The winds of the northern keep howled like wolves the night Aurean Veldar entered Prince Rythe's stronghold.
Draped in the cloak of a fallen courier, he had slipped past the outer guards with forged credentials and a stolen token ring. His steps were soundless, honed from years of training—not as a soldier, but as a shadow. A disposable dagger for noble games.
He had studied Rythe's movements for weeks. The Fifth Prince retired late, always alone, never with guards inside his personal chamber. A man who trusted only his own strength.
Aurean entered the stone corridors as the final bell tolled midnight. His heart beat steady. The poison laced in his blade was fast-acting—silent death within seconds. He would strike once. Clean. Efficient.
The chamber door opened without resistance.
Rythe stood at the far end, bare-chested, drying his hair beside a low-burning hearth.
Aurean struck.
Steel flashed.
But so did Rythe.
Before Aurean's blade could find flesh, Rythe pivoted, grabbing his wrist mid-air. The dagger clattered to the stone. In one smooth motion, the Alpha twisted Aurean's arm behind his back and slammed him into the wall.
Breath knocked from his lungs, Aurean did not cry out. He didn't beg, didn't tremble.
Rythe pressed his forearm against Aurean's throat, pinning him.
"Nice blade," Rythe murmured, picking it up with his free hand. "Veldar steel. Engraved. Poisoned. Treason wrapped in beauty."
His nose flared.
"Omega."
Silence. Cold, seething silence.
Guards burst in. Rythe didn't move.
He leaned closer, nose brushing the curve of Aurean's neck, eyes sharp. "You're Halric's whelp. The little ghost son."
He stepped back. "Put him in chains."
By morning, the verdict had already been passed.
The collar was heavy, but not heavier than the silence that followed the judgment.
On his knees before the Prince of Blood and Steel, Aurean did not beg. Even as they clasped the iron collar around his throat—etched with runes of suppression and obedience—he kept his eyes on the floor. Dignity wasn't allowed to slaves, but he clung to it like breath.
"Bring him forward," Rythe ordered.
The guards obeyed. Rythe studied him.
"This is the snake they sent to kill me," he said dryly.
Boots stopped before him. Aurean lifted his eyes.
Rythe Damarion, tall and cold, looked down at him with the expression one might give a broken weapon.
"Pretty," Rythe said. "But useless."
A smirk curled on the Prince's lips. "Very well. You'll serve me now. And when I'm done with you, they'll use your bones to salt the roads your father walks."
Aurean said nothing.
But his silence was not surrender.
The guards backed away as the collar clicked into place, the runes glowing faintly blue—binding scent, dulling heat, draining strength.
Aurean did not flinch.
He knelt still, back straight, eyes downcast. The chill stone of the war hall's floor bit into his knees, but he welcomed it. Pain, he could manage. Silence, he had mastered.
Rythe Damarion circled him like a wolf inspecting prey not yet worth eating. The room was silent save for the soft clink of Rythe's armor and the distant crackle of torchlight. Watching officers lined the walls, expecting a display.
"Stand," Rythe said, voice low, casual—yet threaded with command.
Aurean obeyed. Not because of the order, but because to remain kneeling would be seen as weakness. He would not appear broken, even if they tried to shatter him.
He rose with grace drilled into him from birth, the silver collar glinting beneath his chin.
Rythe studied him. His eyes, like winter steel, held neither mercy nor cruelty—just a cold, calculating interest. "You're quieter than most Omegas I've dealt with."
Aurean said nothing.
"Smarter, too, perhaps. Which makes your attempt all the more disappointing." Rythe leaned in, close enough that Aurean could feel the Alpha's breath brush his skin. "You failed to kill me, Aurean Veldar. And now you're mine."
He raised a hand. Aurean did not flinch as Rythe's fingers curled under his chin, lifting it.
"Look at me."
Slowly, Aurean's gaze met his.
For a heartbeat, the air between them stilled.
There was no fear in Aurean's eyes. No trembling submission. Only frost-bitten resolve and quiet contempt.
Rythe's jaw tightened, just slightly. He let go.
"Strip him of his name," Rythe said to the room. "He is no longer Veldar. No longer noble. From this day, he answers only to me."
A guard stepped forward, holding a brand—but Rythe waved him off.
"No. Not by fire. That would be too… permanent."
He looked at Aurean again.
"You'll earn your name back, traitor. Or you'll die before you ever taste freedom."
Then Rythe turned to leave. "Bring him to the east wing. He'll start in the kennels. With the dogs. He can learn obedience from them."
The room murmured, some snorting laughter. But Aurean remained standing, his hands chained, his posture unbent.
As they dragged him away, he didn't fight.
He didn't plead.
And Rythe, watching his retreating form, frowned faintly.
That Omega should have broken.
But something in him hadn't.
And Rythe Damarion had always known the difference between prey... and a threat in disguise