The sun warmed pleasantly with its gentle rays, and Ives deliberately lifted his face to them, unable to restrain a faint smile. Summer in the North was short, but after the long cold it was deeply awaited and truly warm — at least for those born here.

He removed his cloak and draped it over Arien’s shoulders, his gaze lingering on the round curve of his belly. Ives watched him hesitate — torn between shrugging it off and the need for warmth. In the end, warmth won. The heat had been successful — but the memory made the alpha feel sick.

Arien had not known it was Ives. In his delirium, he was certain the one beside him was his beloved Arman. The tenderness, the way he reached for the alpha, could not be explained otherwise.

“Too hot. Do something. Please — quickly!”

Despite everything he felt, Ives was gentle. He prepared him, but then met the misted gaze — and quickly looked away, something inside tightening painfully. At first he moved slowly. For a moment Arien seemed to stop breathing.

“Does it hurt?”

In answer, the omega clutched his neck and moaned into his ear. It should have brought pleasure — it had been long since Ives had taken an omega — but every movement ended the same way:

“Arman!”

He tried to silence him with kisses, knowing it was useless.

By dawn, Arien slept. When he woke, horror came first, then tears. Arman was not there. Yet the marks on his body and the memories told their own story. Ives did not answer the anger or the sobbing. He read in silence, returning only when the omega no longer understood anything. This happened more than once, and the last time the lord left with grim finality.

Arien stayed in his chamber, and Ives did not seek him out — though they lived under the same roof, they might as well have been worlds apart. Only Vetis reported that the younger lord had turned to prayer. They saw each other again only a month later.

That morning, as Ives left his chamber, thinking it was time to clear the courtyard and set aside money for a crypt, a sudden crash stopped him short — followed by raised voices and strange, unsettling sounds from Arien’s rooms.

He threw the door open. Arien sat on the bed, pale and slick with sweat, one hand pressed to his mouth. A servant wiped something from the floor; another gently stroked the omega’s back.

“What happened?” Ives demanded.

“My lord was suddenly sick,” one of them answered. “He hasn’t eaten yet today.”

Ives looked at Arien. In the omega’s dark eyes, horror and understanding took root. His gaze sharpened, deadly. Ives did not seem to notice. Joy — almost reverent — rose within him. He knew well what morning sickness meant for an omega. Still, a superstitious fear pricked him, and he forced himself to remain calm.

“Send for the healer,” he ordered. “Stay with younger lord. Don’t take your eyes off him.”

The healer arrived quickly. Even Arien awaited him — hope flickered in his eyes. He did not resist the examination, though Ives remained in the room. The alpha clenched his fists until his knuckles went white, his stomach twisting painfully.

“The younger lord is healthy,” the healer said at last. “Praise the gods — the North will soon have an heir.”

The expression frozen on Arien’s face was terrible. But Ives, overwhelmed with joy, seemed blind to it. He paid the healer, saw him out — and returned to chamber. And all joy vanished in an instant. 

Arien stood on the bed with a knife in his hand.

That sight frightened Ives more than any battlefield. He lunged forward, seized Arien’s wrists, and forced him down onto the bed.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

There was no answer. In Arien’s eyes there was no remorse — no pity, no trace of love. Only fury and hatred.

Thus began their grotesque imitation of family life.

Ives ordered the marital chamber prepared and Arien’s belongings moved there. From that day on, the alpha slept beside his husband, watching his every movement.

Arien tried to rid himself of the child — striking his belly, dragging heavy objects. He was never left alone long enough for poison, but given a moment, he shattered glass and nearly swallowed the sharpest shards. But when his belly became visibly round, Arien ceased his attempts. Ives did not trust the calm, but days passed, then weeks, and nothing happened.

The healer came regularly and Arien drank the infusions without protest. The child was healthy. Arien often changed clothes in front of the alpha, and Ives watched the curve of his belly with quiet awe. He longed to touch it but restrained himself — Arien flinched whenever he came too close.

All he could do was watch as the belly grew. As his child grew.

Once or twice, he tried to stroke it while Arien slept — but the omega woke with a nervous jolt, and Ives pretended to be asleep, hiding his smile. He had had children before, yet each one filled him with the same childlike joy, as if it were the first.

In the last days, Arien grew nauseous and could not eat. Before the healer arrived, Ives personally oversaw the preparation of plain biscuits that had hepled his firts husband during his pregnancies. He hoped they might help Arien too.

