Arien recovered quickly.

The days of crisis, when Ives had truly feared for his husband’s life, passed. Within a few days Arien could already rise from bed on his own and looked almost well again — though no one, of course, allowed him to do so. More than a week went by before the healer, fully certain, declared the omega healthy and recovered from the pox. After those words, Ives found it easier to breathe.

Arien, however, did not.

Once, Ives might have thought it was because Arien would rather have died. But now he saw the truth lay elsewhere.

The pockmarks and sores had healed, yes — but they would never vanish completely. They would remain as a lasting reminder. Thanks to an expensive salve Ives had spared no coin to obtain, the scars — especially on his face — were paler than they might have been. Still, they were visible. Arien grew to hate mirrors and, at first, kept to the shadows so no one would see.

“You worry too much. Fear makes things seem worse than they are,” Ives said again one day, when the omega nearly shattered a mirror.

He gently took Arien’s hand to examine the scraped knuckles. Arien was so furious it seemed he might pull away—but he did not. He only cast Ives a sharp look, one the alpha had long grown used to.

“You’ll only ruin your hands.”

“There is nothing left to ruin.”

“Come now. You are as beautiful as ever, Arien.”

The omega merely pressed his lips together and huffed, clearly not believing him.

Smallpox was the terror of many. News of Arien’s illness had thrown the entire South — and the capital along with the castle — into alarm. Yet the fear proved empty. When messengers arrived from both the South and the capital, Ives felt the tension finally ease: everyone was well.

He had nearly driven himself mad waiting for word, waking in sweat-soaked sheets from nightmares of Alian and the princes dying in agony. The letters were filled with fear, yet they steadied him. The children were safe. The castle was untouched. It was as though Arien had never been there.

After the first shock passed, Ives found himself wondering why only his husband had fallen ill. The pox clung as fiercely as plague — yet no one else had been taken. Had the gods spared them all, as they had spared him? The thought lingered only briefly before duty and work pushed it aside.

Then a letter arrived: Alian was returning.

Ives immediately began preparations to welcome his son home. Vetis muttered that it was foolish to spend so much on an ordinary reunion — but it turned out Ives’ instincts had not failed him.

The royal couple was coming north with the boy.

Alpha was told about it when the guests were already approaching the estate. Arien stood beside him and went completely pale at the news.

“I won’t go. I’ll stay in my chamber.”

“Why?” Ives asked gently. “Arien, you’ve already accomplished a feat — you survived smallpox. And this” he gestured to the scars,“is proof of your fight.”

“What beautiful words,” the omega scoffed. “But I don’t particularly wish to hear them. I hope you won’t drink too much with your… ah, but he’s no longer your friend either, is he?”

His husband left before Ives could respond. But he had no strength left to argue. Alian would be the only one upset that Papa hadn’t come out to greet him.

Then Ives remembered Arien’s words — and realized that Thibault was coming too. Thibault, whom he had publicly refused to listen to. Whom he had forced to apologize. The young king had always been proud — and in recent years, that pride had only sharpened. What did he want now?

Alian jumped out of the carriage before it even stopped. Ives didn’t scold him — his son was already calling for him. The boy threw himself into his arms, hugging him tightly and kissing his cheek.

“I missed you so much!” the boy nearly whimpered with joy, on the verge of tears.

And the alpha’s heart melted. How had he ever let his little star go so far from him?

“Where’s Papa? I heard he was sick! Is he better now?”

“Yes, he’s better. But he still needs rest, so he’s in his chamber,” Ives said softly, kissing the top of his son’s head. He looked into the boy’s tear-bright gray eyes and couldn’t resist kissing his small nose. “My little star… Did you have a good rest? You must have grown unused to the northern cold.”

“No!” Alian lifted his chin proudly. “I’m Boriel!”

“Of course you are.”

He could have carried his son in his arms and talked with him much longer, but the king was already approaching. Milosh smiled gently at first, then shifted a heavier gaze toward his husband.

Thibault was fully grown now — commanding, serious. There were already strands of gray in his beard from burdens endured and power carried. And yet, standing before Ives, he looked like the same fifteen-year-old boy — frightened, in need of a grown lord’s help.

“Lord Boriel… ahem… Ives,” Thibault began uncertainly, then straightened and met the alpha’s eyes. “I ask forgiveness from you and your husband. I was drunk, and all my words were foolish chatter. I am ashamed of them.”

