A few miles away, far removed from the suffocating, holy tension of the training grounds, the outer perimeter of the capital's pleasure district was roaring to life. Neon-enchanted mana stones cast a warm, chaotic glow of deep purples and crimson across the crowded, bustling alleys. The air here was thick with the scent of cheap elven ale, heavy roasted meats, and the intoxicating perfume of high-class courtesans.
*BOOM.*
The heavy oak doors of The Crimson Siren—the district's largest, most chaotic tavern and gambling den—were practically thrown off their hinges as Thoris strode inside.
He had completely abandoned his formal diplomatic cloak, wearing only his low-slung leather trousers and a loose, sleeveless tunic that left his massive, heavily tattooed arms entirely exposed to the damp night air. The thick aura of tundra-mana radiating from his skin was so intense that the condensation on the tavern's glass windows instantly turned to frost as he passed.
"Bring me a barrel!"
Thoris roared, his gravelly, booming voice instantly silencing the chatter of the local mercenaries and merchants. He slammed a heavy leather sack filled with pure, unrefined northern gold coins onto the wooden bar counter, shattering the corner of the stool next to him. "Not a cup! Not a bottle! Bring me a full barrel of your strongest imported dwarven fire-whiskey before I start taking this place apart!"
The tavern keeper, a stout man with a scarred face, didn't even dare to count the gold. He frantically flagged down three muscled bouncers to haul a massive, iron-hooped barrel from the cellar, setting it down in front of the barbarian prince with a trembling nod.
Thoris didn't waste time with a tap. He raised his jagged greatsword, casually punching a massive, jagged hole straight into the top of the wood with a brutal crunch. He threw his sword onto the table, grabbed the barrel by its iron rims with his bare hands, hoisted it onto his massive shoulder, and began chugging the burning, high-potency liquor straight from the breach.
*Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.*
Deep red, fiery alcohol spilled down his jaw, soaking his chest and his tattoos as he drank with a desperate, unhinged feracity. He needed the fire. He needed the burning heat of the dwarven spirits to drown out the absolute, freezing rage consuming his mind.
"Damn that contract... damn my brother... and damn that brilliant, red-eyed little monster," Thoris growled, slamming the half-empty barrel back onto the counter with enough force to make the floorboards groan. He wiped his mouth with the back of his bloody, calloused hand, his amber eyes burning wildly in the dim lantern light as the alcohol hit his system.
He didn't care about the legacy. He didn't care about the double marriage with Crown Prince Adrian and Princess Elyria Valemont or the blood ties his brother had eagerly signed away for the Steppes. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Cassian's triumphant, mocking smile when the engagement was broken. Cassian had looked like he'd won the lottery just by escaping him.
"You think you're free, Crown Prince Cassian?" Thoris muttered to himself, a low, gravelly, and thoroughly unhinged chuckle escaping his throat as he grabbed another handful of dice from a nearby gambling table, crushing them into fine white powder between his bare fingers. "You think a piece of paper signed by old men can keep a Northern-East predator out of your courtyard? Enjoy your new crown, Cassian. Because the moment these borders slacken... I'm coming back to hunt you down, and I won't be bringing a contract this time."
*****
Down in the capital's lower pleasure district, far removed from the pristine marble towers of the Academy, the House of the Golden Pavilion was caught in a suffocating chokehold of absolute panic.
Inside the primary parlor, the atmosphere was dark, heavy, and frantic. Sora Curzon stood at the absolute center of the room, his long raven hair falling messily over his trembling shoulders, his slender arms thrown out wide to shield three of his terrified courtesan sisters behind his back.
A high-ranking, heavily guarded noble Count was currently slamming his jeweled fist onto the mahogany table, his face twisted into a grotesque, drunken, and murderous rage. One of the newer girls had accidentally spilled a glass of expensive vintage wine across his enchanted white silk coat, and the Count's personal guards already had their jagged daggers drawn, their killing intent filling the room.
"You lower-district scum!" the Count roared, his high-tier fire mana flaring violently across his collar. "Your master will hang for this, and every single soul in this degenerate house will be executed for insulting the high nobility! Guards, clear the room and bring me their heads!"
Sora's breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird as the blades advanced. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, but he couldn't leave his sisters. His fingers twitched beneath his silk sleeves. He was ready to risk breaking his concealment glamour—ready to unleash his hidden, forbidden elven magic to defend his family, even if it meant execution by the Holy Church.
