Arien did not resist when Ives led him back to the chamber. To his horror, Ives found a servant there, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. The alpha ordered the servants to help the poor man and bring a basin of hot water. The omega didn’t even glance at the injured servant and sat on the bed as if nothing had happened. When the basin was ready, Ives dismissed the servants and carried it himself.

“Put your feet in, Arien.”

No response.

“Put your feet in the water.”

Still calm — though irritation stirred — Ives dipped his fingers into the steam.

“Were you dealing with any other alpha, you’d have been beaten long ago.”

 Arien narrowed his eyes.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not,” Ives said evenly. “But you’d rather die than live — and sickness here kills quickly. If you wish to rest forever in my courtyard, stay cold.”

With a sharp splash, Arien plunged his feet into the water. Ives hid a faint smile. When he reached forward, the omega hissed.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I need to rub your feet,” the alpha said, glancing at the icy draft. Arien clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, and endured — trembling, disgusted, silent.

After a moment he muttered, “I despise this. You have no pride.”

“There is no shame in care. I’m keeping you alive, nothing more.”

“Don’t pretend to be noble,” Arien spat. “I know why I’m still alive — why I wasn’t killed with my husband, my brother… my sons. And it will never happen. Do you hear me? Never.”

For a heartbeat, Ives stilled — then steadied. Nothing here was new. Arien denied him as a husband; talk of children meant nothing. But Ives could not yield.

“Why not? Your cycle will return.”

“You think I’d let you touch me? A stranger alpha?” His voice shook. “I am loyal. I won’t betray my husband.”

“I am your husband. And you will bear my child.”

“No!” Arien’s voice broke. “I agreed only if you—” He faltered, then whispered, raw with despair, “You didn’t save Carlisle. You have no right to demand anything of me.”

“I couldn’t save him.”

“Liar!” 

Ives said nothing. When the omega’s feet finally warmed, he withdrew his hands and stood; Arien pulled away from the basin, hiding a shiver.

At the door, Ives spoke quietly:

“I grieve with you and I am not lying. But Arman and your children are dead. I am your husband now.”

A burning glare struck him. Ives stepped out and something slammed into the door behind him. 

The suffocating quiet of their life cracked with a message from Thibault: the king formally invited the Lords Boriel to his wedding with Count Terris. For the first time in months, Ives allowed himself a real smile. Thank the gods.

Thibault had met Milosh Terris during the war. Thibault had fallen so deeply in love that he vowed to take the boy as his husband. Ives had once feared the king’s fiery nature would undo that promise — but it never had.

“Vetis,” Ives said with rare warmth, startling the servant, “we’re leaving soon.”

Arien refused at once. At the words capital and castle, his face twisted with pain.

“We won’t stay in the castle,” Ives said evenly. “But you must attend the ceremony.”

“I’m not going!” Arien shouted, trembling, tears spilling freely.

Ives didn’t know what compelled him to say it — the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“I’ll take you to Carlisle’s grave.”

Arien froze. Fragile, desperate hope flared in his eyes.

“You’ll be able to say goodbye,” Ives added quietly.

Thibault, crushed by guilt, had buried the boy with quiet honor. Ives knew where. If it eased even a fraction of Arien’s pain, it was worth it. Arien agreed without another word. They arrived in the capital a day before the wedding and met the king and his fiancé.

“Lord Boriel!” Milosh cried, throwing his arms around him — then glanced past Ives, to Arien staring at the floor. “I haven’t congratulated you yet. Will you introduce me to your husband?”

Ives stepped in front of him and laid a careful hand between Arien’s shoulder blades; the omega went taut as a drawn bow.

“This is Arien Boriel, my husband. Forgive him — he’s unwell from the journey. Please allow him to rest.”

“Of course!” Milosh flushed and retreated at once.

But Thibault looked at Arien. He knew the truth — such cold withdrawal was unbecoming of a noble spouse — but the joy of the wedding softened his temper. He allowed them to stay outside the castle.

As soon as the chamber door closed behind them, Arien asked:

“When will you take me?”

“I will. But not now. I must speak with His Majesty first.”

Arien didn’t move, as if the grave might vanish if he waited.

“I gave you my word,” Ives said quietly. “And I will keep it.”

“You’ve promised before.”

“No,” Ives answered. “You asked in a fever. I couldn’t answer then. But now I promise you — I will take you.”

With that, Ives closed the door and went to the royal chamber. Thibault, tense on the eve of the wedding, thrust a cup of wine into his hands.