Ives had kept a certain resentment after the king’s words. He could have held onto it — he understood that inside Thibault, nothing had truly changed.

But he couldn’t.

The resentment vanished in that instant, and the lord smiled. He extended his hand, and visible relief washed over the monarch’s face. They shook hands — but a moment later, Ives pulled him into an embrace.

He felt it physically — the tension gripping the king dissolved.

The alpha understood well enough that His Majesty likely hadn’t changed his mind. He regretted not his words, but that Ives had heard them. Ives was not naive enough to believe Thibault would ever truly change. At the very least, Ives’s resentment would not be what reshaped him.

Milosh asked several times about Arien — why he hadn’t come out. The alpha apologized and repeated what he had told his son: his husband needed rest.

“But will he at least dine with us?”

“Have you missed Arien?” Ives asked with a smile, hoping the younger king would not press further.

The omega’s lips twitched in a faint smile. He gave the slightest shake of his head — but for the sake of propriety, with guards and retinue all around, he said:

“Very much. We were all worried when news of his illness arrived. I’m glad it passed without tragedy. Ah, yes—”

Milosh beckoned to Alian and winked. The boy nodded and ran to the carriage. A moment later he returned carrying a small chest.

It turned out to be filled with southern sweets.

“There’s plenty more,” Milosh added warmly. “They were brought for you. Alian very much wanted to make his parents happy.”

Before the formal dinner and again after it, Ives spoke privately with Thibault. They even touched upon the king’s harsh intolerance toward the lord’s husband.

“If you always intended to treat him this way — to hate him — then you should have hanged him beside Carlisle. But you chose to let him live.”

“I wanted you to have legitimate, noble-born children,” Thibault replied, his face twisting as if he had swallowed something painfully sour.

“But you know me,” Ives said calmly. “Or did you expect me to belittle my husband — my family, the one who bore me a son — together with you, simply because of his birth? No. That will never happen.”

“I am not asking that,” the king answered quietly. “Forgive me again. If…”

He hesitated. For a moment, a fierce inner battle was visible in his eyes. Then he forced the words out through his teeth.

“If necessary — if you wish — I will apologize to Arien as well.”

“That would be good,” Ives said evenly. “But right now he is unlikely to receive you.”

The relief that flashed across Thibault’s face, Ives chose to ignore.

Because the monarchs had arrived unexpectedly, their chambers had not been prepared. Ives gave up his own rooms to them and decided to stay with Arien. If he was not thrown out, perhaps he would even remain the night in the warm, well-kept chambers.

Arien was reading and did not even look up when someone entered. Ives carried in a tray of southern sweets and set it before him.

“Try them. They’re incredibly good.”

“If they are so good, you could have eaten them yourself.”

“I couldn’t finish that much. Come on, have some. We don’t have anything like this in the north — everything here is much simpler. Alian tried very hard to choose the sweetest ones. There are nuts, dried fruits. I could ask the kitchen to bake you buns with nuts and dried fruit.”

“I don’t like buns.”

Ives only shrugged, not wishing to argue, though he was slightly surprised. He remembered his husband eating them with pleasure.

At first Arien resisted, but soon the two of them had nearly finished everything. They sat in silence — only the firewood crackled in the hearth and the pages of Arien’s book rustled softly.

Ives drifted in his thoughts, slightly — only slightly — warmed by wine. And suddenly he began to truly look at Arien.

He had grown older. The youthful, delicate beauty had given way to something deeper — mature charm. And Ives saw nothing terrible in the scars.

He had loved all his husbands in different ways — some with passion and fire, some desperately, some with caution and hope. But his relationship with Arien had been so heavy that there had been little space for love at all. And perhaps at his age, love was no longer something to think about. Could it even exist?

What he felt instead was responsibility. And gratitude.

“Arien,” he said quietly, “you are still beautiful.”

The omega lifted his head at once and nearly burned Ives with his gaze.

“Why would you say that?”

“So that you might believe it. And stop hiding.”

“Let me decide for myself when and before whom I appear. And do not dare force me out through deception.”

“I won’t. Never. But at least for Alian—”

“No!”

“He is your son. He loves you as you are. What matters to him is that you are alive. You show yourself before me.”

