Peaceful northern days were drawing to an end: the birthday of Crown Prince Jacques was approaching. He and Alian were separated by less than a year, yet the prince was an alpha, grew faster, and looked older — every time Ives saw him, he thought of his own son and realized just how small the boy still was by comparison. The lord was obliged to attend Jacques’s birthday — as a subject of the crown and as the child’s godfather. Thibault immediately proposed that Ives become the spiritual protector of his son.

“You’re the only one I can entrust him to,” the king said reverently, holding the newborn prince wrapped in silk and costly fabrics. The lord did not refuse.

So when the invitation arrived — entirely expected — Ives loaded the wagons with belongings long prepared and made ready to depart. Alian was overjoyed to go to the capital: he was friends with Jacques and missed him. Arien, on the other hand, was displeased, though this time he did not show the fierce resistance he once would have.

The road proved easy, save for one crossing where they were caught in a downpour and had to wait it out. Ives remembered that crossing well and cast a sidelong glance at his husband — Arien sat with an unreadable expression, yet the alpha felt certain the omega recognized the place too.

A few years earlier, when Ives had been preparing to return home from the capital as a triumphant victor, he had suddenly fallen ill. It had been very bad — almost as bad as that time after Arien struck him. The healers dragged him back from the brink, and Thibault once again began speaking of how the lord had no alpha son to secure the continuation of the line.

Ives had been forced to make use of Arien’s weakness again, watching the omega more closely than ever. But it was not his husband’s temper or thirst for vengeance that should have been feared. Back then, too, they were traveling to the prince’s birthday. Arien was plagued by nightmares and woke often; that night was no exception — calming herbs did not help. Ives did not wake, nor did the servants. Arien decided to step outside to breathe some fresh air, and, already terrified half to death, stumbled in the darkness upon a horse that suddenly bolted. It was his husband’s scream that woke Ives. He barely had time to throw on a robe before another cry rang out — long, raw, filled with pain.

That night, the entire camp was roused. The escort scattered to nearby villages and towns in search of a healer. Several arrived in time, but saving the pregnancy — the child — was impossible. At such an early stage, no one survives. Arien was saved, and recovered well.

After that, Ives understood it as punishment for his actions. He never touched his husband again — no matter how sweet Arien smelled, no matter how much he wanted an alpha son. He had his dearly beloved Alian. And if the boy was to be his only child, then so be it.

The boy loved traveling so much that he rose early every morning and chattered endlessly, drawing attention to everything he saw. At times Ives grew tired of listening, yet he never stopped him. Alian even tried to speak with Arien, and though the omega made no effort to pretend interest in his son’s words, at least he did not send him away or frighten him with a harsh look.

The entire capital was preparing for the celebration. Riding through the streets, Ives often found himself admiring the decorations hung on every bridge, signpost, and window. Thibault spared no expense, showing how important the heir was to every soul in the kingdom. He had set aside money to be given to the poor in Jacques’s name. Alian grew tired, and for the rest of the journey rode with Ives. The boy, who until then had been talking nonstop and staring at the city’s finery — such splendor did not exist in the North — nearly fell asleep, pressed against his father.

The Boriel family was welcomed with honor; the entire royal household had gathered. Prince Jacques had grown even more, his eyes shining — he almost leapt forward to run to Ives. Thibault smiled and clasped the lord’s hand, the little prince laughed and touched the nose of the alpha bowing before him, and Milosh gave a weary smile that twisted into a grimace the moment the cries of the younger princes sounded behind him.

It was painful to look at the king’s spouse. Thibault was obsessed with the thought of securing his bloodline on the throne. He worked on all fronts, including his family: he had worn Milosh down with constant childbirth. The smiling, charming, young omega was gone. The younger king had grown painfully stout, his hair dull and thinning, so that any hairstyle now made him look almost bald. Each time, Ives told Thibault this could not go on — and each time, the king merely pressed his lips together.

“I need many sons,” he would say. “So that my line never ends and no one dares lay claim to the throne.”

“But Milosh is struggling. Give him a few years of rest and—” Ives once tried to object gently, only to fall silent under the king’s crushing stare. It was not his place to interfere in the monarch’s family.

Thibault did not listen. The result was the ruined health of a once-beautiful omega and five children — all of them dear little princes. Two of them, the twins Edward and Espen, were followed everywhere by healers, for they were constantly being pulled back from death’s grasp. Ives truly pitied Milosh and secretly offered him a special draught to prevent another pregnancy during his next heat, but the omega refused.

Alian and Jacques found each other at once, and the servants led them away to play. Ives, pleading exhaustion from the road, asked Thibault for leave to rest — the king agreed, though he demanded the lord attend him that evening. As before, the Boriëls were given chambers apart from the main castle. Arien was not pleased that he would have to sleep beside Ives, but once again he said nothing.

“Are we staying long?” the omega asked, as soon as the door closed behind the servants.

“No. About a week. Perhaps a little more.”

Arien nodded, though he clearly would have left that very moment if he could. Each time he came to the capital, he felt deeply uneasy. Yet there was little Ives could do — they were obliged to appear at court. The most the alpha could manage was not forcing Arien to remain in the castle for every festivity. This time as well, he did not drag his husband among kings and aristocrats — he only asked that Alian be brought back not too late and put to bed properly.