The omega had not yet risen. When Ives entered the room and saw a servant carrying a basin, fear tightened in his chest — but he mastered himself. Arien opened his eyes with effort and looked to the tray in the alpha’s hands.

“Try to eat a little.”

“I can’t,” Arien murmured and buried his face in the pillow.

He wore only a nightshirt; his slender legs were slightly bent. After the nights they had spent together, something stirred in the alpha — desire he had thought long cooled. But of course he could not touch the omega — because of the child, and because he did not dare. He was doing what was right — as an alpha, as a lord, as the last of his house. But not as a husband. Not as a man. At times, shame flickered at the memory of the heat — yet at the sight of the growing belly, it receded.

His gaze lingered on the bare legs and the rounded swell beneath the loose fabric. He turned away just as Arien opened his eyes. Quickly, the alpha pulled a chair to the bed and set the tray before his husband.

“You can eat this. It’s a special recipe. Please — try.”

The omega resisted a while longer, then pushed himself upright and took one biscuit, chewing slowly, cautiously. Nothing happened. He took another. Then another.

“There you see,” Ives said softly. “Eat as much as you like. And tell me if you want anything — I’ll bring it.”

Arien did not reply, only shot him a dark look. By the time the healer arrived, the tray was empty — and Ives could see in his husband’s eyes that he wanted more.

The healer examined the omega at length. Arien refused to answer his questions, remaining silent. To Ives’s quiet pain, it was clear that although Arien had resigned himself, he behaved as if he carried no child. He never touched his belly, was careless with himself, never spoke of the baby — and did not always permit the examinations.

“I will prepare infusions and give instructions to your servants,” the healer said at last. “I see nothing serious. Once he feels better, I advise more walks.”

Ives nodded and paid him again. He had little money left, but nothing felt too dear.

When fear and superstition finally loosened their grip, the lord wrote to Thibault with the news. The king was overjoyed and invited them to celebrate, but Ives refused. He would not leave his husband — nor risk the long, rough journey with him. Thibault insisted on coming himself, promising to arrive as soon as he was free, with Milosh. Ives agreed.

When word came that the king was near, he rode out to meet him, taking Arien along. He walked slowly through the village, Arien beside him, constantly tugging at his cloak. He was uncomfortable, but warmth mattered more.

Arien wore a long, loose, dark-blue tunic with intricate embroidery — made especially for pregnant omegas, to ward off the evil eye. It was a gift from Milosh; Ives kept that to himself, knowing the tunic would otherwise be discarded or ruined. Arien rarely wore it — he saw no reason to dress finely for walks through the castle courtyard with Ives.

And the alpha did not mind. He noticed other changes in his husband that pleased him: Arien had filled out a little, and thanks to the infusions, healthy color had returned to his skin. Only his behavior remained unchanged.

Suddenly, a group of children ran past them, laughing brightly and flinging mud at one another. The smallest of the boys slipped and fell right in front of the omega.

Arien froze. The child lay before him, crying and clutching his knee — no more than four years old, filthy, dressed in rags, yet utterly charming. Ives bent to lift him, but did not have time. Awkwardly, yet resolutely, Arien bent down and helped the boy to his feet.

“Thank you, my lord,” the child sniffled, still crying.

Arien untied hair ribbon it and held it out. The boy only blinked in surprise. Ives had seen many corners of his homeland during the war. Traditions differed everywhere.

Smiling, the alpha said:

“Your lord is giving you a gift. Accept it.”

The child hesitantly took the ribbon, bowed clumsily, and ran off. Arien frowned and tossed his hair back — irritated now, it tangled around his face.

“Do not take offense,” Ives said gently. “It is not our custom — to give away one’s adornments. Even a ribbon.”

“I noticed,” the omega replied coldly. Then added, “You even sing children’s songs differently here.”

Ives was surprised. He himself hardly noticed such things — Arien had noticed. Had heard it. Seizing this fragile thread, the alpha said:

“Yes. Much here is different from the south.”

“I did not live in the south,” Arien said suddenly.

Ives looked at him in surprise. As he remembered, Antarella lived near the sea.

“I did — but not for long. And I barely remember it,” Arien went on, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. “My brother took me away — merchants brought the plague to the port. They always brought sickness.”

