The kennels reeked of wet fur, old blood, and raw meat. The scent was thick, oppressive—a far cry from the perfumed halls of noble estates or the sterile stillness of the Veldar training rooms.
The guards shoved Aurean through the iron gate with little ceremony. He staggered but caught himself before hitting the ground.
"You sleep here tonight, traitor," one spat. "Maybe the mutts'll teach you loyalty."
A chorus of growls rumbled from the shadows.
The war hounds—massive beasts bred for killing on the battlefield—watched him from their stone pens, intelligent eyes gleaming in the dark. One, a black-furred creature with a torn ear and amber eyes, padded closer as the guards left, slamming the gate behind them.
Aurean stood still, even as the hound sniffed the air, circling him.
His stomach churned. Not from fear—but from the humiliation.
He was collared.
Caged.
Thrown into the dirt like waste.
And still… his spine refused to bend.
He found a corner farthest from the animals and sank down onto the cold stone. The collar pulsed faintly at his neck—dampening his scent, stripping his heat-signature, dulling his instincts. He felt strangely hollow.
He curled his legs beneath him and shut his eyes. Not to sleep, but to block out the world. The hounds eventually settled. Except one.
The black-furred beast approached again, silently.
Aurean opened his eyes.
The dog sat across from him, staring.
Then, with a grunt, it lowered itself to the floor beside him—close enough to share warmth, but not close enough to touch.
Aurean blinked, uncertain.
He murmured without thinking, "You're smarter than they are."
The hound huffed.
And for the first time in weeks, Aurean's lips curved—faintly, bitterly—into something resembling a smile.
Elsewhere…
Prince Rythe leaned back in his chair, arms folded as his men awaited orders. Reports of minor skirmishes filtered in from the northern borders, and courtiers' letters piled unread on his desk.
Yet his mind was elsewhere.
Back in the kennels.
Back with the Omega who had tried to take his life—and hadn't broken.
"I want eyes on him," Rythe said suddenly.
General Trave blinked. "The assassin?"
"The Omega," Rythe corrected, slowly. "I want to know how long he lasts."
He rose, voice calm but cold.
"And if he dies… let the dogs eat what's left."
By the second night, the guards stopped checking if he was still breathing.
They thought the hounds would do the job for them.
But Aurean was not soft, and he was not prey.
The dogs circled him warily at first, testing him like any creature weighing threat against weakness. He gave them neither growls nor submission—he met them with the same gaze he once gave duel opponents: steady, unreadable, unafraid.
He watched them, too—how they moved, how they ate, who led the silent hierarchy. He didn't try to dominate or appease. He simply existed, like he belonged there.
And slowly, the hounds stopped seeing him as foreign.
The black-furred one—whom the guards called Mael—was the first to approach him openly. One night, after a brutal rainstorm left the kennels cold and damp, Mael lay pressed to Aurean's side. Another hound followed the next night. Then another.
By the fourth morning, he woke with three massive bodies curled around him, silent sentinels in fur and fang.
A stablehand nearly dropped his pail when he saw the scene.
By the sixth day, when a new handler entered with a whip to test the "Omega pet project," he made the mistake of snapping it too close to Aurean's head.
Mael lunged.
It took four handlers and a shock rune to pull him off.
Aurean hadn't moved an inch the entire time.
That evening, word reached the court that the "assassin slave" had tamed the prince's prized war dogs—without a chain, command, or lash.
Prince Rythe said nothing at first. But later, in the war room, he stared long at the scratched report.
"He didn't tame them," Rythe murmured. "He joined them."
Aurean was dragged from the kennels at dawn.
No warning. No explanation. Just two armored guards with iron grips and zero patience.
He did not resist.
He stood, dirt-streaked and silent, while Mael growled low behind him—unwilling to follow but unwilling to let him go. One of the handlers raised a lash. Aurean met his eye.
"If you touch him," he said softly, "you'll lose that hand."
The lash stayed lowered.
The halls of the citadel gleamed with polished marble and golden tapestries—monuments to conquest, opulence, and legacy. Aurean walked barefoot across their cold floors, collar still fastened like a brand of shame.
The guards brought him to a high room with open windows and no tapestries—only maps, weapons, and burning incense. A war room, not a throne room. It smelled of smoke, steel, and something older.
Prince Rythe stood by the window, a scroll in hand.
He did not look up immediately.
Aurean stared at him—this legend of bloodied fields and borderless victories, now draped in black and red, the weight of an empire in his shoulders and none in his eyes.
"You look smaller without a dagger in your hand," Rythe said at last.
Aurean didn't flinch. "You look exactly as I imagined you'd be. A man so used to conquest he doesn't know what to do with peace."
That earned him a slow turn.
Rythe's gaze was sharp as cut obsidian. "Still defiant."
"I wasn't trained to kneel."
"You were trained to kill me."
A pause.
"Yes."
Rythe moved closer, circling him once. Not like a ruler measuring a threat—but a wolf measuring another wolf.
"The hounds don't follow anyone," Rythe said. "They obey me because they fear me. But they sleep beside you. Guard you. That one—Mael—nearly killed a man for raising a hand to you."
Aurean said nothing.
Rythe stopped in front of him.
"I've killed men for less than what you tried to do," he said. "But you didn't break. And now my hounds have chosen you. So I ask myself…"
He leaned in slightly.
"Who are you really, Omega?"
Aurean met his stare, unblinking. "The son your court discarded. The weapon your enemies threw away."
"And now?"
"Now I am what you made me. A slave… with teeth."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Rythe stepped back and gave a small, unreadable smile.
"Good. I was hoping you'd say that."
He snapped his fingers.
The guards stepped forward. One held a folded set of black leathers. The other, a thin metal collar—not rune-suppressing, not binding. Symbolic.
"You're coming with me to the training ground," Rythe said.
Aurean arched a brow. "To fight?"
"No," Rythe said, eyes glinting. "To show the court what kind of beast I keep on my leash."