as he held him close.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies still joined as they caught their breath. Then Ramil leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Paytai’s lips.

But the beautiful memory fractured, dissolving as quickly as it had formed. The cold reality of Paytai's current situation crashed down.

The ring, this symbol of his supposed importance, felt like a cruel irony.

He released it, his fingers brushing over his belly. He was not alone. He might be a pawn but he was a vessel for new life.

A fierce, protective warmth bloomed in his chest, chasing away the chill of betrayal. He laid his hand flat against his abdomen, a silent connection to the life stirring within.

"My little one," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, but hardening with resolve. "I promise you. I will protect you. No matter what they say. No matter what they do. You are not a prize. You are not a pawn. You are my baby, and I will keep you safe."

The words were a quiet vow, a defiant whisper against the vast, complicated web of the crown and hidden agendas that surrounded him.

For the first time, Paytai felt a strength he hadn't known he possessed, born not of external protection, but of an internal, unyielding love.

Chapter Text

Ramil was not taken to his grand, personal chambers, those opulent rooms filled with the lingering scent of lillies and the phantom warmth of Paytai.

Instead, he was borne through hushed corridors to a secluded, heavily guarded wing, a part of the palace typically reserved for high security prisoners or those under extreme royal displeasure.

It was a clear, chilling message from Ratchata: this was not merely a physical recovery, but a meticulously orchestrated political containment.

He woke to the sterile scent of medicinal herbs, a sharp contrast to the sweet cloy of the feast hall.

His head throbbed, a dull echo of the crash, and his side burned with a fierce, fresh agony. The elegant silk sheets of his usual bed were replaced by coarse linen, and the familiar sounds of the palace were muffled, distant, replaced by the hushed whispers of movement outside his door.

He was attended by the palace’s most renowned healers, older betas whose skilled hands, steeped in the East's advanced medical arts, moved with swift, practiced efficiency. They cleaned his wound, their clinical detachment unsettling, and stitched the torn flesh with an almost alarming speed that spoke of centuries of accumulated knowledge.

Ramil’s fevered breaths were the only sound in the small, austere room, his mind a turbulent ocean of unformed rage and desperate longing for Paytai. Each needle prick, each tightening stitch, served as a stark reminder of his failure, his vulnerability, and his father's cruel deception.

Ratchata himself appeared only once, a shadow framed in the doorway, his silhouette imposing, his presence radiating cold power. His gaze, usually sharp and calculating, swept over Ramil with a distant, almost bored assessment.

“He recovers quickly,” Ratchata pronounced, his voice clipped, more to the two grim faced guards flanking him than to Ramil. “Ensure he is… comfortable. But undisturbed. He needs time to reflect on his duties. And his priorities.”

The veiled threat hung heavy in the air, a silken noose tightening around Ramil’s fractured will. He tried to speak, to demand answers, but his throat was raw, and his body, sapped by blood loss and emotional exhaustion, refused to obey. He was confined, stripped of his command, his power, for now, curtailed, a king in all but name, trapped by the very father he had fought to elevate. The silence that followed Ratchata’s departure was more deafening than any shout, sealing Ramil in a gilded cage of frustration and desperate inaction.

Prince Calvin, cloistered in a private negotiation chamber within the Eastern palace, laid out his proposal to a gathering of skeptical Eastern healers and the ever watchful Prince Ratchata.

"This pearl, sourced from the deepest, untouched veins of the South," Calvin began, his voice calm and assured, despite the nervous flutter in his stomach. "It holds a unique property. Not merely a tonic, but a catalyst. For alphas, it promises a sustained, harmonious elevation of natural pheromones, enhancing their presence without the typical destabilizing effects. A constant, yet controlled, aura of dominance and well-being."

The Southern and coastal region of the country was considered the least developed region in all of Emmaly, often overlooked by the grander, more powerful houses. However, during one of the recent geological surveys in the secluded, untouched caves along his family’s remote coastline, Prince Calvin had stumbled upon a discovery that promised to change their fortunes: a rare, luminous pearls, unlike any seen before.

After meticulous, if rudimentary, testing by his own limited alchemists, he had found that when ground into a fine powder, this pearl possessed astonishing medicinal properties. It appeared to have a unique effect on internal energies, and Calvin, ever the strategist, saw its potential.

He had boasted of its ability to subtly boost an alpha's pheromones without causing the overwhelming, dangerous surges often seen in lesser stimulants. This boast, intentionally vague yet tantalizing, had piqued the interest of the East's renowned healers, and, more importantly, Prince Ratchata.

The Eastern healers, their faces impassive, exchanged glances. They were masters of their craft, accustomed to subtle poisons and potent cures, but this sounded almost too good to be true.

Ratchata, however, leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a predatory curiosity that matched his ambition. He had just witnessed Ramil's volatile display, the very raw, unchecked alpha power that Calvin now claimed this pearl could refine.

"Fascinating, Prince Calvin," Ratchata drawled, his tone silkily dangerous. "A truly remarkable claim. But claims, as you know, are mere words without proof. You propose it can boost pheromones without overwhelming the alpha? Without causing... fits of uncontrolled rage, for instance?"

His gaze flickered meaningfully. "We have a certain patient, shall we say, who is currently struggling with such a 'temporary weakness'. If this pearl possesses the properties you claim, prove it. If it works, and our healers confirm its efficacy, then we will discuss a truly lucrative partnership for your House. Otherwise, your 'rare' pearl remains merely a pretty stone."

Calvin's heart sank, a cold knot of dread tightening in his chest. His boast had been just that, a boast. A gamble. He had no extensive research, no empirical data beyond a few theoretical experiments. The precise effects of the pearl, especially on a powerful alpha were dangerously unresearched. He was bluffing, pushing the limits of his limited knowledge to secure an alliance with the dominant Eastern House and bring much needed prosperity to his underdeveloped region. His quiet confidence was a mask, hiding the chilling thought that had just solidified in his mind:

This could go horribly wrong.

