Ives had cried before — long ago, in times of loss. With the years, even tears had left him, though the ache remained.

He remembered those unbearable moments when one wants to believe — but a single look into dimming eyes is enough to know faith will not save anyone.

And yet he held on to it now. Faith was all he had left.

The healer gave his instructions quickly and asked permission to leave. There was nothing more he could do. Ives ordered him to stay in a house near the castle so he could return at once if summoned. The healer agreed, though doubt lingered in his eyes.

Vetis begged to tend to Arien, but Ives locked the door.

“You will bring what I ask for. Do not enter.”

“My lord, you will fall ill!”

“I may already be,” Ives replied. “If anything happens — care for Alian.”

He ignored the servant’s sobbing. Taking the basin, cloths, and prepared medicines, he clung to them as to his last hope. Arien’s fever worsened; he no longer opened his eyes, only murmured in delirium.

Vetis begged him to rest, but Ives refused. He ordered urgent letters sent to the capital and to the South, where Alian was — unwilling to consider infection, yet he could not ignore it.

The worry devoured him. He could not sleep. Arien lay suffering beside him, and rest would not come.

The omega’s entire body was covered in rash. Sometimes Ives felt the fever itself would kill him. It was frightening even to touch him — he burned so fiercely. All Ives could do was wipe him down and beg him to hold on to life.

He took the cool cloth in his trembling hands and gently pressed it to Arien’s burning skin.

In a small, god-forgotten castle, deep within the kingdom, it was always cold and quiet.

One thin leg slipped from beneath the blanket, then the other. Bare feet hesitated before touching the cold stone floor. Every step seemed loud enough to echo through the whole castle, and the creak of the door louder still.

But it was not.

At the table sat a tired, thoughtful alpha, sorting through papers. His shoulders were tense, his attention fixed. He did not react to the soft steps or even to the opening door. Only one word made him look up.

“Brother!”

He turned at once, and a smile lit his sharp, pale face.

“Oh — I didn’t hear you. How do you feel? And why are you barefoot?” He tried to sound stern, but there was only worry in his eyes. “Arien, you are impossible.”

Orsin lifted his brother and carried him back to bed, muttering. He had barely sat down when Arien climbed into his lap again and wrapped his arms around him.

“You are a like child,” Orsin murmured, though his fingers gentled in Arien’s hair.

He was thirteen. His first heat had terrified him. Orsin had driven everyone away and found a healer, even as the war with the Coriels raged. Only later did Arien understand how much his brother had risked.

“How are you?”

“Still sleepy,” Arien sighed. “Will it always be like this?”

Orsin laughed softly. “You’ll grow older and I’ll find you a worthy alpha. With him, it will be easier.”

“And if you don’t find?”

“Then you'll stay with me,” Orsin replied, then added more quietly, “You deserve someone who will place you above himself. But now it’s too early for that, little fox.”

Arien could not imagine anyone beside him but his brother. It had always been Orsin. Especially after their father — forever busy with his own affairs — had died. With Orsin, Arien always felt small and safe.

They never spoke much about the war. Arien knew why his brother had begun it and supported him completely, yet he did not interfere. Orsin, for his part, kept the worst details from him, though he always kept him close. 

He had just opened his mouth to speak when the door opened and Armand entered.

At once, Arien felt strange — a sudden urge to hide behind Orsin, to wrap himself in a blanket. And yet he wanted to look at Armand.

His brother’s closest companion was handsome: tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with olive skin. His green eyes were sharp and watchful. Whenever that gaze turned to Arien, something fluttered wildly in his chest, and he had to lower his eyes. 

“My lord, a word,” Armand said, his deep voice sending a shiver through Arien.

Orsin’s smile vanished. The rebel leader returned in its place.

“Go and rest. Armand, see him to his chamber.”

Orsin kissed Arien’s forehead and let him go.

Walking beside Armand, Arien felt painfully aware of himself. He wondered if the scent of his heat still lingered — but Armand gave no sign.

“Are you well?” Armand asked quietly. “You look flushed.”

The light touch on his shoulder struck like lightning.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

Armand escorted him to the chamber — and, after a brief hesitation, stepped inside to make sure he settled properly. Arien felt awkward under his gaze. Yet once beneath the blanket, the words escaped him before he could stop them.

“Wait. Stay with me.”

Armand obeyed without question and sat beside the bed.