“And what are you?” Arien shot back. “As if this is the worst my state to be seen in—”

He stopped abruptly and turned away. He did not even snap his book shut, as he usually did.

The omega rose, walked to the bed, slipped off his robe, and threw back the blanket.

“I’m going to sleep. So leave.”

“There are guests in my chamber.”

“I don’t care!” his husband snapped fiercely — but he did not try to drive him out any further.

Arien fell asleep quickly. Ives had long since learned to tell from his breathing whether he truly slept or not.

He could have left — could have gone to the marital chambers or elsewhere, ready even to endure the cold, though it would worsen his health. Instead, the alpha lay down beside Arien.

In the morning, the omega said nothing. Instead, he made a point of ignoring Ives. He no longer allowed him past the threshold of his chambers. By then, however, Vetis had prepared other rooms where the lord stayed until the king departed for the capital.

Arien refused to see anyone except Ives for a long time. Only after gentle but persistent persuasion he agreed to see Alian.

The boy had missed him terribly and nearly burst into tears when he saw his papa. He ran to him and wrapped his arms around his leg.

Arien pressed his lips together and almost turned away. But then Alian lifted his head and looked straight into his face.

He did not flinch at the scars. There was no disgust. No pity.

Only joy.

“Are you feeling better now? I was so worried, Papa!” the boy said, clinging tighter.

Arien seemed to stop breathing. Not a single muscle moved on his face — he looked as if he had turned to ice. Ives could not imagine what his son felt in that moment.

Then Arien’s hand slowly rose toward the boy’s head. His fingers stopped just short of touching his hair, hovering in the air.

“Thank you for the sweets, Alian,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome!” the little omega beamed, his eyes sparkling. “Were they tasty? What did you like most?”

“Go now. You missed many lessons during your rest. Go.”

Already trained to obey Arien without question, Alian nodded — not very happily — and left the chambers. Ives glanced at his husband, nodded in gratitude, and hurried after his son.

Wishing to make amends, Thibault gifted the alpha new servants. They were sent from the capital, and the king promised to pay their wages himself. Ives had meant to refuse gently. But one look at old Vetis — tired and barely managing — made him accept the gift. Once the new servants arrived, Arien began to leave his rooms again. He resumed walking and hunting with Aidan, who had recently come. The hunt master appeared at the castle gates unexpectedly for the lord — but seemingly not for his husband.

“I had serious family matters,” Aidan explained coolly. “I had to leave and resolve them. My apologies.”

He even bowed. Ives did not fully believe him. A strong urge rose in him to send Aidan away. But Arien, as if sensing it, pierced him with a sharp look. Another period of isolation. Another descent into that dark melancholy.

Ives would not endure it again. Perhaps they could find another hunt master. But Aidan was the best. And so the lord waved a tired hand and allowed him to stay. The very next day preparations for a journey began, and Arien seemed… almost livelier.

Ives, meanwhile, buried himself in his own concerns. He oversaw his son’s education, dealt with the troubles of his vassals, and supervised the construction of a crypt.

Life in the northern lands of the Boriels continued as it always had — until one day Ives realized his home had turned into a beehive.

The new servants were hardworking, yes — but endlessly talkative. And most of their chatter concerned their masters.

One evening, Arien approached him — even entered his chamber — and said with barely restrained anger:

“Dismiss them.”

“Why? They work well.”

“Some of them once served my brother. I know them very well. Their tongues are loose and far too long — and the gods did not bless them with either conscience or sense!”

Ives shook his head.

“Well then,” Arien said through clenched teeth, “I have warned you.”

The alpha focused on his work and chose not to listen to servant gossip. Who knew what servants invented out of boredom? He merely instructed Vetis to give them more tasks, so they would have no time for idle talk. He was so occupied that he failed to notice how his husband darkened day by day. 

Ives only truly paid attention when Vetis, pale with horror, reported that neighboring villages were openly whispering that not a single drop of Boriel blood ran in the lord’s young son.

The alpha laughed and shook his head.

“One must be blind to think such nonsense. Alian looks like me. Foolishness.”

“That may be so…” Vetis murmured uneasily. But under Ives’s gaze he fell silent and lowered his head.

“Order them to be silent,” Ives said coldly. “Or I will do it myself.”

The old servant obeyed the lord’s order. Yet the rumors did not stop — they only grew louder.