Ives watched his husband for a long time, wondering what he might have said to the young king. Anything at all, really. If Arien hated Ives, it was easy to imagine what he felt toward the king’s husband — and that was a serious problem. While the omega carried his child, no one would touch him. But afterward…

Ives sighed, already picturing how long he would have to calm Thibault and apologize for his husband’s temper.

“What did you say to make the king so furious?” he asked at last. 

“The truth,” Arien replied curtly, his posture making it clear the conversation was over. Ives did not yield.

“Speak. Were you rude? Did you insult him?”

“Lord Boriel,” the omega said sharply, meeting his gaze. “Is your drinking finally over? I have a headache.”

At the mention of pain, Ives forgot the insult and stepped closer.

“I’ll call the healer at once.”

“No need. I only need sleep — and silence. So I’ll ask again: is it over?”

“Yes. It’s over.”

Arien nodded and rose from the bed without even supporting his large belly. Ives offered to call servants to help him dress, but the omega refused and managed on his own. The alpha returned to the hall: many were already drunk, and the royal couple was gone. Vetis reported that Their Majesties had retired and promised to see the guests to their rooms despite the mess awaiting him.

When Ives returned, Arien was already asleep. He carefully covered him — the omega was sweating, and a chill would come easily. Lately Arien often pulled his shirt up in his sleep; Ives briefly thought of suggesting he sleep without it, then dismissed the idea. It would only provoke anger.

For several days Thibault said nothing. Milosh kept silent as well, though he often glanced at his husband — and sometimes at Arien, hurt and close to tears. Arien seemed not to notice. He looked past the kings, never speaking to them, making Ives flush with quiet shame.

Only later, during a calm evening by the fire with wine, Thibault finally spoke.

“Milosh kept talking to that wretch about children,” he said grimly. “He thought that since the fellow is pregnant, he might care. Instead, he said he doesn’t give a damn about his child. And that only a fool would ever bear one by me. That my children would be executed, like his son. He was rude besides. I’m sparing you the rest. I’d cut out his tongue and take his head, but I won’t — he carries your child. That alone makes him worth tolerating. For now.”

The lord bowed in gratitude and apologized as best he could, begging Milosh’s forgiveness as well. He piled excuse upon excuse for Arien’s temper, surprised at how easily the words came. The kind-hearted younger king forgave him at once and suggested they spend a day outdoors together. When the weather warmed, they held a celebration in the open air — archery, riding, hunting, a feast. For a while, Ives even forgot his worries. He shot arrows with Thibault and Milosh as he once had during rare lulls in the war, when all that mattered was rest — and then returning to battle.

When they grew tired and settled on cushions in the shade, Milosh was the first to notice Arien. He tugged at Ives’s sleeve, anxious, nodding toward the younger Lord Boriel. Thibault snorted, drained his goblet, and turned away. Worry and shame washed over Ives. Arien had been sitting in the shade all along, almost invisible. Now he was curled in on himself, breathing unevenly. His face was pale, his skin slick with sweat.

“Are you unwell?” Ives asked, reaching for him.

Arien caught his wrist. “Don’t touch me.”

“Arien,” the alpha almost growled — and it worked at once. The omega was used to the lord’s gentleness, to his calm voice and patience. Arien’s defenses slipped; startled, he loosened his grip. Ives seized the moment and touched his forehead — cold and clammy. 

“What hurts? Why didn’t you say anything?” 

At that moment, the omega’s face twisted. Cold sweat broke over Ives. He was already ready to lift his husband and carry him to the healer — but Arien snapped irritably, 

“Calm down! It’s your… your…” He broke off, clenched his teeth. “He’s beating me up from the inside.”

Only then did Ives understand. Relief followed the flare of fear. He laid his hands on the rounded belly and felt the fierce kicks himself. For a moment it seemed the omega might strike him — but beneath the lord’s warm palms, the child gradually calmed.

Sneaking a glance at his husband from under his lashes, Ives swallowed a smile. Arien had pulled his hand back and almost closed his eyes. He must have been suffering badly, if he had allowed the touch. When the baby finally calmed down, Ives removed his hands and said quietly,

“You’ve had too many sweets. That’s why he’s restless. I’ll bring you water. And you’re sitting awkwardly — it may be uncomfortable for him, that’s why he’s kicking.”

Ignoring the sidelong looks, the alpha gathered pillows and found a proper chair. When he settled Arien down, he caught the omega watching him — with a question, and a flicker of surprise.