"Your Highness," Calvin began, a note of careful deference in his voice, attempting to subtly redirect the conversation. "While the potential is indeed immense, I must humbly suggest that before applying this refined pearl powder to any individual, a more rigorous and extensive period of study is warranted. Our rudimentary alchemists have merely scratched the surface of its capabilities. Your esteemed Eastern healers, with their unparalleled mastery of medicine and intricate understanding of internal energies, could unlock its full, safe potential. Perhaps a series of controlled tests, allowing for precise dosage and observation, would be prudent, before risking unpredictable outcomes?"

He offered a thin, hopeful smile, trying to appeal to their renowned scientific rigor.

Ratchata, however, merely waved a dismissive hand, his gaze unwavering.

"We appreciate your caution, Prince Calvin, but time is a luxury we do not possess. This alpha's recovery must be swift and absolute. Our healers are more than capable of discerning the pearl's efficacy. Your willingness to provide this... solution is what matters. Rest assured, if it proves as beneficial as you claim, your House will be handsomely rewarded."

His words were a polite dismissal, hiding the unwavering intent beneath. 

The meeting concluded, Calvin’s heart still heavy with unspoken anxieties.

He watched Ratchata rise, offer a curt nod to his healers, and then, with a subtle shift in his expression, beckon Head Royal Healer Tongfah to a whispered conversation in a far corner of the chamber. Calvin caught only snatches of words, hushed and urgent. "...my son... his recent volatility... must be contained... Tongfah, you will administer the pearl. Observe him closely. This uncontrollable power... he is no longer the boy I could command. This pearl... it is our chance to restore him to his proper place."

Tongfah, a beta with shrewd, intelligent eyes, merely inclined his head, his face impassive. Calvin felt a chill crawl up his spine. He had offered a pearl of healing and prosperity, and Ratchata had twisted it into a tool of control, aimed squarely at his own son.

The stakes of this gamble had just escalated, dangerously. But was it worth it? 

A few days into his uncomfortable new residency, Prince Jay received an unexpected invitation.

Not from Ratchata, nor Ramil, but from the multiple concubines of Ratchata who currently resided within the palace.

The prince consort, Ratchata's previous mate, had long passed away, a distant memory, and Ratchata himself had shown no inclination to formally mate with any of his current 'playthings,' as they were often dismissively referred to in hushed whispers. This left a volatile power vacuum among the omegas and betas who served as his current companions, each subtly, or not so subtly vying for the ultimate prize:

to become the now future king’s queen.

The tea party was held in a lavish, sun-drenched conservatory, overflowing with exotic flowering plants that offered little natural concealment. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of jasmine and the sharp, competing pheromones of five individuals. Three women and two men, sat around a low, intricately carved table, their silks rustling, their smiles painted on.

Jay, arriving with a nervous attendant, felt immediately out of place. He was not one of them, yet he was now inexplicably thrown into their intricate, hostile dance.

He observed them, a silent study. Lady Sera, her dark hair a cascade of perfect curls, dabbed daintily at her lips with a lace handkerchief, her eyes, however, darting constantly, assessing, calculating.

"So, the little prince from Bhujar," she purred, her voice sweet as honey, though her eyes were sharp, calculating. "It must be quite a shock, finding yourself here, with... new arrangements. A conquered land, a new Alpha. A rather sudden change of fortune, wouldn't you say?" Her words were a subtle jab, delivered with a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

She leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in her gaze. "And speaking of our esteemed Prince Ramil, he has been rather... absent, wouldn't you agree? After such a dramatic display the other night, one might almost think he'd vanished."

A ripple of knowing, hushed laughter passed among the other concubines.

"Perhaps his former omega, Paytai, simply tired of waiting for his affections. Not that he ever seemed to grace us with his presence. He was rather... reserved , wasn't he? Or perhaps, simply too enamored with his own importance to acknowledge others." She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

Kaelen, a handsome omega, lounged elegantly, a languid smile on his face, but his gaze was sharp, missing nothing. He quickly intervened, his voice smooth, deflecting Sera's thinly veiled cruelty.

"Lady Sera, surely you forget that fortune's wheel turns for all of us. Many here know the bitterness of unexpected circumstances, the harsh hand of fate." His gaze met Jay's, a flicker of something akin to shared understanding in his eyes. "My own family, for instance, once held vast territories now claimed by a stronger House. One learns to adapt. To find strength in new surroundings."

He then offered Jay a charming, if practiced, smile.

"And Prince Jay, you are clearly a more... present addition to the court. Far more engaged, I imagine, than some previous attachments. A welcome change, certainly."

The subtle emphasis on "present" and "engaged" was not lost on Jay, nor the other concubines, implying his perceived "upgrade" over Paytai.

Another concubine named Min nodded subtly in agreement with Kaelen, a silent show of empathy.

Each of them, Jay quickly discerned, saw him not as a guest, but as a new piece on their chessboard.

A rival, perhaps? Or merely a curiosity? The underlying tension was palpable, a thin veneer of politeness barely concealing their sharp edges. Their conversations were laced with veiled compliments that served as subtle jabs, inquiries about his homeland that felt like thinly disguised interrogations about his value to the Eastern court. Jay, accustomed to the straightforward, if brutal, politics of Bhujar, found this passive-aggressive warfare far more unsettling.

He watched their eyes, noted the way their scents shifted almost imperceptibly with each subtle attack, each forced laugh. The tea, a delicate blend of spiced herbs, tasted bitter in his mouth. He was a new threat, an unknown quantity, a 'prize' who could potentially upset their carefully balanced, predatory ecosystem. And he had no idea how to play their game.

Jay's mind, however, latched onto the mention of "Paytai."

He remembered Ramil's sudden, violent outburst during the feast, the raw fury in his alpha scent, his desperate cry of "Where is Paytai?"

Now, hearing these concubines casually dismiss him, and comment on Paytai's absence and perceived aloofness, a curious thread began to weave itself in Jay's mind. Why had Paytai been so "reserved"? And why had Ramil, the mighty conqueror, fallen into such a state of despair over his disappearance, especially if he was considered "worthless" by others? A faint, unsettling intrigue stirred within Prince Jay.