But there was too much to lose, not only his life but also–
*CRASH!*
The heavy, iron-reinforced oak doors of the pavilion were violently, catastrophically shattered into a million flying shards of kindling.
Thoris Madurai sauntered into the ruined parlor. The Barbarian Prince was completely uninvited, carrying a heavy skin of northern alcohol in his left hand and his massive, jagged greatsword resting carelessly over his shoulder. He had spent the whole day musing himself in the lower district, looking for any possible way to waste time and burn off his toxic frustration while Cassian was stuck in the Academy's dual-heir inspections.
"You soft-skins are incredibly loud I can barely enjoy my drinks," Thoris rumbled, his gravelly voice instantly filling the room as he took a heavy, reckless swig from his alcohol skin. His amber eyes locked onto the Count's guards, a slow, bloodshot, and thoroughly unhinged smirk breaking across his face.
"I was trying to enjoy my beverage down the hall, and all I hear is a pathetic capital fat-cat squealing about a stained coat."
"Who dares—! This foreign barbarian!" the Count shrieked, backing away in a panic. "Guards, slaughter him! Cut him to pieces!"
Thoris didn't even draw his greatsword fully from its mounting. He simply swung the heavy, iron-bound scabbard in a swift, brutal arc through the air. The sheer, kinetic force of his tundra-mana exploded through the parlor like a localized avalanche, violently launching all five guards straight through the plaster walls, leaving them groaning and unconscious in the muddy alley outside.
"For old time's sake... and for the magnificent, beautiful show your house blessed me with the other night," Thoris purred, his amber eyes shifting away from the terrified, stammering noble and locking directly onto Sora's slender, trembling frame. "I suppose I can clear the garbage from your parlor, little rabbit."
The Count took one look at Thoris's towering, unhinged frame and the shattered walls, and immediately fled through the broken window, sobbing in pure terror.
Thoris let out a low, gravelly chuckle, planting his giant greatsword firmly into the floorboards with a heavy thud as he stepped closer to the male courtesan.
But the exact moment he entered Sora's personal space, Thoris stopped dead in his tracks.
His amber pupils violently dilated.
As a high-tier border alpha of the Steppes, Thoris's primal, elemental senses were remarkably sharp, bordering on the supernatural.
The moment he stood within a foot of the young male courtesan, his internal mana violently recoiled in absolute, shivering shock.
Deep within Sora's core, settled in perfect, flawless harmony, was a thick, heavy, and unmistakably distinct signature of pure, cold dark-element mana. It was Cassian's mana—dominating the boy's life force from the inside out, humming with a protective, deeply territorial frequency that practically warned any other predator to back away from Sora's perimeter.
But beneath that imperial mana lay something else. A sudden, biological ripple that made Thoris's breath catch completely in his throat.
Sora Curzon was pregnant.
'But how is that biologically possible for a human male?' Thoris mused entirely to himself, his corporate and primal instinct short-circuiting simultaneously as his gaze dropped down, locking onto Sora's flat waist, and then rising back up to track the delicate, ethereal symmetry of the boy's facial features.
Thoris stepped closer, his heavy, calloused hand reaching out to grip Sora's jaw with an intense, unyielding curiosity. His thumb traced the inner line of the boy's lower lip, mimicking the exact, possessive gesture he had seen Cassian use before. The barbarian's primal radar tore straight through the fading human glamour, sensing the ancient, hidden essence of the forest realms beneath the skin.
"Your pulse... your mana structures..."
Thoris gravelly whispered, his face dropping mere inches from Sora's as a wild, complex look of absolute revelation broke across his features. "You aren't a human soft-skin at all. You are a mystical species, aren't you? A half-elf...or something beyond that mixed with the blood of an elf."
Sora's eyes violently widened in pure, unbridled terror, his entire body turning completely cold as his deepest, most lethal secret was laid bare in the barbarian prince's hands.
"P-Please..." Sora choked out, his voice trembling as he looked up into Thoris's fierce amber eyes. His mind was racing, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would shatter his ribs. For days, ever since their last secret encounter, Sora had been thinking about Cassian so deeply. It was a constant, aching weight in his chest; it felt as if he genuinely, desperately missed him. He missed the cold, unbothered comfort of the prince's presence, the safety of that dark mana. And now, carrying this impossible, hidden life within him, he felt entirely exposed without his protector.
"Do not... do not tell the High Court... I beg of you..."