Under that steady, attentive gaze, Arien felt his face burn again and quickly closed his eyes. Armand watched him as if ready to defend him from any danger — as though, should a monster crawl from beneath the bed, he would kill it without hesitation.

The thought made Arien give a soft, foolish giggle.

“Is something wrong?” Armand asked at once.

“N-no… It’s just… My brother used to stroke my hair when I was little so I’d fall asleep faster. It always worked.”

A large hand brushed gently through his hair.

Arien stilled… then relaxed.

Ives’s eyes flew open in terror, and the basin slipped from his knees, crashing to the floor.

He had fallen asleep.

Ives wiped his face and leaned closer to his husband — then swallowed hard. The rash was gone, but in its place were pox sores. They covered Arien’s beautiful face — and the rest of his body as well. He looked terribly thin, exhausted beyond measure. Worse than when they had first met. Worse than after Alian’s birth.

At times it seemed he no longer breathed. Each time, Ives froze — and then heard the faint rise and fall of his chest. Every breath felt like a victory.

He steadied himself and took the ointment, spreading it carefully over the wounds. The fever seemed slightly lower.

“You’re doing well. Hold on,” he whispered, pressing Arien’s weak hand to his cheek. “Arien… please.”

“Arien, please!”

Orsin knocked at his younger brother’s chamber door. As king, he could enter almost anywhere.

Almost.

“What is this? Open the door. Tell me what troubles you.”

Inside, Arien sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He was fifteen. The king’s brother. The second man in the kingdom. But he was also young, hot-blooded, and consumed by jealousy he did not know how to master.

A delegation had recently arrived from distant lands. Orsin had spent long hours negotiating with them, speaking of trade, of alliance — and of capturing Thibault Coriel, the runaway grandson of mad Ludwig. Arien had overheard enough to know that many men had been sent to hunt the boy down. Soon he would be found. Soon his brother would finally have peace.

Arien wanted to support his brother. He truly did. But jealousy gnawed at him.

Not long ago he had gone to ask Armand to take him to the market — and instead found him with an ambassador’s son. Armand had embraced him. When he leaned closer, as if to kiss him, the world blurred before Arien’s eyes.

He had watched them again and again, choking on tears.

The final blow came at the grand ball. Armand asked the foreign beauty to dance — not him. They passed Arien, bowed politely, said something he barely heard. He answered so sharply the boy fell silent.

Arien had run to his chamber and locked the door.

He was fifteen — thin, awkward, uncomfortable in fine clothes and jewels. He had little to boast of but a king for a brother. He rode well, knew old tales — but such things did not win attention.

They did not win Armand.

Beautiful omegas circled the alpha — graceful, charming, able to speak easily instead of staring at the floor in shy silence.

Arien did not know what to do.

Orsin hurried to Arien at once, yet stood outside the door for a long time. Only when the omega’s sobs turned into helpless hiccups he allowed his brother to enter.

Worry was plain on Orsin’s face. He gathered his brother into his arms, and sat with him as he had when they were children, wiping his tears with a handkerchief.

“And who has dared offend my little fox? Tell me. I will deal with them.”

Arien pressed his lips together, trying to steady his breathing, but another hiccup escaped him. He avoided Orsin’s eyes for a long moment. Then the question burst out, carrying all the storm inside him.

“I’m not handsome, am I?”

“Who dared to say such a thing?” Orsin nearly choked with outrage. “You are, little fox!”

But Arien did not believe him. He had seen how Armand looked at others.

Before tears could fall again, Orsin lifted his chin and made him meet his gaze.

“Listen. You are an Antarella. Hold your head high. Be strong. Cry here, on my knees, and I will always comfort you. But before the world — stand proud. And I will always be here for you.”

Arien, stunned by the fervor in his brother’s voice, suddenly felt very small again and leaned into him.

Orsin laughed softly and ran his hand through his hair, ruining the careful styling.

“So. If you are asking whether you are handsome, and you have already managed to offend some poor omega you barely know, then this is about an alpha.” His tone turned thoughtful. “As your elder brother, I am concerned. But listen to me, little fox — do not insult your rival. Draw attention to yourself instead.”

He paused, barely hiding a flicker of irritation.

“And now tell me who has caught your eye.”

“I won’t.”

“Arien!” 

He told him nothing.

But he chose to listen.

