The sword slid out of the fallen man’s belly with a nauseating sound. His blood splattered on Ives’s face. This man was the last one. Exhausted, hardly breathed, but with relief and happiness Ives looked how Antarella family’s banner is replaced with banner of the true royal family. For a long time, they had been fighting for this moment —  through bitter days of betrayal, mistrust, and risks. But they won. 

Ives Boriel, Lord of the Northern Lands, was the most loyal and devoted ally of the true-blood King Thibault. Up on the tower, His Majesty himself raised his banner — and Ives smiled, lifting his sword high above his head.

 “Long live King Thibault! The true king!“

The battlefield echoed with shouts in praise of the king. Not long ago, this place had been a center of chaos: screams, whistling arrows, clashing swords, bodies of friend and enemies lied on the ground. The scent of blood had soaked the cobblestones leading to the castle. White pathways became red, the ground – dark.

The stench of fire and blood scorched Ives’s lungs with every breath, yet the taste of victory made it easier to breathe. Triumph, however, was shadowed by grief for the fallen, the pain of wounds, and the dark reality surrounding them.

Ives and all warriors raised their sword high above their head, eyes fixed on the banner. They had waited for this moment for so long! And then the man standing there — their king! —lifted his helm with a deft motion and raised his sword, letting out a victorious cry that rolled across the field.

 Ives wanted to look to his eyes now. Seven years ago, fifteen-years-old boy came into the castle of the Lord of the Northern Lands. A poor soul was hunted across the country, with only one wish from his pursuers: his death.  Ives found him, freezing and desperate, in the stables while cleaning — Lord had so little money that he had to do the work himself, with only a handful of servants. He was almost a common peasant, except for his noble blood, family name, and ancestral castle.

Frightened, slender and filthy, Thibault cowered in a corner. Spotting Ives, he clutched a pitiful little knife, the desperate attempt of a terrified boy to defend himself.

 “Calm down, I won’t hurt you!” Ives said soothingly.

With some effort, Ives managed to calm the boy and bring him into the castle. His voice shook as he tried to explain, but the only clear thing was this: someone was hunting him. He didn’t look like a criminal – just a frightened child.

Before Ives could ask more, a servant ran in, shouting that armed men had come to the gates. At once, the boy turned pale, fear flashing in his eyes. Ives frowned and told the servant to let them in. The look the foundling gave him —  so full of terror — cut deep, but Ives said nothing. He only grabbed the boy, dragged him down the corridor, opened the door of a wide chamber and pushed him inside.

 “Stay quiet. I’ll drive them off. Not a single sound from you.”

The usurper’s men were already waiting. Ives knew them by the crests on their shields. With them stood a few locals from his own lands, their clothes marked by the dyed wool and bone charms of the northern villages. They had been paid well, no doubt. Ives couldn’t truly blame them — the North was poor and hungry. Still, bitterness rose in his chest, but he swallowed it down. Anger would not help now.

His eyes moved over the group and stopped on their leader. On his coat he wore the sigil of House Elzon, from the South. Ives knew that family well. They had been the first to betray the crown, running to the usurper – the one called the Blackhand for the way he seized power — and they had opened the path for Antarella’s rise to the throne, thanks to their ties at court.

“Welcome. What brings you here?”

 “We are hunting the runaway boy of Coriel’s blood, the tyrant’s grandson,” declared the man under Lord Elzon with arrogant ease. “His trail ends here. A local forester swore he saw a youth fitting his description heading this way. Perhaps, without knowing, you took him in, Lord Boriel. By the order of King Orsin, we demand you surrender the traitor!”

 Ives clenched his jaw, but kept his face calm, almost careless. He only shrugged and shook his head.

 “There is no one here but me and my servant. I have found no boys. No one has entered my hall.”

 Of course, they did not believe him. They immediately demanded to search the castle. Ives allowed it; with so many men, he could not fight them, and to refuse would draw even more suspicion.

 They prowled through the halls, until they came to the chamber where he had hidden the boy. Then Ives stepped forward.

 “Stop. You may not enter.”

 Seeing their sharp stares, he lowered his voice with feigned sorrow.

 “My son lies within. He is gravely ill. Even the healer fears to breathe the foul air in this room.”