Thoris stared down at the half-elf, his grip on Sora's jaw tightening slightly, not out of malice, but out of a sheer, overwhelming fascination. The protective, territorial hum of Cassian's dark mana was vibrating against Thoris's own skin, practically screaming at him that this boy—and the impossible child he carried—belonged entirely to the newly crowned Prince.
"A half-elf... carrying the dark lineage of the Valemont throne," Thoris murmured, a low, dangerous, and thoroughly amused chuckle rattling his chest as he finally released Sora's jaw, stepping back to look at the beautiful, terrified boy.
"So that's your play, Cassian. You escape my marriage contract, only to hide a mystical mate in the lower districts. This makes things remarkably interesting. Hohoho"
*****
A few moments later.
The ruined parlor fell into an uneasy silence.
Broken glass glittered across the floor like shattered diamonds under the weak moonlight. A toppled chair rested awkwardly against the wall, its fine fabric torn. The heavy scent of expensive perfume and spilled vintage wine still lingered in the stagnant air like the smoke and blood remnants of a fierce battlefield.
Sora's courtesan sisters exchanged nervous, terrified glances, their eyes darting from the broken furniture to the towering figure standing in the center of the room. One by one, understanding that this was a matter far beyond their lower-district station, they began to retreat toward the exit.
"Sora..." one of them whispered, her hand hesitating on the doorframe.
"Are you sure?" another asked, her voice trembling.
"We can stay—"
"No."
Sora shook his head frantically, his movements erratic, driven by a deep, instinctual panic. His damp raven hair [1]clung to his pale, tear-stained cheeks as he forced a weak, completely unconvincing smile to his lips.
"It's alright," he murmured, though the lie trembled visibly on his lips, unravelling before it could even leave his mouth. "Please go."
Reluctantly, out of options and fearing the raw strength of the man remaining behind, they obeyed. The battered wooden doors closed behind them with a dull, heavy click, sealing the room off from the rest of the pleasure house.
Then, there were only two people left in the room. The trembling, fragile half-elf, and the barbarian prince.
Thoris walked toward the heavy mahogany table and pulled out the lone surviving chair with a rough, casual scrape. The thick wood creaked loudly beneath his massive, armored frame as he sat down, completely unbothered by the destruction around them. His amber eyes, sharp and predatory, never left Sora's face.
"Sit down, little rabbit."
The usual mocking amusement, the roaring sarcasm that usually defined the Eastern warlord, was entirely gone from his voice. Instead, it was low. Heavy. Dangerously serious.
"You're shaking so hard I can hear it from here."
Sora swallowed hard, the lump in his throat dry as ash. His arms instinctively wrapped around his stomach, a protective, desperate barrier.
"And frankly," Thoris continued, rubbing his scarred temple with a heavy sigh, "—the dark mana swimming around inside you is starting to give me a headache."
Sora didn't move. He couldn't move. His legs felt like lead, rooted to the spot as his fingers tightened fiercely against the cheap silk fabric covering his abdomen. His thoughts were absolute chaos, spinning out of control.
For weeks he had hidden in the deep shadows of the lower districts. For weeks he had survived on sheer instinct, masking his nature from the world. Yet not a single day, not a single hour had passed without his mind drifting back to the capital, thinking of Cassian.
The prince's cold, unchanging voice. His expressionless, beautiful face. The terrifying, heavy comfort of standing near him. The dark mana that should have frightened any normal creature but somehow made Sora feel incredibly safe, as if he were wrapped in an untouchable velvet blanket. His chest ached with a physical, bruising pain.
Gods... he missed him so much it felt like starvation.
"What–..."
Sora's voice cracked, a fragile sound in the quiet room. "—What are you going to do with me?"
Fresh tears gathered along his thick long lashes, blurring his vision.
"Are you going to turn me in?"
Thoris remained completely silent, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Sora's breathing became uneven, his chest heaving as the panic escalated.
"—to the High Court?"
A hot tear broke free and slid down his pale cheek.
"To the Holy Church?"
Thoris snorted loudly. The sound was rough, almost deeply offended. "Do I look like a priest?"
Sora flinched at the sharpness of the tone.
"The Church wouldn't even wait for a trial," the barbarian leaned forward, resting his massive elbows on his knees, his physical presence completely dominating the space. "They'd look at you and see a half-elf."
His voice hardened, stripping away any lingering comfort.
"They'd look at the child and see dark-element mana." His eyes drifted briefly, pointedly, toward Sora's stomach. "And then they'd call it an abomination."
