The boots gleamed like obsidian, polished to a mirror shine. Inches from his face, they stood motionless, a silent threat carved into leather. Soren's breath shattered in his chest. His heart slammed against his ribs, each beat a violent drum. He didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe.
Above him, the voice came again deep, smooth, threaded with steel.
"Who," it said, soft as a blade sliding free, "is hiding in my hall?"
The words were not shouted. They didn't need to be. Power curled through them like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Soren felt it wrap around his throat, dragging him closer to the edge of surrender. His body trembled, bowing to a command that hadn't been spoken.
He squeezed his eyes shut, praying the shadows would hold. Praying the scent bleeding from his skin hadn't reached him yet.
A pause. Long enough for terror to bloom like fire in his veins. Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, inexorable. Moving away.
Soren's lungs burned as air rushed back into them. He sagged against the marble, his pulse a frantic drumbeat. Voices murmured in the distance guards, reverent and sharp.
"Your Majesty?"
"There's something here," Ecclesias said, his tone calm, almost bored. But beneath it lay steel. "Find it."
The corridor erupted in motion. Armor whispered against velvet drapes. Boots struck marble like war drums. Servants froze, then scattered like startled birds.
Soren pressed himself deeper into the alcove, praying the shadows would swallow him whole. His skin burned, heat crawling up his spine, coiling in his gut. His inhibitor was gone. His scent would bleed soon wild, intoxicating, impossible to hide.
He needed to move. He needed to vanish before the storm broke.
He waited for the perfect moment—when two guards turned their backs and the steward barked orders down the hall. Then he slipped out, moving like smoke through the maze of corridors. The music from the banquet hall had faded to a distant hum, replaced by the sharp cadence of boots and the low murmur of voices. The council was breaking apart; nobles drifted toward the exits, their laughter brittle, their words edged with steel. The same conversation, the same obsession...
"…tighten the omega laws," one voice said as Soren passed, low and venomous. "Collars aren't enough. They need chains."
"…and the rumor?" another replied, softer, hungrier. "If it's true if a dominant omega exists he belongs to the crown."
Soren's stomach knotted. He kept his head down, his steps measured, his breath shallow. Every word was a blade, carving fear into his bones.
---
Then the fever hit.
It was sudden, brutal a surge of heat that stole his breath and bent his spine. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against the wall, fingers clawing at cold marble. His breath came in ragged bursts, shallow and sharp, each inhale scraping his throat like broken glass. Heat coiled through his veins, curling low in his belly, a primal ache that clawed at his control.
Not now. Not here. If they smell me, I'm finished.
His vision blurred. The corridor tilted. He forced his trembling hands into his pocket, fumbling for the silver case. His fingers shook so violently he almost dropped it. The click of the clasp sounded like thunder in the silence. Inside lay a single pill white, bitter, salvation and poison in equal measure.
He popped it into his mouth, dry-swallowing hard. The taste burned like ash, acrid and metallic, scraping down his throat. He gagged, choking on air, his stomach twisting violently. For a moment, he thought he might vomit. He pressed his fist against his lips, swallowing bile, forcing the pill down.
Then came the backlash. A wave of nausea rolled through him, sharp and merciless. His muscles trembled, his skin clammy despite the fever still licking at his spine. Pain throbbed behind his eyes, a relentless hammer. He sagged against the wall, panting, waiting for the suppressant to take hold.
Slowly agonizingly the fire dulled. The fever receded to a simmer, leaving exhaustion in its wake. His scent thinned, masked but not erased. He knew what this meant: every dose carved a mark inside him, a debt his body would one day demand. But survival was worth the cost.
He dragged himself upright, forcing his posture into rigid calm. Powder from his sleeve brushed across his flushed cheeks, hiding the telltale heat. He adjusted his collar, smoothed his trembling hands against his apron. To anyone watching, he was just another servant pale, tired, invisible.
He stumbled into the servants' wing, heart pounding. Chel, the head butler, stood near the linen shelves, his posture rigid, his eyes sharp as glass. Soren hesitated he never asked for favors. Never drew attention. But his body was screaming, and fear clawed at his throat.
"Chel…" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. "I—I don't feel well."
Chel's gaze flicked to him, assessing. His tone was clipped, professional. "You've never complained before."
"I know." Soren's fingers curled into his palms. "I just… I'm afraid I'll make a mistake."
A pause. Chel's eyes narrowed, but there was no cruelty in them only calculation. "You look pale." His voice softened by a fraction. "Go. Ten minutes. No more."
Relief crashed through Soren like a wave, tangled with dread. He bowed low, murmuring thanks, and slipped into his small room a narrow space with a cot and a basin. He collapsed onto the edge, pressing his hands to his face. Even this kindness felt dangerous. Even this moment of rest was borrowed time.
Then it came the scent. His scent. Even suppressed, it was there, curling through the air like a whisper of forbidden grace. Not heavy, not vulgar. Delicate. Elegant. A breath of spring tangled with autumn's hush. It carried warmth like sunlit honey and a chill like frost-kissed figs, a contradiction that clung to the senses and refused to let go.
------
Ecclesias inhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing. It wasn't just pleasant it was commanding in its grace, protective in its softness, a scent that spoke of surrender and defiance in the same breath. Power disguised as purity.
What is this? he thought, the question slicing through his mind like a blade. He had smelled thousands of omegas sweet, cloying, desperate. This was nothing like them. This was rare. Dangerous. Perfect.
His jaw tightened. The council's chatter faded into meaningless noise. His world narrowed to that elusive thread of fragrance, winding through the marble like silk. It teased him, mocked him, promised something he couldn't name.
He could have followed it himself, but instinct whispered caution. Fear clung to the air like frost raw, trembling, desperate. If he moved too fast, the source would vanish deeper into the maze. And Ecclesias didn't chase. He conquered.
He turned, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Search," he said, low and lethal. "I want the source."
The palace was closing in on Soren. Guards at every junction. Servants whispering like leaves in a storm. And above it all, a presence that pressed against his skin like iron the King. Soren could feel him, even from a distance. His scent curled through the air, sharp and devastating, a command woven into every breath.
He turned a corner and froze.
At the far end of the corridor, Ecclesias stood.
Tall. Imposing. His coat was black velvet, heavy with gold embroidery, his boots gleaming like obsidian. His hair was a crown of midnight, his eyes shards of ice. He wasn't looking at Soren not yet. His gaze swept the corridor, cold and precise, as guards fanned out around him.
Soren's pulse shattered. He slipped back into the shadows, his breath a silent scream. He needed to run. He needed to hide. But the King was hunting now and there was nowhere left to go.