“Why didn’t I receive any letters saying you were going to be a father? Don’t tell me he didn’t conceive?”

“It’s too early. The boy’s been through too much.”

“Has he become barren, hasn't he?”

“No. The time simply hasn’t come. One of my husbands was the same — later he bore me three children.”

The king calmed down a little. They spoke late into the night — of the war, of plans, of nothing of consequence. At last, Ives asked permission to take Arien to Carlisle’s grave. Thibault agreed, already drunk. Ives came back to chamber and when he opened the door, he froze. Arien stood there, dressed exactly as he had arrived. 

“Are we going?”

Up close, Ives saw how tightly the omega clutched his shirt, how restless his gaze was.

“Let’s sleep a little.”

“No. We're going now! Or you’re lying to me?”

Ives yielded. He led Arien beyond the castle grounds, to the royal graveyard. Carlisle’s grave lay apart — tended, strewn with fresh flowers, but nameless.

Arien fell to his knees and broke down. His fingers clawed at the soil; his whole body shook. He sobbed without sound. Ives stood behind him, aching to reach out — and knowing any touch would only enrage. All he could do was watch as Arien bent nearly to the ground over the grave. Ives understood that pain — though it felt arrogant to think so. His own children had died. Arien’s tiny heir had been murdered. He draped his cloak over the omega’s shoulders. Arien froze — then trembled again. They stood there a long time. Fatigue blurred Ives’s vision when Arien finally spoke, his voice forced through clenched teeth.

“Was he in pain? Was he afraid?”

“No, he left peacefully.”

Arien rose. When he turned, Ives’s heart lurched. His eyes were glassy, empty, lifeless. Only faint tear-tracks on his dust-streaked face proved he’d been crying moments before. He stood rigid, as if braced by iron.

“Let’s go,” he said flatly. “I want to sleep.”

That night, Arien lay down at once, unmoving beneath the blanket. For the first time, Ives shared a bed with his husband — not from desire, but necessity. Arien was too silent. Half the night Ives couldn’t rest, rising more than once to be sure the omega truly slept. 

By morning he felt shattered. Still, he dressed in ceremonial dress and nodded at his reflection — one must not look dreadful at the king’s wedding — before turning to Arien. The youth was nearly ready. When the servants reached for his hair, he shoved them away and sent them out, leaving it loose.

“Won’t it bother you?”

“No,” Arien snapped. “Are you done admiring yourself?”

Ives smiled — strained, habitual. 

The wedding was radiant. Thibault shone as he led his beloved forward. At Ives’s side stood someone who radiated none of that joy. Arien’s gaze swept the hall, cold and contemptuous. Once, Ives had seen in him a frightened, broken child. That softness was gone; what remained was sharp, almost fearsome.

The celebration dragged on. By evening the ballroom was stifling, packed with nobles, loud with music and drink. Hidden away in a distant corner, the two northern lords were thankfully ignored. Ives drank too much, longed for sleep. Arien looked no better — pale, rigid, barely upright. Then he swayed and nearly collapsed. Ives caught him — and froze. The scent hit him at once. It was't a perfume.

Heat.

He tilted Arien’s chin up: unfocused eyes, flushed cheeks, shuddering breath. There was no doubt. Scanning the room, Ives drew an arm firmly around him and guided him toward the exit. Arien stirred weakly, tried to push him away, but Ives tightened his hold. They were almost free when a voice called out.

“Lord Boriel, let’s dance—oh! What happened?”

Ives bowed. Milosh stood before him in wedding costume, concern softening his smile.

“My husband is unwell, Your Majesty. We must leave.”

“Of course! Go, I’ll tell Thibault.”

Ives hurried them back to the separate house. He dismissed the servants and shut the door. Only then did the weight of it crash down on him. The scent of heat would have stripped him of all restraint. Now he mastered himself. Drawing a steadying breath, Ives laid Arien on the bed. The boy panted softly, lips parted, murmuring without sense.

Ives touched his burning cheek — the first time, in all their marriage, he had ever touched the omega’s face — and spoke softly:

“Arien. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

There was no response. He could have taken advantage of this — claimed his husband at last, as the law allowed, conceived the child long denied him. He was no monk; desire had merely been buried beneath heavier burdens, indulged only rarely. But...

Jaw clenched, breath controlled, Ives fetched Arien’s nightshirt and began to undress him. Each brush of cool fingers against fever-hot skin drew a sharp gasp, tugging at something instinctive within the alpha — but he held firm. He loosened the ties of the Arien’s  trousers.