At dawn Arien stood outside Armand’s chamber. When the alpha stepped out and saw him, he almost startled — though his face remained calm.

Arien forced himself to meet his gaze. 

“Ride with me.”

For a heartbeat Armand seemed at a loss. Then he bowed.

“I would be honored.”

At first their talk was polite and strained. Arien reminded himself of his brother’s words — jealousy would win him nothing. He mentioned old tales he had found in the library. To his surprise, Armand listened with interest, and soon Arien forgot his embarrassment. He drew back the reins, tossed his hair lightly, and — braver than he had ever been — asked.

“Am I better than that ambassador’s son?”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He was certain he would die of shame.

But Armand’s lips curved faintly.

“You are better, my lord.”

Heat rushed to Arien’s face.

The fever seized him again.

Ives was near collapse. For days he had slept only in fragments, waking to the sound of labored breathing, unsure whether he dreamed or not. Each time he woke, he searched for signs of healing.

But those were only hopes.

The fever had returned, stronger than before.

With steady hands and a silent prayer, he spread ointment over the sores, laid a cool cloth on Arien’s brow, tried again to make him drink.

Vetis knocked softly. Ives answered calmly, though the servant was not deceived.

Another knock followed.

“My lord?”

“It is well, Vetis.”

“The healer says — if the young lord has lived this long, he will live!”

“But the fever has risen again. Go. Tell him to prepare more medicine.”

Vetis hurried away.

Ives looked at Arien.

Beautiful, young Arien — fading.

He did not fear loneliness. He had buried too many already. His life with Arien had not been gentle; there had been moments he had nearly cast aside his stubborn husband.

But the thought of losing him filled him with cold terror.

And then—

Arien’s eyes opened.

“Arien…” Relief broke through his voice.

The omega blinked, unfocused at first. Slowly, his gaze found him.

His lips moved, dry and cracked. No sound came. Ives moistened them carefully and offered a strained smile of encouragement.

At last, a single word escaped.

“Leave.”

“What?”

“Go. You… will die. Like I will.”

“You will not die,” Ives said, gripping his hand. “And I am not leaving.”

“Alian…”

“He is far away. He is well. No one will die.”

Arien’s eyes reddened. In a hoarse whisper, sharp with anger and despair, he rasped.

“Out.”

“I will not leave,” Ives replied steadily. “You are my husband. My family — you and Alian. I have no one else. I will stay. Even if I fall ill.”

Arien watched him for a long moment, then closed his eyes.

Had he heard?

“You are my family… whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t like him!”

“Like anyone,” Orsin sighed. “You are impossible, little fox.”

Orsin searched for a husband, but Arien refused them all. His heart already belonged to someone else.

Arien was sixteen. At his age, omegas married — especially those of royal blood. He knew his brother wished to wed him to a king or a prince, but Orsin would not force him. After another brutal heat — one that nearly drove Arien mad and left Orsin half-gray with worry — the king began seeking a match in earnest. Arien remained firm. For a long time he had carried a request in his heart. He searched for the right moment to speak it. Perhaps this was it. Orsin sat sighing, troubled that he might fail to find his brother a worthy husband. Then Arien drew a breath and said,

“Marry me to Armand.”

“To which Armand?” Orsin asked sharply. “Armand Dolan?”

“Yes. I like him.”

Orsin fell silent. Then understanding dawned. He had been so consumed by state affairs and the hunt for Coriel that he had failed to see what was before him. Orsin’s face grew serious. He opened his mouth to object—

But Arien lifted his chin.

“I am serious. I will marry only him. He is worthy. You said I need someone who will place me above himself. Armand is that man.”

Orsin doubted, feared. But he understood. And joy began to bloom inside Arien. He already knew the answer.

Ives fell asleep without realizing it.

He woke with a sharp pain in his back — he had dozed in the chair, his head resting against the bed, still holding Arien’s hand.

But that did not matter.

He felt fingers brushing through his hair.

He lifted his head.

Dark eyes looked back at him — clear, aware.

“Arien!..”

“Why didn’t you leave?” Arien asked weakly. “I told you to go.”

“And I told you I would not.”

Arien gave a faint huff. For the first time, there was no restrained anger in his voice. No cold indifference.

“You are a terrible fool, Lord Boriel.”

Ives barely heard.

He touched his husband’s forehead. Cool.

The smallpox had retreated.