Sora's face went entirely white, his breath catching. Thoris continued mercilessly, driving the reality home like an iron spike.
"They'd purge you. If the capital learns what you're carrying, beautiful boy, rejection won't be the worst thing waiting for you." His gaze sharpened into a razor's edge. "It'll be execution."
The word struck Sora's chest like a physical blade. He staggered backward, his boots clicking against the broken glass. A strangled, breathless sound escaped his throat.
Execution. Not imprisonment. Not exile. But Death.
His hand moved instinctively to his stomach, clamping down over his womb. Protective. Desperate. It was his child. Cassian's child. The only tangible proof that his time in the prince's shadow hadn't been a hallucination. He lowered his head, his dark hair veiling his face as another tear fell to the floorboards.
"I knew..." Sora whispered, his shoulders shaking.
Thoris frowned, his thick brows drawing together.
"I knew that already," Sora's voice sounded entirely broken, hollowed out by grief. "If His Highness chooses the Empire..." He let out a weak, painful laugh that sounded close to madness. "...then why would he choose me?"
The question hung heavily in the air, unanswered.
"He just became a Co-Crown Prince," another tear slipped free, tracing the path of the first tear. "I'm a courtesan." His fingers clenched into the fabric of his robes. "A half-elf." His shoulders shook violently as the reality of his political worthlessness crushed him. "And a burdening problem."
Thoris watched him quietly, his amber eyes tracking every tremor.
"Also a scandal, a stain in his highness reputation," Sora bit his lower lip until it nearly bled. "A liability. And if I were him–..." He laughed again, a sound completely devoid of joy. "...—I'd choose the Empire too. That's only logical."
For several long moments, Thoris said absolutely nothing. The quiet in the room grew dense, suffocating.
Then, a dangerous thought crossed the barbarian's mind. A simple thought. A terrifying, intoxicating thought.
'Take him.'
His gaze shifted slowly toward Sora's stomach, evaluating the variable.
'Take the child.'
Thoris could leave this continent tomorrow morning or at any day for that matter. He could carry Sora across the sea, away from the pristine, hyper-optimized systems of the Valemont family. He could raise Cassian's heir among the fierce, untamed warriors of the Eastern Steppes.
And the Empire would never be able to ignore an operational deficit like that. Cassian would never be able to ignore it. The prince would come across the ocean. He would have to.
For one brief, burning second, the temptation flared hot in Thoris's chest, a wild urge to steal the prize. Then, the barbarian prince grimaced, a look of profound irritation crossing his features.
"Pathetic."
The thought thoroughly disgusted his pride. His hand tightened into a heavy fist against his knee. He was a warlord, a front-line warrior. He was not a kidnapper. He was not some desperate, weak southern noble collecting back-alley leverage to win a political debate. If he wanted Cassian's attention, he would earn it himself through steel and fire, not steal it through the belly of a half-elf.
With a heavy, echoing sigh, Thoris stood up. The giant seemed even larger now in the small parlor, his shadow stretching across the ceiling.
"Listen carefully, half-elf."
Sora looked up, his red-rimmed, swollen eyes meeting the burning amber ones of the barbarian.
"I'm going back to the Academy," Thoris crossed his massive arms over his chest. "My brother may have torn up the marriage contract, but I'm not leaving this continent without seeing that white-gloved tyrant again."
Despite the sheer terror of his situation, a tiny, involuntary smile almost appeared on Sora's lips. The statement was absurd, reckless, and sounded exactly like Thoris.
"And you," the barbarian continued, extending a thick, calloused finger and pointing it directly at Sora's chest, "—you are coming with me."
Sora completely froze, his heart skipping a beat.
"W-What?"
"You're coming."
"To the Academy?"
"Yes, the Academy."
Sora looked absolutely horrified, his face losing what little color it had left.
"No."
"Yes."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Absolutely not!"
Thoris rolled his eyes dramatically, letting out a loud groan.
"Wonderful. We've reached the denial stage."
Sora stared at him as if the barbarian had completely lost his mind. "If the guards discover me—"
"They won't."
"My glamour is failing—"
"I know."
"They'll arrest me!"
"They might."
Sora looked ready to faint right onto the broken glass. "That isn't comforting!"
"It wasn't supposed to be," the barbarian shrugged carelessly. "Your glamour is already collapsing because your internal core is redirecting all its energy toward the brat." His gaze lowered briefly to Sora's midsection. "The child comes first. And your body knows it too."
