The summons came at dawn.
A royal courier, pale and breathless, burst into the great hall just as Rythe was preparing for another quiet morning of controlled obedience and simmering silence.
"The Emperor requests your immediate presence," the courier said, falling to one knee. "A matter of national security. The council convenes in one hour."
Rythe rose without a word.
Aurean, silent as always, trailed behind.
The council chamber was tense—guards lining the walls, noblemen murmuring, and the Emperor seated in full ceremonial armor, a rare sight.
Rythe's siblings stood off to the side, lips tight, brows furrowed.
The Emperor raised a hand, and silence swept through the chamber like a blade.
"The southern border has been breached," he said, voice sharp as steel. "The Kingdom of Daelthar has sent troops beyond the pass. Three villages have fallen. Two of our outposts are in flames."
A collective gasp.
"We do not yet know the scale," the Emperor continued, "but the act is clear: they've declared war."
Eyes turned to Rythe.
"You," the Emperor said, meeting his gaze. "Will lead our first response."
There was no question in his tone.
Only command.
Rythe bowed his head. "It will be done."
"And take no chances," the Emperor added, voice low. "You ride before dawn. End this before it spreads."
Then his eyes narrowed. "And take your hounds. All of them."
A beat.
"And that includes the one you saved."
Rythe's jaw tensed. "Aurean?"
"He is yours, isn't he?" the Emperor said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Or would you rather leave him here where your guards are so… fond of him?"
The chamber was dead silent.
Rythe inclined his head once.
"I will take him."
The courtyard rang with shouted orders and the thunder of hooves.
Hounds howled in unison, already restless. The elite guard assembled, cloaked in black armor, weapons gleaming.
Aurean stood among them—not armored, but clothed in dark leathers. Not a soldier. But not nothing either.
Rythe approached him.
"You'll ride with the hounds," he said.
Aurean nodded once.
Rythe studied him a beat longer. "Stay close to them. They'll guard you better than the men will."
That, Aurean did not argue with.
Rythe turned away, then paused.
"You're still mine," he said without turning.
Aurean's voice came after a breath. "And yet, I'll still bleed for your war."
Rythe's throat tightened.
He didn't answer.
The first attack came at dusk, just as the sun bled orange across the treetops. A scream shattered the quiet. Then arrows—sharp, black-fletched—rained from the trees.
"AMBUSH!"
Rythe's sword was already drawn. He gave a single, cutting command:
"Unleash the hounds."
The forest exploded into chaos.
The hounds thundered forward—living weapons, fangs gleaming in the dying light. Soldiers followed, their battle cries swallowed by the roar of conflict.
Aurean moved before he had time to think. He kept close to the hounds, eyes scanning for danger. He wasn't armed. He wasn't trained for this kind of war.
But instinct moved him.
Varnak, the largest of the pack, snarled as a blade slashed near his side. Without hesitation, Aurean lunged forward, arms raised.
The blade meant for the hound carved through Aurean's shoulder instead.
He stumbled, choking on pain. Varnak howled and leapt, tearing the attacker to the ground in a blur of fur and fury.
Blood soaked Aurean's tunic.
The world blurred.
But he did not fall.
The camp was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
Soldiers whispered of the attack's suddenness. Of the strange coordination. Of a new enemy wearing familiar colors.
Aurean sat alone at the edge of the medic's tent. His arm was bandaged tight, the blood still seeping through in slow, lazy blooms. He looked hollowed out. Quiet.
The hounds surrounded him like sentries. Varnak lay across his feet, growling low whenever anyone came near.
Rythe approached.
The hounds stirred. Their eyes tracked him.
"Stand down," he ordered them quietly.
None moved.
He crouched in front of Aurean.
"You could've died."
"I didn't," Aurean murmured.
"You bled for a beast."
"I bled for what trusted me."
Rythe searched his face. No defiance. No submission. Just that steady, unreadable calm. The kind that settles after fire.
"You're not what I expected," Rythe said, almost to himself.
"No," Aurean whispered, "but you keep dragging me along anyway."
A long silence.
"You still belong to me," Rythe said, more out of habit than conviction.
Aurean's eyes met his. There was no rage. No plea. Just a question unspoken:
And what do you intend to do with something you cannot command?
Rythe said nothing.
Because for the first time, he didn't know.
The following night brought no rest.
Whispers reached the edge of camp—scouts gone missing, enemy banners spotted in the hills. Rumors of sorcery. Of familiar faces leading foreign troops.
Inside the command tent, the generals argued. Rythe remained silent, eyes fixed on the crude map before him. His fingers drummed the table.
Aurean waited outside, armor still stained from the ambush.
He didn't flinch when Rythe emerged hours later.
"Come."
They walked in silence to the perimeter where the hounds patrolled. Aurean thought they'd discuss strategy. Instead, Rythe stopped by a fallen tree, the world quiet save for the soft rustle of wind and padded paws.
"Why didn't you scream?" Rythe asked suddenly.
"When you were struck. You didn't make a sound."
"I was more afraid the hound would die," Aurean replied simply.
Rythe looked at him—truly looked.
"Do you think you've earned their loyalty?"
"No. I think they gave it."
Another silence.
"Then I wonder," Rythe muttered, "why it's so hard to earn yours."
Aurean turned to him. "You never asked for it. You claimed me."
Two nights later, an enemy detachment struck the outer flank of the camp. Rythe fought like a storm, his black armor drenched in blood not his own.
And yet… something gnawed at the back of his mind.
A whisper.
A hound's cry.
Aurean was missing.
He found him near the cliffs, surrounded by bodies—enemy scouts, dead or dying. Aurean, bloodied, blade in hand. One of the hounds at his side, injured but alive.
"What are you doing here?" Rythe snapped.
Aurean was breathless. "Guarding the western ridge. You didn't post anyone."
Rythe froze. He hadn't.
He looked at the carnage, at the battered hound, and at the omega who had bled and killed again without command.
Something you cannot command… but who chooses to act anyway.