In the evening, Ives ordered all of his son’s and husband’s belongings packed and prepared for departure at dawn. Alian was deeply upset but did not cry — he had grown up. He lowered his eyes, puffed out his lips, and asked when Ives would return home as well. The alpha promised it would be very soon, though he knew that was unlikely to be true. He went to bed troubled and woke in the middle of the night from some nightmare. Reaching out for Arien, he found the other half of the bed empty. Sleep vanished at once — Ives jolted upright and looked around frantically. His husband was nowhere to be seen. A sharp, irrational fear gripped him. Throwing on a robe, he searched the entire house and was about to head outside when he heard a faint noise from the kitchen. When he entered, he found Arien there.

“Oh, gods,” Ives exhaled in relief. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Why are you running through the house?” Arien asked. He was holding a piece of cheese and bread. “I wanted a snack. Why are you so nervous? Let’s go back to bed.”

The omega finished his bread and cheese and walked past the alpha, gesturing for him to follow. For a brief moment, Ives caught a fresh forest scent, but he asked no questions. Arien seemed strangely calm and lay down at once. Ives tried to lean closer, to catch his scent again, but Arien pushed him away. “Let’s sleep.”

At dawn, Ives woke to shouting.

He had barely leapt from the bed when servants burst into the chamber.

“We’re under attack! The city is being taken!”

It struck him like thunder. How? Why? There was no time for questions. He roused Arien at once and hurried first to Alian’s room, then to Thibault. The king was determined to fight, but Ives seized him by the shoulders.

“We have no forces! None! There are crowds of rebels — we must flee. Listen to me!”

Fortune was not on their side. If they tried to defend their positions now, they would be crushed. Thibault, Ives, his family — all would end up prisoners. Losing the city was unthinkable. If only they had a few more days. But why attack now? There was no time to think.

They left everything behind — everything. Ives managed only to sweep maps and plans into a bag before they rushed to the stables. He ordered his servants to scatter and save themselves. He lifted his frightened son onto a horse, helped Arien mount, made sure Thibault was ready. With a sharp strike of his heels, he sent the horses racing from the city toward the capital — praying the rebels had not blocked the road. Ives mounted last. He had not even taken his sword, only a dagger. What could he do with that?

In the time he had lived there, he had learned the city’s narrow passages well enough to slip out without drawing blood or attention. Once they were far enough, he turned — and saw with a pang that the house where he had lived, or at least that district, was burning. Pain came first. Then bitter disappointment. Then dread.

The uprising they had feared for so long — the one Ives had worked tirelessly to prevent — had begun.

He caught up to the king, to Arien and Alian. His son called out to him at once, tears ringing in his voice. Ives tried to soothe the boy, though his own heart felt heavy and foul. Thibault’s face was white as chalk.

“We must reach the capital and mobilize every force. Send out the troops!”

“If those bastards are only in the south!” the king hissed through clenched teeth — and suddenly looked straight at Arien.

He was about to speak, but Ives rode closer, shielding his husband.

“Thibault!”

The king was burning with anger. He was afraid — and he had barely slept the entire ride. Ives considered sending his husband and son north alone, but Thibault was right: who knew where else the rebels had risen? And the road was long. So he kept them with him.

They reached the capital with astonishing speed — but the palace brought no relief. The entire kingdom was in chaos. The rebels, just as Thibault had feared, were not only in the south. They were all moving toward the capital.

The castle was surrounded by guards; not even a mouse could have slipped through. Thibault sent the army and reinforcements toward the rebels and the troubled regions, along with his most trusted men. But he kept Ives in the castle.

Milosh was deeply worried —mostly for the children — and considered sending them away somewhere safe, yet Thibault sharply cut his husband off. There was nowhere to send them; everywhere was dangerous. Ives agreed with him, though he feared for his own son. As for his spouse… Arien was strangely calm, as if nothing were happening at all. Perhaps it was because he had already lived through something like this. Once again he was locked inside a castle while violence raged outside.

