The heavy oak doors of the War Room thudded shut, leaving a silence so profound it felt like the air itself was holding its breath.
George Grant stood like a statue of salt and storm, his gaze boring into Levi with an intensity that would have made the old Prince Consort dissolve into a puddle of tears.
But Gary Goffer was used to intense men. He had dealt with CEOs who thought they owned the sun and oligarchs who mistook cruelty for charisma. He knew that an Alpha's dominance was often just a performance—a high-stakes gamble of pheromones and posture.
"You're staring, George," Levi said, his voice a cool silk ribbon. "It's a bit unrefined for a Prince of the Blood, don't you think?"
George's jaw tightened.
"You speak of refinement? You, who spent the last six months refusing to bathe because you claimed the palace water was 'too aggressive' for your skin? You, who fainted because a servant dropped a spoon?"
Levi waved a dismissive hand.
"A phase. A dramatic, ill-conceived phase. I was grieving my lost youth. Now, I'm bored of being pathetic. It doesn't suit my complexion."
George took a step closer, the scent of ozone sharpening. It was a warning—a physical manifestation of his irritation.
"You think this is a game? The Western Provinces are turning into a dust bowl. The soil is so depleted that even the Earth-shapers can't find enough nutrients to pull a single sprout from the ground. My soldiers are eating sawdust and prayer."
"And you think your Lightning is the answer?" Levi countered, stepping even closer, defying the instinctive urge to submerge his scent in the presence of a dominant Alpha.
"You keep striking the clouds, forcing rain to fall on soil that has the consistency of glass. The water just sits on top, boils in the sun, and creates a salt crust. You're not watering the land, George. You're seasoning it for a funeral."
George froze.
His eyes, usually a swirling storm of blue, settled into a piercing, static-charged stare.
"How do you know that?"
"I read," Levi lied smoothly.
In reality, Gary had once spent three months as the "exclusive companion" to a world-renowned botanist who liked to talk about soil pH and irrigation during pillow talk. Gary had a photographic memory for things that kept him relevant.
"And I feel it. The Wood element isn't just about flowers and pretty vines, George. It's about the network. The roots. The bridge between the sky and the deep earth. I am that bridge."
"Prove it." George's voice was a challenge.
He gestured to a large, ceremonial stone vase in the corner of the room. It held a Silver-Leaf Willow, a sacred plant of the Levicious Empire. It was currently a skeletal, grey thing—brittle and clearly dead, a victim of the "stagnant" atmosphere Levi had projected for years.
"This tree was gifted to us on our wedding day. It died within a week of you entering the North Wing. If you are the 'Jade Branch' the prophecy speaks of, bring it back."
Levi looked at the dead wood.
Internally, he panicked. Gary, you idiot. You've never even kept a succulent alive in a New York apartment.
But as he approached the vase, something strange happened. The thrumming at the base of his spine—the "Wood Core"—began to pulse in sync with his heartbeat. He felt a tug, like an invisible thread pulling at his solar plexus.
He reached out, his pale fingers hovering over the jagged, dry bark.
Focus, he told himself. It's just a client. A very stiff, very thirsty client. Give it what it wants.
He didn't think about "magic." He thought about the sensation of a spring morning. He thought about the way a garden smells after a heavy rain—the richness, the life, the stubborn persistence of a weed pushing through concrete.
He touched the bark.
At first, nothing happened. George let out a small, derisive huff.
"As I thought. Just another play for atten—"
CRACK.
A sound like a whip snapping echoed through the War Room.
A spark of emerald light ignited where Levi's skin met the wood. It wasn't the violent, jagged light of George's lightning; it was soft, humming, and deep. It looked like liquid jade flowing through the cracks of the dead tree.
Levi gasped. His vision swam. He could feel the tree. He felt its thirst—a screaming, agonizing void in its center. He felt the way its cells had shriveled, waiting for a signal that never came.
Grow, he whispered in his mind. I'm here. Drink.
The emerald light surged.
In a terrifying display of biological acceleration, the Silver-Leaf Willow began to move. It didn't just grow; it exploded. The grey bark split open, revealing shimmering, iridescent wood beneath. Tiny white buds erupted along the branches, swelling and bursting into long, weeping tendrils of silver leaves that glowed with their own internal light.
The roots, seeking more space, cracked the heavy stone vase like it was an eggshell. The tree didn't stop. It stretched toward the ceiling, its vines curling around the black stone pillars of the War Room, seeking the faint traces of moisture in the air.
The scent of the room transformed instantly. Gone was the dry, burnt smell of ozone. It was replaced by the overwhelming, intoxicating fragrance of blooming jasmine and ancient forest.
Levi felt a sudden, sharp drain on his energy. His knees buckled, the world spinning in shades of green and gold.
Before he could hit the floor, a pair of strong, armored arms caught him.
He was pressed against a chest that felt like a furnace. George's heart was hammering against Levi's ear—not with anger, but with a frantic, pulsing shock.
"Levi?" George's voice was no longer a rumble; it was a breathless rasp.
Levi looked up, his face pale, a small trickle of blood running from his nose—the price of such a sudden, violent expenditure of power. He gave George a weak, triumphant smirk.
"I told you... I don't work... for free."
George looked around the room. The War Room, once a cold chamber of death and strategy, was now a lush, terrifying jungle. The holographic map was being draped in glowing vines. The air was thick and sweet.
The Prince looked back down at the man in his arms. The "useless" Omega he had ignored for two years was glowing—literally glowing—with a power that George had only read about in ancient scrolls. But it wasn't just the power.
It was the eyes.
Levi's eyes weren't filled with the dull, vacant fear of a victim. They were sharp. They were the eyes of a predator who had decided to become a savior.
"You've been hiding this," George whispered, his grip tightening on Levi's waist. "All this time, you had this within you, and you let my people starve?"
Levi reached up, his hand trembling as he wiped the blood from his lip.
"I told you, George. That Levi is dead. You can spend your time mourning him and blaming me, or you can take me to the Western Front and see what I can do to an entire province."
George stared at him, his Alpha instincts warring with his shock. He could smell Levi's scent now—it was no longer stagnant. It was a riot of life.
It was a call to the storm.
For the first time since their wedding, George didn't feel the urge to walk away. He felt the primal, overwhelming urge to claim.
"Theo!" George roared, though he didn't let go of Levi.
The doors burst open. The servant, Theo, and several guards stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the forest that had overtaken the tactical center of the Empire.
"Fetch the Royal Physician," George commanded, his eyes never leaving Levi's. "And tell the stables to ready the Imperial Carriage. We aren't going to the front with the vanguard."
Levi blinked, his head lolling against George's shoulder.
"We're not?"
"No," George said, a dark, dangerous spark of excitement finally lighting up his features.
"We're going together. And you're going to show me exactly how much 'work' it takes to save an Empire."
Levi smiled, the exhaustion finally pulling him under. As he drifted into a deep, magical sleep, his last thought was: Client acquired.
Now, let's see about that commission.