Later that afternoon, seeking an escape from the suffocating cordiality of the palace's inner circles, Jay found himself wandering through the sprawling royal gardens.

The air here was cooler, laden with the scent of damp earth and late blooming roses, a welcome respite from the cloying perfumes and charged pheromones of the court.

His thoughts, however, remained a chaotic hum: the biting remarks of Lady Sera, the quiet support of Kaelen, and, most unsettling, the enigma of this 'Paytai' who seemed to haunt Ramil's every action.

The contrast between the concubines' dismissive tones and Ramil's primal outburst was stark, a dissonance Jay couldn't reconcile.

Lost in his contemplation, he rounded a hedge of sculpted hydrangeas and almost collided with Prince Calvin. Calvin, too, seemed to be seeking solitude, his brow furrowed in a rare display of worry, his usually composed demeanor softened by a subtle tension in his shoulders. He looked up, startled, then offered a small, hesitant smile.

"Prince Jay," Calvin greeted, his voice carrying a hint of relief, as if finding a kindred spirit.

"Your highness," Jay replied, a genuine smile touching his lips. The memory of Calvin's quiet comfort during the feast was still fresh, a small anchor in the storm of his new reality. "I must thank you again. For the other night. When… when things became rather overwhelming." Jay felt a blush creep up his neck, but Calvin merely offered a sympathetic nod.

"It was no trouble," Calvin replied, his earlier worry subtly receding, replaced by his characteristic calm. "A bit of fresh air and a steady hand can often do wonders, even amidst the grandest of celebrations. Though, I must confess, the East has a flair for the dramatic, don't they? One might almost believe their palace thrives on such... spectacles." His eyes held a playful glint, a subtle jab at the Eastern court's often ostentatious displays.

Jay chuckled, a genuine sound that surprised him. "Indeed. In Bhujar, our conflicts are, shall we say, less... theatrical." He paused, then added, a mischievous spark in his own eyes, "Though, I confess, witnessing a Southern Prince navigate such a tempest with such admirable composure was a spectacle in itself. I half expected you to pull out a fan and a particularly sharp wit, instead of merely a handkerchief."

Calvin laughed, a warm, resonant sound that eased the tension further.

"And risk offending our gracious hosts? Perish the thought, Prince Jay. My House is renowned for its pearls, not its theatrical inclinations. Though perhaps a fan would have been a wise addition to my diplomatic kit. One lives and learns." His words, light and self-deprecating, invited a comfortable ease between them.

Now, with his own omega pheromones settling and the immediate anxiety of the tea party fading, Jay took a moment to truly observe Calvin.

He was tall, certainly, but not with the imposing, almost suffocating breadth of Ramil's shoulders. Calvin's build was leaner, more graceful, yet undeniably strong. His skin was a warm, even tan, testament to the sun of his coastal lands, and his features, while not classically sharp like the Eastern alphas, held a rugged handsomeness, softened by a kind smile that reached his intelligent, dark eyes. There was a quiet strength about him, a gentle authority that was reassuring rather than intimidating. His scent was subtle, clean, like sea salt and faint cedar, a pleasing contrast to the heavy, aggressive alpha scents that permeated the Eastern court.

Jay found his company genuinely pleasing, a quiet, steady presence that felt refreshingly honest in this labyrinthine new world. He realized, with a faint sense of surprise, that he felt remarkably safe, and oddly, at peace, conversing with the Southern Prince.

In the deepest, coldest dungeon of the Eastern Capital, Charan lay bound in heavy chains. The raw, abrasive iron chafed against his wrists and ankles, biting into flesh already tender from repeated beatings. The stone walls of his cell were perpetually damp, weeping with the chill of the earth, and the air hung heavy with the suffocating stench of fear, stale blood, and the cloying, sickly sweetness of decay. Each shallow breath sent a fresh wave of agony through his ribs, a dull throb that had become a constant companion since Ratchata’s guards had dragged him here. His vision, still blurry from the last vicious blow to his head, blurred further with unshed tears that had nothing to do with physical pain.

His torment was not merely physical.

The gnawing anguish in his heart for Khanin, his Prince, was a far more potent poison. Charan’s mind replayed the horrifying image again and again: Khanin’s pale, still face, his beautiful golden hair fanned out against the stark white of the healer's cot, looking utterly lifeless, a fragile doll broken by an unseen hand.

Charan's meticulously trained control, honed over years of loyal service, had evaporated the moment he had seen his golden haired “master” in that state. All the unspoken feelings, the deep, respectful adoration he held for Khanin, had erupted into a singular, blinding rage.

He had seen Ramil, the cause of so much suffering, and his carefully constructed composure had shattered, replaced by a primal need for vengeance. The blade, his blade, had found its mark, and the resulting capture on charges of treason felt almost insignificant.

What was his life, his freedom, compared to Khanin’s vibrancy? He had failed.

Failed to protect him. Failed to avenge him. The bitterness of that failure was a gall in his throat, making it difficult to speak, even to breathe.

The heavy footsteps of the approaching jailer echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the metallic rasp of keys. The grated door to his cell creaked open, admitting a harsh sliver of torchlight that momentarily blinded him and silhouetted the imposing figure of a stern faced Phuchongphisut alpha, a jailer whose reputation for brutal efficiency preceded him.

"You have a visitor," the jailer grunted, his voice devoid of emotion, a flat, monotonous drone. He stepped aside, and in the dim light, Charan recognized the man despite him wearing dark, unadorned robes of Phuchongphisut military. A spy. His own people.

A flicker of hope, swiftly followed by a wave of crushing disappointment, washed over him. This was not the King, not Tharin.

The spy, a lean, sharp eyed beta, entered the cell, his gaze sweeping over Charan’s battered form with an unnerving detachment.