Sora immediately slammed his hands over his stomach, his ears turning sharp and red.
Thoris smirked, a predatory gleam returning to his eyes. "See? Even your body agrees with my logic."
The half-elf blushed furiously, his anger overriding his fear for a split second.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like..." Sora sputtered, his childlike dependency flaring up as he struggled for words. "Like you know things."
Thoris barked out a loud, booming laugh that shook the dust from the ceiling. "I know plenty of things, little rabbit."
The barbarian stepped closer, his heavy leather boots crushing a shard of glass with a loud crunch. Sora instinctively backed away. One step. Then another. He kept retreating until his shoulder blades hit the solid, unyielding wood of the parlor wall.
Thoris stopped directly in front of him. Towering. Overwhelming. His massive shadow completely swallowed Sora's smaller, trembling frame, cutting off the rest of the room.
"You miss him."
Sora froze, his breath hitching in his throat. "No."
"Liar."
"I don't."
"Another lie."
Sora looked away, unable to hold the burning intensity of the barbarian's gaze. Thoris leaned down slightly, his voice dropping into a low purr.
"I can smell it on your aura. You blush whenever I mention his name."
"I do not."
"You are literally blushing right now."
"I hate you," Sora whispered fiercely, his eyes darting to the floor.
"No, you don't," Thoris smirked, entirely unaffected. "You miss him."
Sora's frantic resistance finally cracked. The wall of anger crumbled, leaving nothing but the raw, bleeding truth of his codependency. His eyes stung violently, and a fresh, heavy tear rolled down his cheek, dripping onto his silk collar.
"...I do.....I really do."
"I only met him once but this pregnancy makes me yearn for him like my whole life depends on him."
The confession was barely audible, a tiny, broken admission of his absolute defeat. The barbarian's harsh, rough expression softened slightly. Just slightly.
"I'm scared," Sora's voice trembled, his childlike vulnerability completely exposed as his hand rested protectively over his womb once more. "What if he doesn't want us? What if he looks at me and regrets everything we did?"
For the first time since they had entered the parlor, Thoris had no sarcastic answer, no mocking retort. Instead, he reached out and placed a large, heavy hand firmly on Sora's shoulder. It was steady. Unmoving. A solid anchor in the middle of Sora's chaotic storm.
"You won't know until you ask," Thoris said bluntly.
Sora stared up at him through his wet lashes, stunned by the sudden seriousness. Thoris continued, his voice leaving no room for argument.
"And hiding in a brothel won't change reality."
The half-elf let out a weak, watery laugh, his shoulders dropping. "...No. It won't."
"Good," the barbarian straightened up, removing his hand and turning back toward the center of the room. "Pack your things."
"What?"
"We leave immediately."
Sora wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, his voice returning to a soft pout. "You really don't take no for an answer, do you?"
"No."
"I've noticed."
"You'll travel with me, it's the only way to reach him. And the night is the best time to do so," Thoris explained, already planning the logistics. Sora groaned softly, leaning his head back against the wall. "This is a terrible idea. An absolute administrative disaster."
"Probably."
"We could both die if we get caught."
"Possible."
Sora looked at him, deeply confused by the barbarian's lack of self-preservation. "You seem unusually calm about the prospect of an imperial execution."
Thoris grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dim room as his amber eyes gleamed with pure, unadulterated mischief. "I've always enjoyed a little chaos."
Despite himself, despite the sheer, terrifying weight of the choice he was making, Sora laughed. It was a small laugh, a genuine one, but it was the first real smile that had touched his lips in weeks. His fingers tightened over his stomach, the internal half-elven mana humming a bit smoother now.
'Cassian.' The name alone made his heart ache with an unbearable intensity. The fear was still there, heavy and cold. So was the grief of his isolation. But beneath all the panic, hidden deep within his core—there was hope.
Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded his head.
"I'll go."
Thoris's grin widened, his massive chest expanding as he turned toward the battered exit doors.
"Good. Because whether the prince likes it or not..." His amber eyes flashed with a wild, dangerous excitement as he gripped the door handle. "...we're about to give him the surprise of his life."
And for the very first time since leaving Cassian's private tower, Sora found himself wanting to believe that the ledger could be rewritten—and that everything might somehow be alright.
*****
[1] Raven hair refers to glossy, deep black hair that carries a dramatic, lustrous sheen reminiscent of a raven's feathers. Often considered the only "natural" shade of pure black..... just so you wondered my darlings.