 The local men nodded nervously and whispered among themselves. Their leader, the Elzon man, wrinkled his nose. When fear and disgust finally outweighed duty, he stepped back and made a quick warding sign.

 That was enough. Ives knew how to use their superstitions. Soon he had them out of his hall, and he was certain he would not see the usurper’s men on his threshold again. He let the boy out almost right away — at first the lad trembled with fear, but soon asked in a surprisingly bold voice:

"How did they believe you and not check?"

 "It's the truth. My son did live there, but died a week ago. I buried him quietly, no one even knew. Later I will announce it, but today it was in our favor, wasn’t it?"

 "You’re so cynical," the foundling stunned. Ives only shrugged.

 Later, Thibault understood him.

The heir of the true dynasty said he was going to fight for the throne, asked for support and help. And Ives had nothing left to lose — he had already lost everything. New king had broken ties with Adamon, the land where the best healers and the best medicines came from. His son could not live long without them and died in torment. So the alpha agreed to help Thibault, knowing it would fill the emptiness inside him. And Ives lived for this.

When the first wave of joy had passed, they had to count the dead. Sadly, there were many. Yet many had also survived. And when the nobility began to realize who was stronger, who had truly won, they started joining Thibault’s side. His army grew — while on Orsin Antarella’s side, only a few families remained. Until the very end, by his side stood his most loyal ally, Armand Dolan. They died together in the throne room, both struck down by Thibault’s sword. When their bodies were carried outside, Ives looked at the man who had once seized power. He was an alpha in his thirties, weary and broken, with a thin pale beard. His soft, red hair was stained with blood. He was handsome — with a fragile, sharp beauty. And there was something about him that faintly resembled a fox.

Beside him lay Armand — stronger, more dangerous in appearance. His body was heavy, his arms massive, and his face could hardly be seen — it was covered in blood and cut to ribbons. But now they were both dead, no matter how dangerous or cunning they had been.

 "Later we’ll cut off Orsin’s head and mount it on a pike," said Thibault, wiping his blade.

Ives looked at him. Before him was no frightened boy anymore. The king now stood taller than the alpha himself, his back straight, his head always held high. He had even grown a fine beard, which made him look older than his years. The sword in his hand never shook, always striking true into the hearts of enemies and traitors.

"Arman's head as well. You should have seen, lord, how he fought to protect him. It was magnificent — but hopeless," His Majesty suddenly put a hand on Ives’s shoulder and smiled." Thank you for everything. I’ll expect you in my chamber this evening."

Ives bowed and returned to his duties. The rest of the day he spent writing lists of the fallen and sending word of their deaths to their families. Ives was ready to go to Thibault but servant arrived with a message from him.

 "His Majesty sends his apologies. He is very tired."

Ives nodded and wished Thibault a good night. Yet the alpha wandered for a long time afterward, not knowing where to go. He had never been in the royal castle before, he had never been invited to court. Northern lords were always distant and forgotten. Their lands were poor and cold.

When the coup happened and Orsin rose to the throne, word reached the north last. By then it was too late to gather men and fight. And Ives had resigned himself. He always had other griefs to carry.

Now, in the castle, he felt strangely out of place. The corridors felt like a labyrinth. At first Ives tried to remember the turns, but soon gave up. Then he heard crying. The crying of an omega. His heart always ached when he saw tears, when he heard someone sob with such despair.

“Who is that? Is there truly an omega here?” Ives asked the servant. But no answer came. And listening closer, he realized the castle was silent. He felt almost mad. Perhaps he needed rest.

The celebrations were postponed — Thibault had called instead for a day of prayer for the dead. When Orsin’s head was severed and mounted on a pike for all to see, Ives wondered why he had not seen the usurper’s heir. Surely he was in the castle, all paths of escape had long been cut off. Amid the cheering crowds, Ives cast one last look at Orsin’s lifeless face, at those empty eyes. He had seen death many times, the dull glass of dead gazes. He even tried to stir anger, to call forth sorrow — but he felt no boiling rage. 

The kingdom was rebuilding. More nobles were arriving each day, filling the castle with Thibault’s supporters. Ives himself was free to wander. If the king wished, he would stay here. His manor at home was full of emptiness and grief. But he hadn’t been there in years. Walks through the castle soothed him: his legs no longer ached. Age sometimes pressed on him — after all, he had just seen his forty-six winter.