“I had three husbands before you, and many children,” Ives said evenly. “I know pregnancy and childbirth well enough. When we return home, you’ll drink a calming brew and rest. Everything will be fine. And don’t keep silent — I want to help you.”

 “Me?” Arien scoffed and turned away, staring toward the distant mountains.

Ives restrained a sigh and returned to the royal couple. Thibault said nothing, but Milosh leaned forward at once.

“Is everything all right? You look pale.”

“Yes,” Ives smiled faintly. “The child is kicking hard, so my husband is exhausted.”

“Kicking?” Milosh brightened, smiling openly.

He was at the age when omegas often dreamed of children, and his excitement was unmistakable. The glance he cast at Thibault was one Ives knew well — but he said nothing.

His instincts proved right.

One warm morning, Vetis burst into Ives’s chambers, white with fear, announcing that His Majesty Milosh was unwell. The castle descended into chaos until the healer declared the omega was expecting an heir.

The North had never seen such celebration.

Fulfilling his duty, Ives drank and celebrated with Thibault day and night. Exhausted, he dressed once more to join the feast — and noticed Arien again pale, slick with sweat. He forbade his husband from attending; Arien stayed in his chamber.

“Kicking again?” Ives asked.

Arien nodded and sat down awkwardly. The lord helped him lie back, legs drawn up, and gently tried to calm the child with his touch.

“Your belly has dropped,” he said quietly. “The child will be born soon.”

“Go!” Arien snapped, pulling away. “Leave!”

Ives withdrew his hand and straightened his doublet. Let him be difficult — he had no strength left to fight it. The alpha returned near dawn, aching and desperate for sleep. 

But as he reached the bed, terror struck.

Arien’s muffled, painful moans filled the room. He lay curled on his side, wrapped tightly in blankets. Ives tore them back and understood at once: the waters had broken — long ago. And Arien had been holding his legs tightly together. The alpha turned him onto his back and forced his legs apart. Pain and horror clenched his chest. Arien had known labor had begun — and had called no one.

There was no time for grief or hurt. Still holding the struggling omega, Ives called for help. Arien’s healer was far away, so the servants brought the royal one instead. By all rules, the omega should have been taken to separate dark chambers — and Ives should not have witnessed this — but there was no choice.

Arien resisted to the very end. The alpha and another servant had to hold his legs. He tried to restrain his voice, but the first scream still rang in Ives’ ears.

Though the lord had many children, he had never been present at a birth. It was not meant for alphas — and rightly so. He had heard screams before, but never seen this: the deathly pale, sweat-soaked face, hair stuck to skin, eyes red with agony. The suffering omegas endured. Ives looked away — then forced himself to meet Arien’s gaze. There was no fear there. Only pain — and rage.

“My lord, stop!” the healer cried. “There is no contraction — you’re killing the child!”

But Arien did not listen. The thought struck Ives like a blade: his husband truly meant it. To destroy it. Fear crushed his chest. No — he would not survive another child’s death.

He bent close, feeling Arien’s breath, and whispered:

“Stop. Listen to the healer. You’re killing not only my child — but your own.”

When that failed, his voice grew quieter, cold and steady:

“Do you want to lose a third child? Was the pain of Carlisle and the unborn baby not enough? This time there will be no one to blame but yourself.”

The mention of Armand’s children changed Arien’s face. He went still, staring at Ives — as if ready either to kill him, or to break apart.

Then the omega turned away and screamed again — followed by the healer’s urgent encouragement.

Nausea rose in Ives’ throat: the smell of blood, the heavy air, the cries. Any joy was drowned in horror. He clutched the headboard, barely standing, yet never once thought of leaving. Only once did he look away — when Vetis’ face appeared in the doorway, then vanished.

And then — another cry. Thin. Wailing.

Arien went limp, eyes closing. Joy made Ives dizzy. The healer cut the cord, the servants wrapped the newborn and moved to place the child on the omega’s chest — but with his last strength, hoarse and harsh, Arien snapped:

“Take it away!”

The servants hesitated. The alpha himself took the bundle, as if under a spell. How long had it been since he last held his own child? Warmth flooded his chest.

The baby had been born only moments ago, yet already seemed like an alpha — at least to Ives, staring at the wet, bluish face. Carefully, he took the tiny hand and kissed it. The child quieted, making only soft, indistinct sounds.

His child.

That was his child’s voice, his thin little hand in Ives’ palm, his scent warming his chest. Small. Precious. His.

