Ives had received many wounds in his life — mostly during the war with Antarell. His body carried plenty of old scars, and sometimes they still ached. But none of them hurt as much as the wounds in his heart and soul.

There were more of those, and they were far harder to heal — almost impossible. They always returned in some way: a dull ache, strange thoughts, sudden waves of sadness and melancholy, hesitation where once there had been certainty. And an attachment to the past.

Pain — pain alone — was the strongest thread in the world, tying a man to what had been and refusing to let him move forward.

And now, lying in a damp, narrow prison cell, the alpha barely noticed the pain in his leg or shoulder.

If only he could quiet the ache in his chest.

He could not believe that Arien had become part of the rebellion. Yet he had seen it with his own eyes and heard it with his own ears. Still, as he listened to Thibault raging nearby, Ives only shook his head. He could not allow the thought that his husband had betrayed him — abandoned him — wanted to destroy him.

It could not be true.

They had thrown the lord roughly into the cell, and he had almost immediately lost consciousness. When he woke again, much later, the first thing he heard was Thibault’s voice. The king was trying to calm Milosh, who was sobbing bitterly.

“He’ll kill them, he’ll kill them! My children, my little ones!” Milosh cried through his tears.

The younger king was beyond comfort and paid no attention to Thibault’s attempts to soothe him.

With effort, Ives pushed himself up and moved closer to the bars. The kings had been locked in the cell directly opposite his. Thibault did not notice at first that the lord had regained consciousness, but when he did, anger flared at once.

“I warned you,” the king snapped. “I told you this bastard would fool you! The moment he spread his legs for you, you lost all sense!”

Ives swallowed heavily.

Yes, the king had always suspected Arien — from the moment the first news of rebels appeared. But Ives had cut those conversations short every time. He had forbidden even the suggestion of suspicion in his presence.

He had refused to believe his husband capable of it.

And in the end, he had been the fool.

But a moment later, a far more terrible thought struck him.

Alian.

His son was not here — that much was certain. There were only a few cells, and everything could be heard clearly. If the boy were here, he would be crying or calling for his father.

Ives tried to remember the last time he had seen him.

But it felt so long ago.

Where was his child?

Grief and fear closed around his throat, suffocating, tearing at his thoughts. Whenever he lost a child, it felt as though he were losing his mind. The first times, he had wept openly at the funerals, then alone in his chambers.

The later losses had hurt just as much — sharp and unbearable — but the pain had grown strangely dry. There had been no tears left, not even the desire to cry.

But many years had passed since Lauri’s death. Ives had grown older. Softer. And the love he felt for his only son was so strong that holding his emotions back was nearly impossible.

He forgot the pain in his body and almost called for the guards, ready to demand answers.

But at that moment Milosh began to sob even harder.

“My children! If they kill them, if they hang my children… I’ll kill you!”

Cold sweat broke over Ives, but the omega was not speaking to him. He was shouting at his own husband.

“What does that have to do with me?” Thibault demanded, stunned.

“Because you hanged Carlisl,” Milosh hissed.

Ives felt the king flinch even from where he stood.

“Arien never forgave that. And he never will. He’ll take revenge. You hanged his child — he will hang yours.”

“He won’t do that,” Ives said.

His voice was weak, almost breaking, but he was certain. He had lived beside Arien for many years. Arien had borne him a child. Surely he knew at least something of his husband — of that deep, hidden soul. And somewhere inside him there was a quiet certainty that Arien would never kill Thibault’s children. Even though the king was his enemy. Even though it had been by his order that Carlisl — his beloved child — had been executed.

“You said he would never betray you!” Thibault mocked harshly. “And yet he did it without blinking.”

“He won’t,” Ives repeated stubbornly.

After that, neither the king nor the lord spoke again. Ives watched as Thibault searched desperately for any way out of the cell, but it was useless. No one brought them food or water. It seemed to last for days. Ives lost what strength he had left and lay still, staring silently at the ceiling. He dreamed often of his father and his husbands. In those dreams they called to him more and more often.

But at some point he heard the door of his cell open. Someone lifted his head and began to give him fresh water. For a moment, hope flared inside him — sharp and almost joyful. But when he managed to see who it was, surprise replaced it.

Judging by the clothes and the blue ribbon on his shoulder, the man was one of the rebels. He did not look at Ives or speak to him. His face was dark and grim, yet he cleaned the wounds with great care, washed them, and wrapped them again. Then he gave him more water and even food.

Before leaving, he set down a whole tray of it. Ives glanced toward the opposite cell. Neither Thibault nor Milosh had been given anything. His heart tightened painfully when he saw how weak the kings had become.

“Give them food and water,” Ives said quietly. “Please.”

“There was no such order,” the rebel replied in a low voice, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“Please.”

But the man acted as though he had not heard him. Ives watched his friends with growing pain, feeling the weight of guilt pressing harder and harder on his shoulders.

Yet after a moment the rebel returned.

Without looking at Ives or at Thibault, he pushed food and water toward the kings’ cell. Hunger, cold, grief, and hardship had broken pride. Thibault fell on the food and water at once, but he gave most of it to Milosh. The poor omega seemed half-mad with grief. He wept constantly, yet now he at least allowed his husband to comfort him.

Ives pitied him deeply.

And still he kept repeating the same thing — that Arien would not kill the children.

“Stop defending that bastard,” the king would grind out through his teeth each time. But Ives did not waver and repeated the same words again and again. Every conversation ended the same way. Thibault grew furious with him, truly furious, but with time all that anger turned toward Arien instead. “He betrayed you too. Your son is in his hands. So why do you keep saying that?”

“Do you want me to curse him and blame him for everything?” Ives answered quietly. “That will not happen.”