Ives spent the evening as he always did, talking with Thibault — sometimes idly, sometimes in earnest — sipping wine as they spoke. They were in the middle of arguing about new taxes when the lord suddenly caught a familiar sound. Old as he was becoming, his hearing dulling, he would always hear and recognize Alian’s crying. Ives tensed at once and began to rise, drawing Thibault’s attention, when there was a knock at the door to the royal chambers. The monarch stiffened and, setting his goblet aside, loudly gave permission to enter.

At that very moment, a sobbing Alian burst into the room, followed by a servant holding the hand of an unhappy Jacques. The prince was sniffling too, and on his plump cheek, framed by pale curls, a bruise stood out darkly.

“Your Majesty, His Highness Jacques and Lord Alian had a fight. Lord Alian wished very much to see His Lordship—” the servant began, but both alphas interrupted him at once.

“A fight?”

Thibault immediately called his son over, yet Jacques remained silent no matter how sharply the king addressed him. Alian, however, was far more expressive. He rushed straight into Ives’s arms and, sobbing, wiping his face with dirty little hands, blurted out in broken misery:

“Jacques said Papa doesn’t love me! That he wanted to kill me!”

For a moment, darkness swam before the alpha’s eyes, and he felt as though he might collapse — but the weight of his son in his arms kept him standing. Ives lifted a cold, far from kind gaze to Thibault. Not to Jacques — the prince was only four, a child repeating what he had heard from adults, nothing more.

“We will speak later,” the king said sternly, though anger — and something like fear — crept into his voice. He sent his son away and returned to the table, draining his goblet as Alian continued to sob.

“My little star, what are you saying?” Ives murmured softly. “Papa doesn’t want to kill you — he loves you. His Highness misunderstood and said the wrong thing. But why did you hit him, hmm, my son?” He took the boy’s hand and kissed the clenched fist. “He is your prince, your future king. Tomorrow, you will apologize.”

The evening was ruined. Ives finally calmed his son and sent him to bed. Meanwhile, Thibault drank three more goblets of wine, yet remained sober enough — and tense.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said at last, breaking the heavy silence. “You understand — children.”

“I understand,” the lord replied calmly, looking straight at him. “And I will never blame His Highness for those words. They are not his own. And I hope they will not be spoken again — neither these nor anything like them. Good night, Your Majesty. We will meet tomorrow at the celebration.”

It seemed the king wished to stop him, but Ives, hearing nothing and listening to no one, left the chambers. He was angry. What were they saying about his son. About his husband. Even if it was true, he would not allow Arien to be gossiped about — much less for such words to reach little Alian.

His husband was not asleep yet; he was reading some book. He noticed at once how furious the alpha was, but did not even try to ask what had happened — he merely cast a brief glance at him and returned to the page. Ives, however, did not want to remain silent.

“Alian hit Jacques.”

That made Arien lift his eyes at once. There was no concern for the child in them, but clear interest. A spark flickered in the dark gaze, and his lips seemed on the verge of a smile. Still, the omega remained outwardly indifferent; only the raised head betrayed his attention.

“His Highness heard somewhere that you wanted to kill Alian and do not love him,” Ives went on, noticing how boredom and coldness settled back into Arien’s expression. That did not interest him — it was true, after all. But the alpha continued. “So Alian hit him. And cried so bitterly.”

At that, Arien lowered his eyes and returned to reading; the page rustled beneath his fingers. Thoroughly upset now, barely restraining his irritation and hurt, Ives began unfastening his coat. Just then, the door creaked softly and Alian peered in. He was holding a pillow, his eyes red and swollen. Poor child.

“My sweetheart,” Ives murmured, embracing him. “Don’t cry. Jacques said something foolish.”

The boy began to mumble something, already close to tears again — but froze as if struck still. Arien’s voice had sounded.

“Alian.”

Silence fell over the chambers, broken only by the soft rustle of pages. The omega was not looking at the boy, yet he was clearly not absorbed in his book.

“Do not listen to gossip. Never. No matter what anyone tells you. So wipe your nose,” Arien raised his eyes — cold, empty — and asked, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Papa,” Alian nodded. There were no tears left in his eyes. Then, timidly, with a hope that broke the lord’s heart, he asked, “So… do you love me?”

“Alian, go to bed,” the omega said firmly, as though he had not heard the question.

“I want to sleep with Father!”

Ives was already ready to agree, when his husband cut in almost at once.

“No. Go to your own room. Here sleep the lord and I. In the North you may do as you please, but here we have two chambers. I will not be made uncomfortable because you are being capricious and your father indulges you. Go. Now.”

The boy’s lips trembled, but he obeyed.

Arien closed his book and rose from the chair.

“It’s a good thing he’s an omega. With your upbringing, Lord Boriel, an alpha would have grown into a magnificent weak-willed fool.”

“Better that,” Ives replied quietly, “than a man embittered against the whole world, hating everyone — just because the people closest to him did not love him.”

Arien did not answer, as if the words were not meant for him. He lay down and extinguished the candle. Ives settled at the far edge of the bed. Indignation boiled within him, and only as sleep finally claimed him did he realize that this had been, perhaps, the longest and calmest conversation Arien had ever had with his son.

Even if it bore little resemblance to how a parent should speak to their child.

Still… was there anything to be glad about at all?