The ceremony was over. Simple metal rings had been exchanged—iron for Alistair and gold for Asarmose. Now, the two sat on high thrones at the front of the Great Hall. Below them, a massive feast was underway, but the mood in the room was far from celebratory.
Alistair sat back in his chair, thoroughly unimpressed. He didn't touch the food laid before hi, nor the wine poured in his silver glass. Instead, he leaned his head on his hand and let out a long, loud yawn.
To him, the party was a waste of time.
Below, the nobles moved and spoke like a swarm he had long since grown bored of—predictable, repetitive, beneath notice.
Beside him, Asarmose sat perfectly still.
Not tired or bored; he looked alert. His eyes moved slowly across the room, watching every movement and listening to every whisper. He was studying the people he was now meant to rule.
"There was division", he noticed
At the center of the long tables, the Alphas gathered in loud, domineering clusters. They laughed too hard, struck the tables with careless force, and boasted openly of wealth and conquest, as though the world itself existed for their amusement.
Around them, the others sat.
Omegas and Betas occupied the edges, their presence quiet—almost erased. They spoke only when addressed, moved carefully, and flinched at sudden gestures or raised voices.
They were not guests.
They were shadows.
Asarmose's gaze sharpened when a nobleman seized a servant by the arm for moving too slowly. The servant went pale instantly, head dropping, body trembling as if awaiting punishment.
The Prince said nothing.
But something in his expression cooled—hardened.
Alistair noticed.
He leaned slightly toward him, his presence cutting through the noise like a blade. The scent of bergamot and old paper settled between them, isolating their space from the rest of the hall.
"They are very predictable, aren't they?" Alistair whispered. His voice was low and smooth. "The Alphas bark like dogs, and the others hide like mice. It's the same story every single night."
Asarmose finally turned his head to look at the King. His voice was calm but held a heavy weight.
"They hide because they have been broken, Alistair. They have been told they are nothing but property."
Alistair looked at him, his eyes sharpening with genuine intrigue. He shifted his weight, glancing at the empty seats where the Prince's entourage should have been.
"Speaking of property," Alistair drawled, "why is it that only you showed up today? Our kingdoms are joined now. Where are your people? Where is the court that was supposed to follow you?"
Asarmose's gaze turned into a cold, sharp stare. He looked at Alistair with visible spite. "
heard what becomes of people in your empire," he said, his voice dropping into something sharper. "I will not bring mine here to be reduced to livestock."
The words carried weight.
But Alistair didn't bristle.
He smiled.
Slow. Amused. Intrigued.
"Careful," he murmured, voice laced with dark humor. "You're looking at me like you intend to start a war on our wedding day."
His fingers tapped lazily against his cane.
"This system existed long before me," he continued. "I neither built it nor care to fix it. Power is far more useful on a battlefield than wasted on… social reform."
Asarmose looked at him then—not with anger, but something colder.
Disappointment.
A man with absolute power—and no desire to use it for anything but domination.
The insult was thin, but the meaning was as sharp as a knife. The Duke stared at Asarmose, waiting for the Omega to flinch, to cry, or to look at the floor in shame. He wanted to see the Prince break.
Instead, Asarmose looked him directly in the eye.
Asarmose stepped closer to the fallen man, ignoring the bewildered gasps of the nobles and the shocked silence of the guards. He didn't even look at Alistair, who was watching the scene with a look of deep, dark amusement.
Before either could speak again, a voice rang out across the hall.
"Presenting His Majesty, King Alistair, and the Prince Consort!"
The hall shifted instantly.
Silence fell as the two rose from their thrones and descended the marble steps together. The crowd parted before them like a dark tide.
They had barely reached the floor when a man stepped forward.
Duke Sterling.
Broad, decorated, and radiating the smug authority of a man who had never been challenged.
He bowed deeply to Alistair.
And ignored Asarmose completely.
Alistair said nothing.
Sterling straightened, his smile slick with arrogance.
"Your Majesty," he boomed, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. His gaze slid sideways toward Asarmose, sharp with mockery. "A fine addition to the palace."
A pause.
"Let us hope the Prince understands his role. This kingdom requires strong heirs to carry the Thorne name."
The meaning was unmistakable.
The room stilled.
Sterling waited—for shame, for submission, for weakness.
For the Prince to bow.
Asarmose met his gaze.
Directly.
For a single heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Sterling choked.
His expression twisted violently as his hands flew to his throat. His breath vanished as though seized by something unseen. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the stone floor with a heavy, echoing thud.
The hall fell into stunned silence.
No music. No movement.
Only the sound of a man struggling to breathe.
Asarmose stepped forward.
Calm. Unhurried.
Untouched by the shock around him.
"I do not tolerate insults," he said softly.
His voice carried.
"Especially not from pests."
Then—
he released it.
His pheromones flooded the hall.
To the Alphas, it was suffocation.
A crushing, searing weight—like being buried beneath burning sand. Their lungs tightened, their bodies failed them, and one by one, they dropped to their knees, stripped of arrogance and left with nothing but instinctive fear.
But to the Omegas—
It was something else entirely.
Relief.
Air.
Freedom.
Tears spilled down their faces as they inhaled deeply, their bodies trembling—not from fear, but from something long forgotten.
Hope.
The Betas stood frozen, caught between both worlds, overwhelmed by the sudden shift.
And at the center of it all stood Alistair.
Unaffected.
Unmoved.
He closed his eyes slowly and drew in a measured breath.
"Kyphi," he murmured.
The scent was unmistakable—resin, honey, rare spice, and something ancient.
Regal.
Commanding.
Intoxicating.
His lips curved.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn't looking at a consort.
He was looking at something far more dangerous.
And for the first time—
he was interested.