Yet the worry for his son was tearing his heart apart. Alian, like the children he had lost before, appeared in his dreams again and again. When Ives woke, he was often close to tears. No one came to them except the people who emptied the buckets and brought food. It was as if the world had forgotten they existed. Each time someone entered, Ives tried to ask questions. Once he pushed so hard for news about Alian that one of the guards struck him in the stomach. He never saw that man again. The next day another guard said quietly, “There are no children here.” At those words something inside the alpha turned cold. Milosh let out a loud sob, and the rebel quickly added, “But no one has killed any children. There has been no order for that.”

Hope settled in Ives’s heart. Perhaps Arien had hidden them. Perhaps he had managed to save them. Thank the gods that Alian was alive. Ives prayed day and night for his son — let him be safe, let nothing happen to him. He did not pray for himself. Only for the boy.

The days passed in worry and confusion. They were given the bare minimum of care. Ives’s wounds were treated, but nothing more. The leader of the rebellion never came to see them, and only the blue ribbons on the shoulders of the guards reminded them who held power now. It was strange. Perhaps it made sense that Ives and Milosh were kept alive, but Thibault — a usurper in their eyes — should have been the first to die. Yet no one touched him either.

Ives’s wounds had already healed when at last someone remembered them. Early in the morning — he guessed it by the thin ray of sunlight through the small window — armed alphas burst into the cells. They seized the lord roughly and dragged him outside. Behind him they dragged Thibault, who shouted angrily for them not to touch Milosh.

The sunlight struck Ives’s eyes so sharply that he had to shut them. It had been so long since he had seen the sun or breathed fresh air. Under other circumstances he might have rejoiced, but his throat felt tight and his chest was full of dread. He knew where they were taking them. And why.

Was this how his life would end? How sad. Vetis would weep bitterly. But Alian — his little star — would return one day and take the North into his small hands. May the gods protect him. May there be someone worthy beside him — someone who, even if he could never be Boriel, would still defend the North.

It would be shameful to face his ancestors in the next world. What would he say to them? Ives had failed the duty of the Boriel line. Then let someone else protect the North.

But they did not lead them to the square, as he had expected. Instead they brought them into the inner garden of the palace. There stood the execution blocks, dark with dried blood. For a moment the horror made Ives’s vision blur. Then calm acceptance came. What else had he expected?

All those long days he had known they would kill him.

The guards threw the lord to the ground, and Thibault and Milosh were dropped beside him. In the silence of the cells they had barely spoken — the king had been angry with him. Perhaps he would never forgive him. Now the rebels stepped away and began discussing something among themselves in the distance. The sun shone brightly, almost pleasantly. At least he would not die on a grey, rainy day. Ives closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the warmth when he heard Thibault’s hoarse voice.

“Ives?” The lord turned to him at once. The king looked troubled, holding Milosh close, but there was acceptance on his face now. The anger was gone. “If this is how it ends… I want to apologize. And thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. I’m sorry that you will die with me.”

It felt as if a heavy stone had fallen from Ives’s chest. He smiled gently and nodded. He wanted to embrace Thibault, but the king was holding his husband and would not let go.

“It’s all right. I never blamed you. You are like a son to me, I love you. And I’m glad our lives crossed.”

For a moment Ives thought Thibault might cry, but the king only shut his eyes and lowered his head. Ives looked away, wishing to see the stifling garden one last time.

And then he met a pair of dark eyes.

Arien was standing behind a column. His hair had grown longer, his face was pale, but he wore rich clothing — Milosh’s clothing — and looked well. So he was safe. Warmth bloomed inside Ives’s chest. But it vanished the moment he looked into his husband’s eyes. Arien was terrified. He stared straight at him, his thin lips trembling. Then the omega suddenly turned and ran away, as if he had never been there at all.

Bitterness filled Ives’s heart, and he lowered his gaze to the ground.

Soon they came for them. Ives saw nothing more — a sack was pulled over his head. The final prayer was read. They forced him to his knees and locked him into the execution block. Ives felt nothing anymore. Only thoughts of Alian remained. Milosh began to cry — the alpha felt the faint movement of air around him.

And suddenly the image of Arien appeared before his mind. And those dark eyes

“Stop!”

At first Ives did not understand what had happened. The sack was quickly pulled from his head, the block unlocked. It seemed they had decided to deal with someone else first — but Thibault and Milosh were also lifted to their feet. Then all three were taken back to the cell. Only when they were alone did Ives finally speak.

“What does that mean? Were they trying to frighten us?”

“Arien was there,” Milosh suddenly said. He still looked surprised, but also thoughtful. For the first time there was something on his face besides grief and fear. “His clothes…”

“He was wearing your clothes!” Thibault snapped, anger rising in him again.

“Yes, but…” Milosh murmured, then shook his head and pressed closer to his husband. “It doesn’t matter.”

They were not even given food. They were simply thrown back into the cell and left there until night fell over the capital. Ives eventually fell asleep, but sleep in prison had become light and uneasy. He opened his eyes at once when he heard the faint creak of the door.

His heart stopped. Were they coming to execute them again — this time in the dark? Ives narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the gloom. The sight before him left him almost speechless. Perhaps he was imagining it. But Thibault’s hiss confirmed it was real.

“You!..”

“Quiet!”

That voice… Suddenly the alpha realized how painfully he had missed it.

There was a soft clink of metal and the door creaked open wider. The figure in the darkness was blurred, but Ives already knew who it was. His heart beating wildly in his chest.

A candle in a thin hand barely gave any light, yet even that was enough. Ives saw the pale face framed by longer, red hair. And those dark eyes — fixed only on him.