The Prince stood amidst the Thorne silks, his very presence a jagged contrast to the muted, grey atmosphere of the room. The Omega servants looked at him with a shivering, wide-eyed dread. To them, a Prince who refused the King's colors was a madman who was going to bring the Alphas' wrath down upon the entire room.
"Highness," one whispered, his hands shaking so violently the heavy crimson robe slipped from his fingers, pooling on the floor like a bloodstain. "Please. The King… he does not tolerate deviance. If you do not wear the Thorne crest, he will—"
"He will what?"
Asarmose's voice was as cold and sharp as a winter spring. He didn't look at the fallen robe. His gaze remained fixed on the heavy iron-bound chest some of the servants had carried in. "He will find that a contract signed in ink does not dictate the fiber of my soul."
The servants retreated into the shadows of the room, their movements frantic and bird-like. They watched from the corners, their faces like pale masks of grief, waiting for the guards to burst back in and punish them all for the Prince's defiance. They didn't understand his dignity; they only understood the weight of the lash.
Ignoring their trembling, he reached into his chest, pulling out the traditional attire of his own land—fabrics that moved like water and held the shimmer of a thousand stars. It was an outfit designed for a ruler, not a consort.
"Stay in the shadows if you must," he said softly, his voice carrying an authoritative resonance that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards. "But do not expect me to become a door mat simply because you have forgotten how to stand."
He began to dress himself, refusing their help, his movements precise and regal. He was a Prince preparing for a social war, while the Omegas around him could only pray the King's executioner was having a merciful day.
The Prince fastened the final clasp of his own attire—a sweeping, iridescent garment of his homeland that seemed to capture the light of a sun the Hubriś kingdom had forgotten. He stood alone in the center of the room, a pillar of unshakeable dignity amidst the cowering servants.
The heavy doors groaned open, and the two Alpha guards from before swaggered in, their hands resting carelessly on the hilts of their swords. "Time's up, little bird," the lead guard barked, his voice echoing off the stone. "The King is—"
He stopped dead. His eyes raked over Asarmose, taking in the shimmering, foreign silks that were a direct violation of the King's orders. His face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly rage. He didn't look at the Prince first; he turned his fury toward the Omegas trembling in the corners.
"You useless, brainless curs!" the guard roared, raising a heavy, gauntleted hand to strike the nearest servant. "I told you to dress him in the King's colors! Do you want to be flayed alive for this insolence?"
The Omega shrieked, ducking their head and waiting for the blow.
It never landed.
The air in the room didn't just grow cold; it became heavy, as if the oxygen itself had turned to lead. Asarmose moved, with the terrifying, fluid grace of a predator. He stepped between the guard and the servant, his eyes fixed with a calm, piercing intensity that was more frightening than any shout.
The guard's hand froze mid-air. He looked down into Asarmose's face and felt his heart stutter.
"Lower your hand," Asarmose said. His voice wasn't a scream; it was a low, vibrating command that seemed to bypass the guard's ears and strike him directly in the marrow. "You speak of curs yet you behave like a rabid hound."
The guard tried to find his voice, his Alpha instinct screaming at him to assert dominance, but he couldn't move. He felt as if a thousand invisible blades were pressed against his throat.
"Hear me well," Asarmose continued, leaning in until his scent—the sharp, unmistakable pheromone of an equal power—filled the guard's lungs. "These people are under my protection now. The next time you raise a hand against an Omega in my presence, it will be the last movement your body ever makes. I will not merely report your insolence to your King; I will end you where you stand."
The second guard, who had been laughing a moment ago, took a reflexive step back. The silence in the room was absolute. The Omegas looked up, their eyes wide with a shock that transcended fear—they had never seen an Alpha silenced by a single look from an Omega.
Asarmose straightened his wesekh, his dignity unruffled. "Now," he said, his voice returning to a smooth, regal clip. "Lead me to your King. I believe we have a wedding to conclude."
The guards, pale and visibly shaken, didn't utter another word. They turned and marched, but this time, they didn't lead—they escorted him with the wary distance one keeps from a live explosive.