"Reckless, Charan," the spy said, his voice low and devoid of warmth, a sharp rebuke. "Utterly, unforgivably reckless. Did you truly believe a desperate stab at Ramil would serve Prince Khanin? Or House Assavadevathin?"

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, his eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Locked up like this, beaten within an inch of your life, unable to act… tell me, how exactly is this beneficial to Khanin’s recovery? How does this protect our lineage?"

Charan tried to speak, a raw, guttural sound escaping his bruised lips. "He… he…" His voice cracked, barely a whisper, the words failing him. The beating had left his jaw swollen, every syllable a new torment. He squeezed his eyes shut, a flash of pure, agonizing regret mingling with the persistent, burning anger.

He regretted the futility of it, the foolish, emotional outburst that had landed him here, precisely where Ratchata wanted him. But the anger remained, a hot, unquenchable ember for Khanin's suffering.

The spy sighed, a sound of weary exasperation. "Your loyalty is commendable, Charan. Your passion, misguided. But your King understands. He grieves for Khanin. And for you."

The spy’s voice dropped, becoming a low, conspiratorial murmur. "He has already set things in motion. There is a way out. A plan. It will take time, but you will not rot here. The King will see to it. His golden horse will not limp forever, Charan. And his most loyal servants will not be abandoned." The spy gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgment of Charan’s unwavering dedication despite his grave error. With another glance towards the door, he turned and slipped out of the cell as silently as he had arrived, leaving Charan once more in the suffocating darkness.

Far to the West, in the vibrant heart of the Davichmetha capital, Princess Ava Davichmetha, with her famously vivid pink silks and sharp, intelligent eyes, was enjoying a rare afternoon of leisure. She had slipped away from the stifling formality of the royal court, opting instead for a bustling artisan quarter, a place she often frequented with her academy friends in their youth, before the weight of crown and duty had fully settled.

The air hummed with the scent of freshly cut timber, spiced tea, and the subtle, earthy aroma of unworked gemstones, a comforting, familiar chaos. She was browsing a stall of intricately carved wooden figures, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips, her personal guards a discreet, unobtrusive presence a few paces behind her.

Just as she reached for a tiny, lacquered horse figurine, her eyes, sharp and quick, snagged on a familiar figure across the crowded square. It was a fleeting glimpse, a shadow amidst the throng of merchants and common folk, but it was enough. A woman, cloaked in practical, yet distinctly high quality, dark wool, her head bowed, her movements swift and almost furtive.

Mira.

A jolt went through Ava, a mixture of shock and a sudden, sharp pain. Mira. Her friend. The loyal, quiet Mira from their academy days, whose family had been so cruelly broken by Ratchata's ascent. The Mira who had simply vanished after the purge, presumed dead or in hiding, whispered about but never seen.

And now, here she was, in Davichmetha, looking not like a refugee, but like someone on a mission.

Mira, her senses always heightened, felt the sudden, piercing gaze.

Her head snapped up, her eyes locking for a terrifying instant with Ava’s across the bustling square.

Recognition, raw and undeniable, flashed between them. For a moment, time seemed to halt. Then, pure, unadulterated panic surged through Mira. Her perilous mission to protect Paytai, her fragile cover, all of it flashed before her eyes. To be seen by Ava, now, was catastrophic. Without a second thought, Mira pivoted, melting into the crowd with a speed and practiced ease that spoke of years spent in the shadows.

"Mira!" Ava cried out, her voice cutting through the market clamor, a sharp, disbelieving sound. Her hand instinctively reached out, but Mira was already gone, a ghost in the sunlight.

Ava's smile vanished, replaced by a grim, calculating expression. Her eyes narrowed, the lightness of her afternoon shattering into a thousand sharp pieces of suspicion and urgent curiosity.

She turned to her personal guard captain, an unyielding alpha named Lin.

"Lin," her voice was low, laced with an authority that belied her relaxed attire. "That woman. The one in dark wool. Did you see her? She was with me at the academy. Mira. I want to know where she is staying. And I want to know why she is here, and why she ran from me. Discreetly. Immediately."

Lin, a man who rarely showed surprise, merely inclined his head, his gaze already sweeping the square, picking apart the crowd with practiced efficiency.

"At once, Princess."

He barked quiet orders to his subordinates, and within moments, several of Ava's most trusted agents had melted into the throng, their mission clear: find Mira, and unravel the mystery of her unexpected return.

Ava remained rooted to the spot, her hand still outstretched, a mix of hurt, curiosity, and a growing sense of foreboding etched on her beautiful face. Mira’s sudden appearance, and her flight, meant something. Something important. And Ava, the cunning phoenix of Davichmetha, intended to find out what.

Ramil awoke to a dull ache that resonated deep in his bones, a lingering phantom of the wound in his side.

The sterile scent of medicinal herbs permeated the air, thick and cloying, a stark reminder of his confinement. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the heavily guarded chamber, and found Head Royal Healer Tongfah standing over him, a small, polished vial in hand. Tongfah's expression was unreadable, his shrewd eyes assessing Ramil with a clinical detachment that offered no comfort.

How many days has it been?

"Good, Your Highness. You are awake," Tongfah stated, his voice flat, devoid of warmth.

He lifted the vial, a faint, iridescent powder shimmering within. "A new remedy, courtesy of Prince Calvin Meenanagarin. The Southern pearl. It is believed to restore internal balance, to harmonize one's energies." His gaze flickered meaningfully to Ramil's bruised side, then back to his eyes. "To stabilize the alpha's volatile humors."

Ramil's jaw tightened. He knew what Tongfah truly meant. His "volatile humors" were his unbridled rage, his defiance of Ratchata. This was not healing; this was control. He tried to speak, to refuse, but a sudden shadow fell across the room.

Ratchata entered, his presence immediately filling the chamber with his cold, commanding scent. He approached the bed, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a triumph that grated on Ramil's raw nerves.

"Ah, my son. Restored to us at last." He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "Tongfah, I've had a thought. Given how effectively this pearl seems to calm Ramil's... unruly outbursts, perhaps we should name it. 'Paytai's Balm,'? A fitting tribute to the omega who, by his absence, finally brought stability to our Crown Prince."