In one corridor he met foreigners in bright tunics and colorful headdresses. He knew who they were. Adamontians — the finest healers and herbalists in the world.

So, their embassy had already arrived? They had chosen their side quickly, and even reached the court in such short time. None could enter here without permission — so they were surely welcome by Thibault’s hand.

Climbing a staircase, he heard a cry. A terrible cry, full of pain. He knew that sound — he had heard his own husbands scream so during childbirth. Another awful cry… then silence. Only quiet sobs followed. The doors to the chamber opened, and out slipped a man, clutching a bundle. So small — smaller than any newborn should be. Seeing the alpha, the servant clutched the bundle tighter and hurried away.

Moments later another servant came out with blood-soaked sheets.

Again came the crying of an omega.

No one had spoken of there being an omega in the castle, but His Majesty clearly knew of him.

Of course, rumors had reached the northern lord. He knew well that Orsin’s consort had died half a year ago in childbirth, delivering a stillborn child. The usurper had never remarried. So who was this hidden omega? Not a servant, not a noble. Only one possibility option: Orsin’s younger brother, given in marriage to Armand Dolan. And it was his little son who had been declared the heir. 

But Ives had no time to think further.

“My lord,” a servant said, appearing as if from nowhere. “His Majesty requests your presence.”

Ives nodded quickly and turned away from the closed chamber door. Best not to think about it.  Thibault was waiting for him. He was sipping wine and frowning at a stack of notes, but when the alpha entered, he looked up and smirked.

“Forgive me for not finding a moment sooner,” said Thibault. When they were alone, the king spoke freely, as a friend. “We never drank to our victory. Without you, none of this would have been possible.”

 “You overstate my part, Your Majesty,” Ives said.

 “Oh, come now!” Thibault cried, a little too loudly. He had clearly drunk plenty already. “Listen. However modest you try to be, my victory is your work as well! I’ve thought long about how to reward you…”

“What are you—” Ives began, but the king raised a hand to silence him. The alpha obeyed.

 “At first, I meant to make you a duke. That was my plan the day I summoned you. But later I realized — you do not need a title. No. You have only one true desire.”

Something inside Ives tightened. His fingers clenched around the goblet. Thibault noticed, and with a trace of pity in his tone, he said:

“An heir. For that you need a noble spouse. I spoke with many families — pleaded, threatened even. Yet fathers and lords refused me, refused you. They call you…”

“The Black Widower,” Ives said bitterly, staring into the fire.

Ives understood why fathers would not give him their children — his name carried a curse. Three sweet husbands, all gone before their time.

The first, Elin — so gentle, so fragrant of lavender — whom Ives married at seventeen. Two children they had, and they awaited a third. But Elin’s fragile body failed him, and he died in childbirth with the baby. Ives buried him with his own hands and swore never to take another spouse. At first his father tolerated this. But when the elder son fell from his horse and broke his neck and the younger burned with fever, father forced him to get marry again.

Alix was sturdier, not so fair to look at, but full of laughter. His cheer warmed the young alpha’s heart, and soon Ives was deeply in love. Alix bore him five children. But then came the plague. Ives could still feel the wind tearing at him as he dug grave after grave, his hands raw, his heart breaking, with no one left to help.

Years later, he dared to marry again. Rigan was strong and hardworking. But his body was never strong enough for the cold north. He sickened, and brought sickness to their children. In the end, he died — and taking their sons with him.

Loss had hardened Ives. He had grown bitter, even cynical, as Thibault once said. Hope had long since left him. He had accepted that he would be the last of his name. And Thibault knew it.

“But I refuse to give up!” the king suddenly exclaimed. “Here is what I’ve decided. There is one omega left — a noble, from an ancient house. Their honor has faded, yes, their name stained, but for centuries they served our realm loyally. He is the last of his line, and without an alpha guardian. By law, that duty falls to me. And I intend to give him in marriage. To you.”

Ives’s hands trembled, though he quickly steadied them. 

“And who is this omega?”

“Arien Antarella. Younger brother of Orsin.”

The Blackhand’s brother… betrothed to the Black Widower. There could be no other match in all the world.