The grand fireplace of the private solar cast long ribbons of amber light across the rug, where the five siblings were gathered in a sprawling, energetic circle.
The eighteen-year-old twins sat at the center—a perfectly mirrored pair of sharp cheekbones and observant eyes. One idly spun a heavy gold coin between their fingers with the same effortless arrogance their father often displayed, while the other sat with a spine as straight as a blade, possessing the quiet, unshakeable stillness of the Queen.
They were debating a point of law, their voices low and rhythmic, finishing each other's sentences as if they shared a single mind.
"It's about the optics," the more talkative twin remarked, leaning back on their elbows. "Father always says a King's ego is his best armor."
"And the Queen says dignity is a shield that never breaks," the other countered softly, a small, knowing smile playing on their lips. "Ego is for the crowd. Dignity is for the soul."
The seventeen-year-old snorted, tossing a velvet cushion at them. "You both sound like history books already. Can't we just enjoy the fact that the palace isn't currently under siege?"
The sixteen-year-old didn't look up from the small mechanical device they were tinkering with in the shadows, but their voice was dry and precise. "The siege ended before we were born. You're just bored because there hasn't been a social upheaval in six months."
The thirteen-year-old—the heart of the group—sat tucked between the others, watching the fire with wide, thoughtful eyes. They reached out and tugged on the seventeen-year-old's sleeve, grounding the rising tension before it could spark into something real.
Then suddenly, the youngest sat up straight.
The shift was immediate. The playful bickering died at once as the four elders followed their gaze toward the velvet-backed chair across the room.
King Alistair and Queen Asarmose sat together—a portrait of absolute, effortless power.
"How did you two actually do it?" the twins asked in near unison, their tone shedding playfulness for something deeper—hungrier. "The songs say it was destiny. That the world changed because you loved each other. Was it really that… perfect?"
A glance passed between the King and his Queen—a silent, private language.
A low chuckle rumbled from Alistair, while Asarmose's lips curved into that faint, regal smirk that had once terrified and captivated an entire kingdom.
"Perfect?" Alistair murmured, his voice velvet over gravel. His thumb traced the sharp line of Asarmose's jaw. "Little ones… our beginning wasn't sweet. It was a collision."
"We didn't find each other in a garden," he continued. "We found each other in the wreckage of a world where arrogant Alphas believed Omegas and Betas were livestock."
Asarmose's gaze drifted to the fire, as though the past still burned there.
"If you want the truth," he said softly, "we must return to the beginning—to the blood, the arrogance… and the day I was merely the King's consort."
His eyes sharpened.
"The day I decided your father was the only Alpha worthy of standing beside a man who refused to be broken.