Ramil’s eyes blazed, a fresh surge of fury overwhelming him. Paytai. His mate. Reduced to a mocking name for a calming draught. The insult, so casual, so cruel, struck him with the force of a physical blow.

"You dare !" he snarled, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat. He tried to lunge, to tear at his father's smug face, but his body, weakened and constrained by the lingering effects of his injury, barely shifted.

Tongfah, ever efficient, moved swiftly. With a practiced hand, he tipped the vial, and the finely ground pearl powder, mixed with a clear, bitter liquid, flowed into Ramil’s mouth. The taste was sharp, acrid, like crushed rock and something vaguely metallic. The effect was almost instantaneous. A heavy, leaden wave washed over Ramil, sweeping through his limbs, numbing his fury, extinguishing the fire in his veins. His vision swam, the triumphant smirk on Ratchata's face blurring, twisting into an unrecognizable distortion.

The last coherent thought that lingered in his mind was a desperate, burning hatred for his father, before the encroaching darkness claimed him once more, pulling him under into a profound, unnatural sleep.

Chapter Text

The pearl medicine had granted Ramil a false peace, a brittle calm that masked the volcanic pressures building beneath.

In the quiet solitude of his medicated state, a memory surfaced, sharp and vivid, cutting through the pearl induced haze.

The air had been thick with the scent of sweat and desperation, the room a chaotic swirl of heat and primal energy.

Ramil had thrashed against the silken sheets, his body a coiled spring of raw, untamed need. His first true rut had hit him like a tidal wave, overwhelming every sense, every thought. He was no longer the composed alpha he had been trained to be; he had been a beast, driven by instinct, by the fire raging in his veins. His muscles had tensed and released in erratic bursts, his breath coming in ragged gasps that had echoed off the stone walls. The healers had hovered at the edges of the room, their fear palpable, their whispers trembling as they had debated how to approach the feral alpha.

And then, like a soft breeze cutting through a storm, Paytai had entered.

The omega had moved with a quiet confidence that had seemed to part the chaos around him. His presence had been a balm, his omega pheromones blooming in the air, sweet and soothing, yet laced with an undercurrent of something deeper, something commanding.

Ramil’s head had snapped toward him, his eyes wild, his chest heaving. The animalistic part of him had wanted to pounce, to claim, to dominate. But Paytai hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t cowered. Instead, he had stepped closer, his gaze steady, his voice a low murmur that had cut through the haze.

“Ramil,” Paytai said, his tone firm yet gentle, like a hand reaching out in the darkness. “Breathe with me. You are safe. You are strong. Let me help you.”

Ramil had growled, a deep, guttural sound that had vibrated through his chest. His instincts had screamed at him to take, to assert his dominance over the omega who had dared to approach him in this state. But Paytai hadn’t backed down. He had moved closer still, his hands reaching out to settle on Ramil’s sweat slicked shoulders. The touch had been electric, a jolt of calm and control that had seemed to ground the alpha, if only for a moment.

“Shh,” Paytai whispered, his fingers pressing gently but insistently, guiding Ramil back onto the bed. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Ramil’s body had trembled, the tension in his muscles warring with the soothing warmth of Paytai’s touch. He had wanted to resist, to fight against the omega’s calming influence, but something in him, something deeper than instinct, had urged him to yield. His breath had hitched as Paytai’s hands had slid down his chest, the omega’s touch firm and deliberate, mapping the contours of his body with a confidence that had left Ramil both stunned and desperate for more.

“That’s it,” Paytai murmured, his voice a low purr that had sent shivers down Ramil’s spine. “Let go. Trust me.”

Ramil’s hands had shot up, gripping Paytai’s wrists with a force that would have made anyone else flinch. But Paytai had only smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips that had made Ramil’s heart race. The omega had leaned in, his breath warm against Ramil’s ear as he had whispered, “You don’t have to fight it anymore. I’m here to take care of you.”

The words had been like a key turning in a lock, releasing something deep within Ramil. His grip on Paytai’s wrists had loosened, his body sinking into the bed as the omega’s hands had continued their exploration. Paytai’s touch had been everywhere at once... his chest, his stomach, his thighs, each caress sending waves of pleasure rippling through him. Ramil’s breath had come in short, sharp gasps, his hips arching off the bed as Paytai’s fingers had brushed against the hard length of his cock.

“Paytai,” Ramil groaned, his voice rough with need. “Please…”

The omega hadn’t needed to be told twice. His hand had wrapped around Ramil’s cock, his grip firm and sure as he had begun to stroke him with a rhythm that had Ramil seeing stars.

The alpha’s head had fallen back against the pillows, his body trembling with the intensity of the sensations coursing through him. Paytai’s touch had been unlike anything he had ever experienced, gentle yet commanding, soothing yet electrifying. It had been as if the omega had known exactly what he had needed, exactly how to bring him back from the edge without letting him fall.

“You’re doing so well,” Paytai murmured, his voice a soft caress against Ramil’s skin. “Just let go. Let me take care of you.”

Ramil’s hands had fisted in the sheets, his hips thrusting into Paytai’s hand as the pleasure had built inside him, hot and urgent. He had felt himself teetering on the edge, the tension in his body coiling tighter and tighter until it had threatened to snap. And then, with a low growl that had rumbled deep in his chest, Ramil had come undone, his release spilling over Paytai’s hand in hot, pulsing waves.

For a moment, there had been nothing but the sound of their breathing, heavy and uneven in the stillness of the room. Ramil’s body had gone limp, the tension draining from his muscles as he had lain there, spent and trembling. Paytai’s hand had still rested on his thigh, warm and reassuring, grounding him in the aftermath.

But the rut hadn’t been over. Not yet.

Ramil’s eyes had flickered open, his gaze locking onto Paytai’s with a hunger that hadn’t been sated. The omega had met his gaze without hesitation, his expression calm and steady, but there had been a glint of something darker in his eyes...a promise of more.