“Your brother did the right thing,” Ives said softly — then, for a moment, feared he had spoken too freely.

The omega turned to him slowly. Nothing stirred in his dark eyes.

“My brother always did what was right.”

A wave of indignation rose in Ives, but he showed nothing — only fell silent, continuing down the village street beside his husband. Sometimes Ives stopped to speak with the villagers and noticed how they looked at Arien with distrust. The northerners did not like him, having heard the rumors about his behavior. And Arien had grown more withdrawn, faintly uneasy, darker with every step.

Ives tried to continue the conversation.

“I never had brothers.”

“I don’t care,” the omega cut him off.

Ives pressed his lips together and turned away. There was no time to think about it — the king’s colors appeared in the distance.

Thibault seemed older somehow, and something almost paternal stirred in Ives. They embraced for a long while, then set out toward Ives’s castle. At first they rode on horseback, but when the lord’s horse began to limp, Thibault suggested the carriage. Ives half expected Arien and Milosh to have quarreled. But when he climbed inside, he found the omegas had not spoken at all. He tensed — until Milosh noticed him, smiled, and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Quiet. Arien barely sat down before he fell asleep.”

Thibault settled beside Milosh, speaking softly; the omega blushed and laughed under his breath. It warmed Ives to watch them — he remembered the exhausted boy who had once sought refuge with him. And now before him sat a king.

Ives carefully seated himself beside Arien. His husband truly slept among the cushions — so deeply that he did not stir at the jolting of the carriage. Only when, at a rough bump, Arien nearly bounced did Ives grow alarmed. He braced him with pillows — then lifted him into his arms.

And, as if spellbound, he touched the omega’s belly.

With almost reverent tenderness, he stroked it, imagining the child in his arms — caring for him, loving him, protecting him. So little time remained. Arien would give him the child he had longed for.

Lost in this fragile dream, Ives did not notice at once that Arien had woken.

He realized it only when the omega seized his wrist, gripping it with startling strength, staring straight at him — as if about to say everything.

“Did we wake you, Arien?” Milosh hurried to say. “Forgive us.”

Arien glanced at the royal couple, his gaze lingering briefly on Thibault, who watched him intently. Ives knew that look — the king always expected danger. Yet what threat could a pregnant omega do?

Arien tried to pull away, but at the next jolt the carriage leapt, and he nearly fell. Ives caught him in time. Milosh cried out in fright.

“Don’t rush,” the alpha said gently. Joy flooded him — he was ready to forget everything that had just happened.

He settled the omega back among the cushions. And then, by accident, his hand touched the belly — and he felt a movement. The push of a tiny, yet already strong, foot.

Ives froze and lifted his eyes to Arien — but his husband’s gaze was cold. Surely it was not the first time. Yet Arien had said nothing. Not once.

“Ives, is something wrong?” Thibault asked.

“No. Everything is fine,” the alpha said, lowering his gaze as he finished arranging the pillows. “I’m just a little worried. Milosh, how are you finding life in the capital?”

The rest of the journey passed beneath Milosh’s cheerful chatter. Ives listened only halfway, his attention returning again and again to Arien. The omega stared down as if asleep, eyes open, hardly blinking.

Ives instructed Vetis to prepare for the royal arrival, fearing his poverty would show. But the old servant managed everything splendidly, and Thibault’s retinue proved unpretentious. The alphas sat long in the dining hall, drinking and talking — the king scattering toasts and wishes for a healthy heir, born in due time. Near nightfall, Milosh announced he would escort the weary Arien to his chamber. Ives and Thibault agreed.

When the wine ran out, and no servants could be found, Ives went down to the cellar himself. He chose a small cask and carried it back — only to hear raised voices near the chamber.

Their chamber. The one Milosh had led Arien into.

Ives came closer. Thibault’s voice rang sharp with fury.

“If not for my duty — and this,” the king broke off, clearly pointing at something, “— and the fact that this is Ives’s child, you would already be punished and executed! Hold your tongue, wretch, and never dare speak to Milosh like that again. To anyone.”

The king stormed out, not even noticing Ives — his rage unmistakable.

“Your Majesty,” Ives called, but Thibault did not answer.

The joy — sharpened by wine — drained away. Ives entered the chamber and set the cask on the floor. Arien sat on the bed, hands folded, holding himself with proud, almost haughty composure.

Silence settled over the room.