The Imperial audience chamber was quiet, but it was not peace—it was the stillness before a storm. Emperor Valien sat upon his blackened iron throne, his chin resting against interlaced fingers as he studied his son.
"You're losing control of your slave, Rythe," the Emperor said. "And if you insist on keeping him, I expect he remain under constant supervision."
Rythe inclined his head. "He hasn't stepped out of line. Not once."
"Not yet," Valien replied, eyes narrowing. "But the court sees you wavering. He was supposed to be broken, not seen at your side like some pet."
Rythe's jaw ticked, but he nodded again. "I will increase security. He will not leave my sight."
Valien sat back, voice colder. "Do not let sentiment cloud your judgment. An omega is not a companion, Rythe. Especially not that one."
The walk from the throne room to the lower barracks was long, and Rythe's thoughts were dark. The Emperor's warning pressed heavy on his shoulders. He hadn't meant to let Aurean slip past the boundaries of his control. But something about the boy lingered—too sharp to ignore, too quiet to forget.
As he approached the side corridor near the training pits, the sound of muffled struggle caught his ear. Low grunts. A whimper.
Rythe's steps quickened.
Rounding the corner, he saw them—two guards, one bracing Aurean against the wall, the other fumbling with his belt. Aurean's face was bloodied, his tunic torn. One eye already swelling shut.
Rage surged through Rythe like wildfire.
He moved before thinking. The first guard flew backward, spine cracking against stone. The second he caught by the throat, slamming him to the ground with bone-snapping force. The man gagged, eyes rolling.
"Touch what is mine again," Rythe hissed, voice low, "and I will skin you alive."
The corridor filled with silence—dense and terrible.
He turned to Aurean, who had sunk to the floor, eyes glassy but dry.
Rythe knelt beside him. "Are you hurt?"
Aurean flinched from his touch.
Rythe's hand dropped.
"Get him cleaned. Gently," he ordered the stunned sentries that arrived moments later. "Anyone lays a hand on him again without my word will lose it."
Aurean sat in silence as a medic tended to his split lip and bruised ribs. The hounds crowded around him when he returned to their pen, low growls vibrating in their throats. One licked his fingers. Another curled at his feet. It was the most comfort he had felt in days.
But something inside had snapped.
Not from the pain.
From the look in Rythe's eyes—genuine fury, protective as a beast. It unsettled him more than the attack had.
He was tired of the shifting lines, the rules that changed like sand underfoot. One moment he was a traitor to be mocked, the next—protected.
What did Rythe want from him?
What did he want from Rythe?
That night, Rythe stood on the battlements, the cold wind whipping his cloak.
The Emperor's words haunted him. So did Aurean's eyes.
He had acted without thinking. Again.
Was it just ownership?
Or something else?
In the shadows below, the hounds stirred restlessly. In his chambers, Aurean lay silent—watched, guarded, unchained, yet bound tighter than ever.
Control was slipping.
And Rythe knew the Emperor could see it too.