“Again,” Ramil growled, his voice low and rough.

Paytai had smiled, a slow, knowing smile that had sent a shiver down Ramil’s spine. “As you wish,” he had murmured, leaning in to capture Ramil’s lips in a kiss that had been anything but gentle. It had been fierce and demanding, a clash of teeth and tongues that had left them both breathless. Ramil’s hands had tangled in Paytai’s hair, pulling him closer as the omega had straddled his hips, their bodies pressed together in a way that had made Ramil’s blood boil.

“You’re mine,” Ramil growled against Paytai’s lips, his voice thick with possessiveness.

Paytai had pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, his eyes dark with desire. “And you’re mine,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ramil’s hands had slid down Paytai’s back, gripping his hips as the omega had shifted above him. The friction between them had been maddening, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that had been as natural as breathing. Paytai’s breath had hitched as Ramil’s cock had pressed against him, hot and insistent, and for a moment, they both had stilled, caught in the electric tension that had crackled between them.

“Do it,” Ramil growled, his voice rough with need. “Take me.”

Paytai hadn’t hesitated. He had reached between them, guiding Ramil’s weeping cock to his entrance before sinking down onto him in one smooth motion. The sensation had been overwhelming, tight heat enveloping him, pulling him deeper until they had been joined completely. Ramil’s hands had tightened on Paytai’s hips as the omega had begun to move, his body rising and falling in a rhythm that had Ramil seeing stars.

“Fuck,” Ramil groaned, his hips thrusting up to meet Paytai’s movements. “You feel… divine.”

Paytai’s breath had come in short, sharp gasps as he had ridden Ramil with a confidence that had left the alpha reeling. His hands had braced against Ramil’s chest for balance, his body moving with a fluid grace that had been almost hypnotic. The room had been filled with the sound of their breathing, heavy and uneven, mingling with the slick slide of skin against skin.

Ramil’s hands had roamed over Paytai’s body, mapping every curve, every dip as if committing it to memory. His fingers had found the omega’s nipples, teasing them into hard peaks that had made Paytai moan softly. The sound had gone straight to Ramil’s cock, driving him closer to the edge with every thrust.

“Paytai,” Ramil growled, his voice rough with need. “I’m close…”

“Then come for me,” Paytai whispered, his voice a low purr that had sent shivers down Ramil’s spine. “Let go.”

The words had been all it had taken. Ramil’s hips had snapped up one last time as he had spilled himself inside Paytai, his release hot and pulsing as it had filled the omega. Paytai had followed him over the edge moments later, his body trembling as he had come with a soft cry that had echoed through the room.

Even as the heat of their passion had begun to fade, Ramil had known this hadn’t been over. The rut had still burned within him, a relentless fire that had demanded more. And Paytai… Paytai had been more than willing to give it to him.

“Again,” Ramil growled, his voice low and rough.

Paytai had smiled, a slow, knowing smile that had sent a shiver down Ramil’s spine.

For two days now, Ramil existed in this haze, reminiscing, his thoughts dulled, his formidable alpha presence muted. The healers, guided by Tongfah's grim instructions, administered the concoction daily, observing his placid responses with satisfied nods. Ratchata, too, seemed content, visiting less frequently, confident in the control he had imposed.

But even the most potent of medicines could not suppress a primal alpha's nature forever.

The current rut came upon Ramil with a savage, unexpected force, shattering the fragile tranquility.

It began as a tremor deep within his core, a simmering heat that quickly escalated into an inferno. The sterile scents of the medical wing were overwhelmed by the sudden, overwhelming spike of his raw, desperate alpha pheromones. His body writhed, every muscle coiling with an unbearable tension. The pearl, meant to stabilize, now seemed to fuel an internal storm, amplifying the very urges it was meant to quell. His mind screamed, a trapped beast pounding against the bars of its cage, demanding release, demanding an omega. The healers rushed in, their faces paling at the sheer dominance radiating from him, quickly realizing their stabilizers, usually effective against minor surges, were utterly useless against this uncontrolled, furious need.

News of the prince's sudden, violent rut reached Ratchata's ears in a matter of moments. His face, usually a mask of calm, contorted with a mix of fury and fear. Ramil, his son, his most powerful weapon, was now an uncontrollable liability.

"Confinement!" Ratchata roared, his voice echoing through his private chambers. "Secure him! Do not let him near anyone unprotected! And Tongfah," he added, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, " send in that Prince Jay. He is an omega, is he not? He will bring Ramil to heel. He will 'help' Ramil stabilize himself. "

The unspoken command was clear: Jay, the prize from Bhujar, was now to serve his purpose, to subjugate the volatile alpha.

Jay received the summons with a jolt of ice in his veins. An omega's duty during an alpha's rut was clear, primal, undeniable. His attendants hustled him, preparing him with haste, their own scents laced with apprehension. He was led down the hushed, heavily guarded corridors, the air growing thick with the overwhelming, distressed scent of Ramil's rut, a raw, aggressive musk that made Jay's own omega instincts shiver with a mixture of terror and an unwelcome, confusing pull. The guards opened the heavy door, revealing a chamber in chaos.

Ramil, eyes blazing with a feral, mindless hunger, writhed against invisible restraints, his powerful form straining against the medical bed. His torn tunic barely covered the fierce landscape of his muscles, glistening with sweat. His alpha scent filled the room, a tangible force pressing down on Jay, demanding surrender.

Jay felt his knees weaken, his omega instinctively wanting to submit, to offer comfort. But as Ramil's eyes, clouded with primal need, locked onto him, a sudden, powerful roar ripped from the alpha's throat. It was not a roar of welcome, but of pure, guttural rejection. " Not you! " the silent scream of Ramil's alpha seemed to echo in the room, cutting through the haze of rut induced madness. " Not this. Not without Paytai. "

A fierce, desperate battle raged within Ramil. His body, driven by the overwhelming imperative of the rut, screamed for an omega, any omega, to claim and release the agonizing pressure. But his alpha, deeper, more profoundly tethered to his lost mate, fought back with a ferocity that defied instinct. Every fiber of his being recoiled from the omega before him, recognizing Jay as the wrong one, the replacement. The thought of mounting anyone but Paytai, even in this blinding haze of need, was a profound violation. His consciousness, though fractured, clung to the image of his true mate, a lighthouse in the storm.