Ives tried to remain composed, but the situation was turning grim. The men Thibault had sent out failed, and soon crates began arriving at the castle — under the cries and tears of their husbands, the king opened them to find the severed heads of his generals. Cruelty, yes… but had they not once done the same? The heads of Orsin and Armand had hung on pikes as well.

Ives barely slept, turning over what could be done — the reports were bleak. Nothing seemed able to stop the rebels. They had managed to send several envoys to neighboring countries to ask for aid, but would they even arrive? And if they did, would anyone come? And would there be anyone left to save?

Ives felt cornered. Once he had been the one advancing; now he was the one under attack.

When the rebels drew dangerously close, Thibault, against all reason, wanted to ride to the battlefield with Ives. But Ives would not allow the king to throw himself into the enemy’s grasp — as they clearly hoped he would — and persuaded him to remain and command from the castle.

“Fortify the castle. I’ll handle the rest,” the alpha said with a faint smile, though he did not believe his own words.

It had been a long time since his last battle — Ives felt as though he had lost his edge. Yet the weight of the sword at his hip steadied him, and little by little he began shaping a plan. Negotiations were useless. The rebels advanced like a battering ram and did not stop. And strangest of all, there was no visible leader. There had to be one — but he did not reveal himself.

Ives had nearly reached the army when an arrow whistled past him. Behind him came a choking sound, the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. He pulled his horse to a halt and turned — his escort had been shot. Ives quickly gauged where the arrow had come from, but there was no time. In the next instant another arrow struck — one in his shoulder, another in his leg. He hissed in pain; the reins slackened in his hands, but he could not let them fall. He had to flee. He turned the horse, barely feeling his fingers, and drove it forward. Another guard shielded him from behind, yet when it seemed the danger had passed, Ives heard the whistle again — and a cry. The second man fell as well.

It was a disaster. Ives barely escaped. Only when he had broken away from the rebels — and it was certainly them — did he slide from the saddle, because he was already losing consciousness. Thirst tormented him, his vision blurred, nausea rose. With the last of his strength he tore off his belt, cut it, and tied it tight above his wounds. In the cold moonlight he prayed and thought of Arien and Alian. He wanted to go home so badly it hurt — to those warm days with Arien, to the time when Alian was always near, his beautiful child. At moments he drifted into sweet dreams, only to be wrenched back by cold, by sickness, by thirst.

And then the lord gathered himself. There was no use indulging in dreams—he had to reclaim that life, not remember it. With great effort, Ives made his way back to the castle, though it was difficult and shameful to meet Thibault’s eyes.

They were losing. The castle was all they had left. But that, at least, would not fall. The healers bound his wounds and gave him infusions that dulled the pain, yet sleep took its place. And through that heavy haze, the alpha heard someone calling him. When he opened his eyes, he saw Arien—his husband was sitting beside him, watching.

Ives pushed himself up slightly and greeted him hoarsely.

“I’m glad you’re unharmed.”

“That should have been my line. Were you captured? And how were you released?”

“I managed to escape.”

In the dim candlelight, Ives could barely see his husband, but he noticed that Arien was dressed as though he had been out walking. He wore a pale blue doublet. Where had he gotten it? The light was too faint to tell clearly, yet it seemed to Ives that his husband looked pale. Had he not slept? Was he tired? Worried?..

“Your enemies are getting closer. They will catch you.” Arien’s tone was strange, his face distant and frozen—but not in the usual way. He avoided looking directly into Ives’s eyes.

“No. We will stand. We can,” Ives said firmly and reached for his husband’s hand. The palm was icy; he warmed it with his breath and asked softly, “But if anything happens… run. And take care of Alian. Ah—” He asked for his purse, where he kept the pendant. He placed it in Arien’s hand and smiled faintly, imagining how well it would suit him. “I forgot to give it to you.”

Arien examined the pendant carefully, then closed his fingers around it and said hoarsely, “My lord, everything is surrounded.”

“Thibault once told me there is a hidden passage in the castle, as in many others, though it had long been ruined. After his coronation he restored it. You can escape that way. Take Miloš and the children with you.”