The healer respectfully asked to examine the newborn, and Ives watched every swift, practiced movement. When the child was returned, the healer said carefully:

“You have been blessed with a lovely omega, my lord.”

“An omega…” Ives repeated softly, smiling. A sweet little omega. One he would protect all his life.

“He is healthy?”

“Completely. Strong and healthy.”

“That is wonderful,” the alpha said, still lost in gentle thoughts.

The baby opened pale eyes and drooled softly. A sob from the bed pulled Ives back to reality. The healer hurried to Arien. Blood soaked the sheets — too much of it. Arien was conscious, hiding his face, trembling.

“It hurts…” he whispered.

Ives kissed his son once more, handed him to a servant, and sat beside his husband.

“Isn’t there too much blood?”

“There are many tears,” the healer replied. “But he will recover.”

Ives took Arien’s hand.

“Thank you for my son,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

The omega only sobbed harder.

The joy of birth was quickly buried under worry. Ives showed the child to Thibault — the king embraced him like a brother, tears barely hidden. But anger soon followed: the healer reported Arien’s actions. Thibault was ready to cast the omega out, and only Ives stopped him.

Trouble came swiftly. Vetis returned with grim news — the wet nurse had died. Messengers were sent to every nearby village, but the baby was hungry. Arien had to feed him.

He refused at first. Ives watched his husband — pale, exhausted, lips bloodless, red eyes. He barely moved, turned with help, and would not look at the child. Only the baby’s piercing cries forced Arien, trembling, to give in. The alpha helped him lie on his side and placed the child beside him. Arien hissed quietly — the baby was sucking painfully.

Cold rains followed. The healer ordered warmth at all costs. With only two warm chambers — and the royal couple occupying one — the baby remained in the marital bedroom.

Ives spent every free moment with his son, watching him grow: fuller cheeks, quiet smiles, soft breaths, wide gray eyes. But peace was short-lived. Envoys returned with reports of unrest and looming danger. Thibault summoned Ives again and again, their councils stretching for hours.

The alpha was torn in two — duty to the king pulled him one way, his family the other.

Arien was unraveling. The search for a wet nurse dragged on, and he had to keep feeding the child himself. Pain followed every feeding, and the aftermath of the birth left him aching constantly — yet he was forbidden any healing brews. The baby was restless, crying so loudly the entire castle heard him. He calmed only in his father’s arms, and far too rarely. Arien did not sleep. He faded, turning into little more than a shadow.

Late at night, exhausted, Ives returned to the chambers, longing for rest. Vetis had nearly finished preparing warm rooms for the baby — soon Arien would finally be able to recover.

At the door, unease flickered through him. He ignored it.

Inside, horror froze him in place.

Arien stood over the cradle, hands lowered inside, breathing in broken gasps. Ives lunged forward, shoved him away. Arien fell. The baby screamed. A small lace pillow lay over the child’s face.

Ives tore it away and lifted his son into his arms. Alive. Frightened, but unharmed.

For a long moment, he could not look at his husband. Arien had tried to kill the child again. Rage and despair warred inside him — exile, punishment, the monastery crossed his mind. Then he saw Arien crying.

After laying the baby down, Ives sat beside him.

“He never lets me sleep,” Arien muttered, staring at the floor. “He screams. He hurts me. He tore me apart inside. My chest hurts because of him, and he still wants more.”

Ives listened in silence, then gently took his hand, stroked his hair.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he said quietly. “Everything will be all right. We’ll find a wet nurse. The rooms will be ready. I’ll hire more servants. You’ll sleep. You’ll heal.”

His calm voice worked like a spell.

“There’s a quiet place near the mountains,” Ives continued softly. “A lake. A small house. I’ll take you there. Horses, hunting, books — whatever you want.”

“I almost killed your son,” Arien said hollowly.

“Yes,” Ives answered. Then, evenly, “We haven’t named him yet. What about Alian? Gentle, beautiful. Fitting for an omega.”

Arien did not respond.

“Later,” Ives said. “Now you need rest.”

He helped Arien to bed, surprised he had managed to stand at all, and covered him with a blanket. At the door stood the healer — pale, shaken. He had heard everything. Ives slipped an old family ring from his finger.

“The king must not know. You heard nothing.”

The healer nodded and left. Only then did Ives notice his hands shaking. The baby stirred, and the alpha lifted him again, rocking him gently, unable to stop imagining how close he had come to holding a lifeless body instead. He kissed the child’s warm forehead.

At last, Arien slept.