Jay, though terrified, understood his duty. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to move forward, his voice trembling but clear.

"My Prince," he whispered, pushing past the instinct to flee, trying to project calm. "I am here. I can... I can help." He took another hesitant step, trying to offer himself, to ease the alpha's torment. "Allow me, Your Highness. I am here for you." He even dared to reach out a hand, a gesture of submission and invitation, his omega scent attempting to soothe the maddened alpha.

With a superhuman surge of strength born of furious rejection, Ramil tore one hand free from the improvised bonds. He flung it out, not with the intent to harm, but to repel. His palm connected with Jay’s chest, a brutal shove that sent the smaller omega stumbling backward, gasping. Jay crashed against the heavy chamber door with a pained grunt, the jarring impact momentarily knocking the wind from his lungs. The guards outside, alerted by the sudden noise, threw the door open, their weapons ready. Ramil, eyes still burning with a terrifying mix of primal lust and agonizing rejection, pulled his legs up, his body writhing, his alpha roaring a silent, defiant " No! " The raw power of his refusal, even in the throes of a rut, was terrifying.

Jay, bruised and shaken, looked up at the furious, tormented alpha, then back at the door, realizing the raw, horrifying truth of Ramil's rejection. He scrambled backward, his omega instincts screaming for escape from the maddened alpha and the overwhelming, primal scent of his rut. The guards, seeing Jay’s distress, quickly pulled him from the chamber, shutting the heavy door with a resounding thud that sealed Ramil back into his violent, solitary torment. Jay stood there, leaning against the cold stone, trembling, the scent of Ramil's furious, rejected alpha clinging to him, a chilling testament to the unspoken claim that still held Ramil captive. The palace, it seemed, had underestimated the depth of Ramil's bond.

Jay stumbled back to his own chambers, the cold stone hallway a blur through his watering eyes. The impact against the door had left a bruising ache in his back, but it was the searing sting of rejection that truly wounded him. Ramil’s roar, the violent repulsion in his eyes, echoed in Jay’s mind. He had tried to perform his duty, to offer himself as a means of solace, and had been thrown aside like a discarded rag.

The subtle sneers of the concubines, their insinuations about Paytai being "reserved" and Ramil's affections "fleeting," now came rushing back with renewed bitterness. He was just a prize, a political acquisition, not a comfort. Not to that alpha.

A soft knock at his chamber door startled him. It was Fern, one of the palace attendants assigned to him, a quiet omega with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor. Fern had served in the royal household for many years, quietly attending to the needs of various dignitaries and consorts. Fern carried a small tray with a soothing herbal tea and a damp cloth.

"Your highness," Fern murmured, his voice gentle as he approached, his eyes full of sympathy as he took in Jay’s slumped posture and tear-streaked face. "Are you injured?"

Jay waved a dismissive hand, the physical pain secondary. "It is nothing. Just... the Prince's distress was immense." He couldn't bring himself to voice the raw, utter rejection he had experienced.

Fern nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the door, a faint, melancholic scent emanating from him. " He loves deeply, our Prince, " Fern said softly, his voice barely a whisper, as if sharing a sacred secret. "When he loves, it is with his entire being. It is... consuming."

Jay looked up, a flicker of curiosity cutting through his despair. "You knew his mate, Paytai?"

A wistful smile touched Fern's lips, a distant memory softening his features. "Oh, yes. I served Lord Paytai for many seasons. He was truly unique. Not like the others in court who were always vying for attention. Paytai was quiet, yes, but intensely perceptive. He saw things others missed. And his presence... it was like a calm pool in a turbulent river. Always steady." Fern's scent subtly shifted, a faint sweetness, like a hidden garden in bloom. "And so beautiful. He was an ethereal beauty, truly. Not flamboyant, but captivating in his stillness."

Fern’s eyes grew distant, lost in the memory. "The prince treasured him. We all saw it. Before the competition for the crown became so consuming, he was always seeking Paytai out. He used to find his solace in Paytai's chambers after days of rigorous training, or heated discussions with the King. He would just... be with Paytai. Sometimes he would even seek Paytai's input on minor affairs, something he never did with anyone else." Fern sighed, a soft, sorrowful sound. "He brought a different kind of calm to the Prince than medicine ever could. A true peace, born of mutual understanding, not forced stillness."

Jay listened, utterly captivated. This was a Paytai completely unlike the dismissive whispers of Lady Sera. He pictured the ethereal beauty Fern described, the quiet strength that could soothe Ramil’s immense alpha power, the bond forged not just of passion, but of deep understanding. He remembered Ramil’s primal cry for "Paytai" during the feast, and the terrifying rejection he had just experienced. The pieces clicked into place, creating a vivid, unsettling portrait of Ramil’s true affections.

A bitter taste filled Jay’s mouth, colder than the tea.

Jay was supposed to be the "upgrade," the "present addition." But Ramil's alpha, even in the throes of uncontrollable rut, had screamed for another. He was a political pawn, yes, but he had just been starkly reminded of the true depth of his expendability. He was not a beloved mate. He was a temporary solution. And the thought, sharper than any physical pain, left Jay with a chilling sense of foreboding about his true position in this manipulative court.

Mira paced about in Pim Dao, worried. The King's message, delivered by a swift, silent courier, was stark and absolute.

" Abandon the omega. Rebuild connection with Davichmetha. Infiltrate Ava’s confidence. "

Mira’s hands clenched. The words were a cold blade twisting in her gut.