“The northern passage in the cellar?” Arien tilted his head slightly.

“Yes. So please—”

But Ives did not finish. His husband rose and, with strange gentleness, freed his hand.

“I understand. Rest, my lord. You are very tired.”

Ives wanted desperately to say more, to reach out, but his body felt numb and his eyelids heavy. The last thing he saw was Arien extinguishing the candle and walking away.

Darkness filled his chambers. Ives dreamed uneasy dreams tangled with happy memories of the past. Even in sleep he seemed to think about how to help Thibault, how to crush the uprising and drive the rebels back. He dreamed he stood in his castle, looking out the window, his heart peaceful. In the courtyard Alian ran laughing — his bright little star — and beside him someone held his hand. Steady and strong, yet slender.

But it was only a dream — an illusion that shattered when Ives was roughly dragged from the bed.

He woke at once and barely had time to move before the tip of a sword pressed to his throat. One swallow and it would cut him. He lifted his eyes and saw several men dressed in painfully familiar soft blue.

No.

They hauled him upright — Ives staggered from the pain in his leg and nearly fell, but they shoved him and laughed.

“Up, traitor!”

Everything twisted inside him; a lump rose in his throat. He wanted to run, to take his whole family and disappear. To hide in his native North. But Ives lifted his head proudly and, holding back the storm of emotions, assessed the situation. His sword was far away, and he was surrounded. With his wounds he could not defeat these alphas—young, broad-shouldered, strong. They would kill him easily.

He thought there would be help outside — guards, nobles, anyone — but in the corridor he was struck by the scent of struggle. The smell of blood. Many were dead. Not many — all. Servants lay at his feet, cut down. He managed to glance out the window and, to his astonishment, saw almost nothing unusual. No signs of battle, as if the enemies had appeared inside the castle itself.

But that was impossible. Or was it?..

No.

With dread and horror, Ives remembered Alian.

“Where is my son?” he demanded, but received no answer. Rage, pain, and fear twisted his voice into a near growl. “Where is my son?”

He did not realize he had stepped forward threateningly until they shoved him back and struck him.

“He’s fine.”

“And my husband?”

The captors exchanged looks and smirked.

They dragged Ives into the blood-soaked throne hall, where Thibault and Miloš already stood—bound and beaten. He was thrown down beside them. The king’s eyes burned with fury, and he lashed Ives with it as though he himself had opened the gates to the rebels.

“Gentlemen!” a loud voice rang out nearby. It belonged to a stocky alpha with a handsome face marred by a wild gaze, a manic smile, and the scars of pox. In that instant Ives knew this was the leader of the rebellion. “The traitors and vile usurpers are defeated! Is this not happiness?”

The rebels gathered in the hall roared—just as Ives’s own army once had, an army of liberation. Then the leader raised his hand, and silence fell. His eyes gleamed; he bared his teeth. Ives felt that mocking gaze settle on him as the alpha thundered:

“And now let us thank and bow before the one who became our symbol and our greatest ally in this struggle! Kneel before the descendant of the true dynasty!”

Thibault growled. Milosh sobbed. Ives could not look up when the doors opened. The entire hall fell to its knees. In the heavy silence, the echo of approaching footsteps struck against Ives’s heart. He caught a scent that had become dear to him, and his chest tightened. His neck felt like stone, yet he forced himself to raise his head.

His beautiful, fox-like husband — cold, distant, yet once so close and vital — stood before him. Behind him, like a guard, stood Aidan, alive and well. Arien did not look at Ives; his gaze was fixed on Thibault. There was no joy in his dark eyes. No triumph.

Aidan handed the omega a small basket. Arien took out a roll, broke it apart, and pulled from it a tiny slip of paper, which he studied for a long moment. Then he tossed it toward Thibault. Ives looked — and felt ice flood his veins. On the paper were the words: Northern underground passage.

“Thank you for restoring it, Thibault.”

With that, Arien stepped back, and the rebel leader ordered them seized and thrown into the dungeons. But Ives barely heard. He was trying to catch his husband’s eyes.

No. It was impossible.