Arien’s eyes flew open. A moment ago he’d been weak as a kitten — now awareness flared, strength surging sudden and raw.

“Don’t touch me!”

He scrambled back, dragging the shirt over himself.

“You need to change costume,” Ives said, reaching out despite the thick, intoxicating scent.

The blow came too fast to follow. Pain exploded behind his eyes; he nearly collapsed onto the bed. Through the blur he saw Arien, half-dressed, clutching something — a carved wooden horse, the sigil of House Coryel.

Blood slicked Ives’s fingers when he touched his head. The scent meant nothing now. Desire vanished beneath the pounding in his skull and the bitter weight in his chest. 

“Why—?”

“I warned you,” Arien gasped. “I won’t let anyone touch me.”

Ives scarcely remembered leaving the room. He felt sick, humiliated — hurt in a way he had never known. He told himself he had frightened the omega too much, that this was his fault — yet the blow cut deeper than any blade.

He went to anothere room and fell onto the bed. When he woke, his head was heavy, his vision unsteady. He waved the servant away — then stopped him.

“Check on my husband,” he heard his own voice — hoarse, broken, muffled as if spoken through a blanket. The servant’s face blurred, shapes refusing to assemble. “He must be fed and brought a tonic.”

They helped him dress and brought the king’s summons. Thibault expected him for archery. Ives barely felt the wind, barely heard the voices around him. He spoke when required — and remembered none of it.

When Milosh and Thibault approached, Ives tried to appear cheerful and relaxed, yet the younger king instantly sensed something was wrong.

“You’re still unwell?”

“I’m fine,” Ives assured him, taking the bow from Thibault’s hands. The king frowned and held it for a moment, unwilling to release it — but the lord took it anyway.

The alpha drew the string and aimed. It took more effort than it should have — far more. At the edge of hearing, he caught Milosh nearly shouting at the king:

“Stop this! Can’t you see he’s ill?”

Ives tried to inhale, to steady himself enough to take the shot. But the arrow never flew. Darkness swallowed everything.

He dreamt of his children, his beloved husbands. And of his father. They were near — he heard their voices, saw them, they spoke to him. But he could not reach them. When he awoke, the first thing he felt was warmth. Not pain, only peace. His head no longer pounded, his sight was clear. And blessed silence… which broke almost instantly.

“Ives! You nearly drove me mad!”

The lord turned his head to see Thibault dragging a chair loudly toward the bed. The king glared at him with relief was on his face.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Asleep? You lay like the dead for a week! Praise the gods the healers managed to save you!”

The king spoke rapidly, anger flaring with each word — how Ives had collapsed, how he hadn’t woken for days, how the healers had forbidden even the slightest movement.

“You’re not going home yet.”

“I ruined your wedding, forgive me,” Ives murmured, turning his gaze aside. Thibault waved it off with a sharp gesture. But thinking of home, the lord suddenly asked: “Where is Arien?”

Thibault’s expression hardened instantly.

“Locked in his room. The little wretch.”

“He’s not—” Ives began, but the king cut him off.

“Enough!” Thibault snapped. “I know perfectly well this happened because of him. If not for my respect for you, I’d have had that brat strung up the same day!”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice, each word striking like a blow.

“Stop pitying him. He asked nearly every day whether you were dead. I silenced every tongue wagging about you — about who would inherit your lands. But they’re right, Ives. You have no children. And with your softness, you never will. Think of yourself.”

Ives said nothing. There was nothing to say. He remained in bed for more than a week, until the healers permitted him to stand. A month later he was ready to depart. Only then did he see his husband. Ives had waited all the time for him, but only Thibault and Milosh kept him company.

The alpha immediately noticed the shadows under the omega’s eyes — but he was alive, unharmed. The boy waited on horseback, and without looking at him, said:

“Took you long enough.”

“My apologies,” Ives replied quietly.

They did not speak again.

Ives explained his long absence to Vetis and spent a long while calming the old servant. The man wept openly, clutching at him in terror.

“My lord, what would we do without you? The whole North would be orphaned. The Boriels have guarded us for centuries!” he cried, forgetting rank.

Ives could not deny it.

When the heat began again, an early, crushing snow fell.

Ives shut himself in his chamber, turning the same thoughts until they cut. Everyone told him what was required of him — as the last Boriel. But he had wanted gentleness, warmth, a true family. Now that certainty faltered. Perhaps it was resentment — shameful at his age. Yet the knowledge that he had nearly died, nearly doomed his house and the North, weighed heavier with each hour.

Ives rose and dressed. He had to.