Abandon Paytai? The omega, who trusted her implicitly, who carried Ramil’s child? Mira had watched Paytai, seen his quiet strength, witnessed his vulnerability, felt the undeniable, subtle thrum of the new life within him. Her duty to House Assawadewathin had always been paramount, a cold, unwavering star. But her time with Paytai had forged something else, a different kind of bond, soft and unexpected. The words of his vow echoed in her mind: " I promise you. I will protect you. No matter what they say. No matter what they do. You are not a prize. You are not a pawn. You are my child, and I will keep you safe. "

Her loyalty was split, a jagged tear in the fabric of her being. She understood the King’s logic. Her role was to serve the House, to ensure its stability, and Davichmetha, with its growing influence and its Princess Ava, was a crucial target. But to abandon Paytai now, to leave him vulnerable and alone, after all they had endured… it felt fundamentally wrong. The orders were clear, unambiguous.

Yet, a defiant spark flickered within her. Mira's own family had fallen due to Ratchata's ruthlessness, leaving her with no lineage to claim, only the rigorous training provided by House Assawadewathin.

To hand Paytai over, or to simply walk away, would be to repeat the very coldness that had shaped her into a weapon.

A silent battle raged within Mira. Duty, ingrained since childhood, clashed with a nascent, fierce protectiveness. She was a blade, yes, but who was she truly meant to cut? She closed her eyes, weighing the cost. To obey was to become truly cold, truly unfeeling. To defy… to defy was to risk everything. Her life. Her standing. The very protection the House offered. But defiance also meant upholding a different kind of honor, a silent oath to the innocent.

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

The King's order was to abandon. Not to harm. Not to betray directly. There were ways. Subtle ways. She would follow the spirit of the command, but not its brutal letter. She would ensure Paytai was safe, in this sanctuary, before turning her attention to Davichmetha. It would take time, more time than the King would allow. But she would make it work. Her loyalty to House Assawadewathin remained, but it would now be tempered by a silent, personal oath. After hours of internal struggle, Mira secured her own supplies, her mind turning over the implications of the King's new directive. Her primary objective was now to find a way to establish contact with Princess Ava, a daunting task in itself given their shared, complicated past. She had to ensure Paytai was genuinely safe first.

Returning to the secluded tavern room, the soft glow of the single light gem casting long shadows, Mira found Paytai writhing, his body hot with fever.

The sheets were tangled around his limbs, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat beaded on his pale skin, plastering his dark, short hair to his forehead. "He needs me," he mumbled, his voice hoarse, delirious. "He needs me... I have to..." He whimpered, pulling desperately at something unseen.

Mira, her face, usually a mask of calm, was etched with deep worry. She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, her touch gentle, her own scent of concern blooming in the small room. "Paytai, my lord, what is it? What do you need?" she murmured, her gaze raking over his convulsing form.

"He needs me," Paytai repeated, his eyes wide and unfocused, filled with a desperate urgency. "He's calling for me." He thrashed again, a powerful, almost violent tremor shaking his frame.

Mira's eyes widened in sudden realization.

The mated bond.

It was responding to Ramil, even across the vast distance. Paytai wasn’t simply sick; his body was reacting to his mate’s desperate call, a primal echo through their connection, amplified by Ramil’s uncontrolled state. The pain of the unfulfilled bond, of the unmet alpha need, was tearing at Paytai, manifesting as this brutal fever. Her earlier attempts to understand his listlessness had been futile; this was beyond any common ailment.

A knot of panic tightened in Mira's stomach.

The King’s orders to abandon Paytai hammered in her mind, but the sight of the omega, so vulnerable, so clearly suffering from a bond that defied distance, solidified her defiance. She had to move him. Now. Away from Pim Dao, away from Davichmetha, to somewhere truly secluded, truly safe, where she could nurse him and shield him from the repercussions of Ramil's uncontrollable alpha.

"We have to go," Mira declared, her voice firm, despite the tremor in her hands. She quickly gathered their few belongings, stuffing them into the saddlebags she had prepared. Paytai was heavy, dead weight with his delirium, but Mira, fueled by a fierce, protective resolve, hauled him from the bed. She half dragged, half carried his limp form down the rickety stairs, his whimpers echoing in the silent tavern. The barkeep, having heard the commotion, merely watched from behind his counter, his face impassive, offering no help, no hindrance.

Outside, the first tendrils of dawn were painting the sky in soft purples and grays.

Mira struggled to hoist Paytai onto the saddle of their horse, a powerful, sturdy beast. She secured him as best she could, wrapping him in a spare blanket, her movements swift and desperate. She swung herself up behind him, taking the reins, her gaze fixed on the narrow path that led out of Pim Dao.

But before their horse had taken more than a few steps, a shadowed form detached itself from the pre-dawn gloom at the edge of the town. Then another. And another. Soon, the path was blocked by a dozen of Ava’s elite guards, their dark uniforms and shining armor unmistakable.

And at their head, riding a magnificent white mare, was Princess Ava Davichmetha herself, her face serene, yet her eyes gleaming with an unsettling, triumphant intelligence.

Ava dismounted, her movements graceful, her pink silks a striking contrast to the muted dawn and the dark cloaks of her men. Her gaze swept over Mira, then settled on the delirious, thrashing form of Paytai slumped over the horse. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips.

"Mira, my dear," Ava purred, her voice sweet as poison, carrying easily in the still morning air. "Such a hasty departure. And such a distressed companion you have there. He seems to be in dire need of proper care."

Her eyes, sharp and direct, pierced Mira's. "Tell me, my old friend, can you truly deny this poor omega the attention he so clearly requires? Or is your need to avoid my company so great that you would jeopardize his very wellbeing?" The unspoken question hung heavy:

I s your secrecy more important than his life?

Mira's jaw tightened, her grip on the reins slackening. She looked from Paytai's fevered face to Ava's cool, unyielding gaze.

Trapped. Completely.

"No, Princess," Mira said, her voice tight with suppressed fury and resignation.

The words were a surrender, a bitter admission of defeat, but also a desperate plea for Paytai's sake. Ava's smile widened, a thin, satisfied curve of her lips.

The phoenix had cornered its prey.

Unaware that she herself was walking into the King's snare.