The floor-to-ceiling windows of the High Spire offered a view that would make lesser men tremble. From this height, the capital looked like a clockwork toy, and King Alistair Thorne stood over it all, his back a broad, silent wall of velvet and repressed power. He didn't turn when the heavy oak doors groaned open, nor when the rhythmic thump-thump of a cane signaled the arrival of the Senior Councilor.
The Councilor stopped several paces back, his spine curving into a practiced, submissive bow. "Your Majesty," the old man croaked, his voice thin against the vastness of the stone chamber.
"I felt it prudent to remind you… the nuptial rites are scheduled to begin in one week's time."
Alistair didn't move. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind whistling against the reinforced glass.
"Oh?" Alistair's voice was a low, bored drawl that barely carried across the room. "Is it that time already? I had nearly forgotten."The Councilor cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "It is a union three generations in the making, Sire. An arrangement signed by your late grandfather's own hand. The Prince's lands are the most fertile in the reach, and their infantry is legendary. With their army folded into ours, you will have the boots to trample anyone—Alpha or otherwise—who dares to whisper against your crown."
Alistair finally moved, but only to lift a crystal glass of amber liquid to his lips. He tracked a hawk circling far below, his expression one of clinical detachment. To him, the Prince wasn't a man; he was a line item on a conquest ledger. Another piece of "livestock" to be branded with the Thorne crest.
"A week," Alistair sighed, the sound heavy with a weary, refined boredom. He turned slightly, the light catching the sharp, predatory edge of his jawline. "Very well. Prepare the cathedral. Let's get the wedding over with so I can return to matters of actual importance."
The atmosphere in the capital was thick with a strange, stifling tension. While the common folk whispered of the "union of Hubriś and Ta-Mery," the palace guards stood at attention, expecting a quiet, perhaps even trembling, Omega Prince to be delivered to their King.
The carriage that rolled through the massive iron gates was unadorned, dark as a bruised plum, and pulled by horses that looked as if they had been bred for war rather than a wedding procession. When the carriage door finally opened, there was no sound of weeping or the rustle of submissive silk.
Instead, a Prince stepped out.
He didn't wait for a hand to assist him. He stood on the cobblestones with a spine so straight it seemed to challenge the very architecture of the Thorne palace. His eyes didn't dart around in fear; they swept over the towering walls with a composed, aristocratic grace, like a master architect inspecting a structurally unsound workshop.The Councilor, the same one who had bowed to Alistair a week prior, stepped forward with a practiced, condescending smile. "Your Highness. We have been expecting you. If you will follow me, we shall prepare you for the ceremony. The King is... occupied, but he has signaled his readiness to have this concluded."
Asarmose didn't flinch at the slight. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was melodic but carried an unyielding, grounded weight. "Tell your King that I am not a debt to be collected. I am the Prince of a land that has never known the yoke. If he wishes to 'conclude' this arrangement, he will do so by looking me in the eye, not by sending a messenger with a cane."
The guards shifted, the air suddenly charged with the Prince's sheer, commanding presence. This wasn't the "livestock" they were told to expect.The Alpha guards led Asarmose through the winding, cold corridors of the Thorne palace, their heavy boots echoing with a rhythmic, oppressive thud. They stopped before a set of gilded doors, pushing them open with a careless shove.
Inside, the room was filled with the finest silks and heavy furs of the Thorne lineage—the "proper" attire for a King's Consort. But Asarmose's breath hitched in his throat.
Gathered in the corners were a dozen Omegas, their heads bowed so low their chins touched their chests. They moved with a hollow, mechanical precision, their eyes glazed and devoid of the spark that the Prince knew to be the birthright of any free person. They weren't people here; they were shadows.
One of the Alpha guards let out a sharp, barking laugh, his lip curling in a sneer as he looked at the nearest servant. "Don't just stand there like the cattle you are. Dress the Prince. Make him look presentable for the King, if such a thing is even possible for an outlander."
The guard didn't even glance at the Prince with the respect due to a royal. He spat on the polished floor, turned his back, and marched out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
The Prince stood frozen. In his kingdom, his people were the architects of grace and the keepers of history. Here, they were the "livestock" Alistair's grandfather had bargained for.
One of the Omegas stepped forward, trembling, holding up a heavy, suffocating robe of Thorne crimson—a garment designed to weigh a man down, to make him look small and owned. "Forgive us, Highness," the Omega whispered, the voice so thin it was almost a ghost. "We must... we must prepare you. The King demands—"
"The King," Asarmose interrupted, his voice a low, vibrating chord of iron-willed dignity, "demands a contract. He did not specify the thread."
He reached out, his hand gently stopping the Omega's trembling fingers. As his palm met the servant's skin, a steadying, profound calm seemed to radiate from him—a quiet strength that forced the servant's frantic breathing to slow.
"Take that red shroud away," Asarmose commanded, his eyes burning with a quiet, revolutionary fire. "I will not be dressed by the hands of a butcher. Bring me the chest from my carriage. If I am to walk into his cathedral, I will do so as a Prince of my own land, not a trophy of his."
The Omegas looked at each other, a flicker of terrifying dread crossing their faces. Asarmose turned his back on the Thorne silks, already mentally discarding the "Consort" he was supposed to be.