The council chamber smelled of ink, wax, and old power.
High banners lined the domed walls, and voices buzzed like hornets as the nobles of the realm settled into their appointed seats. Velvet-robed lords, jewel-draped ladies, and hawk-eyed generals filled the semicircle before the dais, where Rythe would soon preside on behalf of the emperor.
But it wasn't the war table that held their gaze.
It was Aurean.
He followed two steps behind Rythe, silent and clad in the neutral gray of palace servitude—unadorned, unclaimed by any house or title. The collar still circled his throat, its insignia gleaming dull bronze under the chamber's chandeliered light.
He did not lower his eyes, nor meet the sneers head-on. Instead, he looked through them, as if they were specters from a fever dream. As if they were already behind him.
The nobles whispered.
"That's the traitor?"
"He has the gall to bring him here?"
"Should've been flayed, not collared."
Rythe ignored them.
He took his seat, armor whispering against the chair, and gestured without looking. Aurean stepped to the side and took his place at Rythe's right, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed forward.
Not a flicker of discomfort.
Not even when Lord Varen—the Duke of Eastern Stones—leaned forward with a curled lip and asked, "Is he decoration, or have we started training pets to fetch council reports?"
Rythe's mouth curled. Not a smile. Something colder.
"Would you prefer he fetch yours, Lord Varen?" Rythe asked mildly. "I imagine the weight of it is too much for your fingers these days."
A ripple of dark amusement passed through the room. Varen flushed.
Rythe tilted his head toward Aurean. "The last page from the war ledger. Bring it."
Aurean moved immediately—fluid and efficient, without a single wasted gesture—as he sorted through the scrolls on the lower table to Rythe's side.
It was a small task.
But it was done in full view of every noble in the room. Aurean knelt, retrieved the page, and presented it to Rythe with both hands—head bowed just low enough to mark submission without ever seeming cowered.
Rythe took it slowly.
His gaze didn't leave Aurean's bowed head.
There was no tremor in the boy's hands. No pause. No hesitation, even as the weight of noble disgust bored into him like nails.
"Good," Rythe said. Loud enough for the chamber to hear. "You're learning."
Aurean gave a soft nod and stepped back to his place.
Lady Seresta, ever sharp-tongued, spoke next. "He's obedient. But how long before an omega's instincts ruin your discipline, Prince Rythe? Surely you don't intend to parade him everywhere?"
Rythe leaned back, amused.
"Why not? He's already broken. That makes him more useful than most sons of nobles."
The nobles laughed—some genuinely, others nervously. But Rythe wasn't looking at them.
He was watching Aurean again.
There was no flicker. No shame. Just stillness.
The kind that unnerved.
The kind that challenged not with teeth, but with silence.
And for the first time, Rythe wondered if obedience this perfect was just another form of resistance.
The corridor outside the council chamber was lined with tall glass panes and narrow columns that cast long shadows in the early dusk. The palace guards had fallen behind, Rythe already swallowed by the next political engagement.
Aurean stood alone in an alcove, just out of sight.
He let the silence settle.
The cold stone at his back was grounding. The collar around his neck remained, but it no longer felt like a shackle—at least not right now. His fingers traced the seam of his sleeve, the only movement betraying the stillness in him.
They had all watched him.
The nobles. His former peers. His enemies.
And he hadn't flinched.
He could still hear their words, thick with disdain, their laughter as sharp as blades. But they did not reach him—not really. Their hatred no longer stirred the shame it once did. That well had dried.
What stirred instead was something quieter. Something heavier.
Control.
Not over them. Not over Rythe. But over himself.
He'd knelt in full view of the realm's power brokers and did not shrink. He'd bowed—not in surrender, but in calculation. Every movement a choice. Every second he remained standing after the council dismissed, a statement.
You cannot shame what refuses to break.
He remembered his father's last words before the mission. Prove you are worthy of even that.
He had failed the task, but perhaps not the proving.
Not in the way his father expected.
A soft shuffle behind the wall drew his attention. One of the hounds—he could tell from the sound. They always lingered. Always watched.
He closed his eyes.
In the past, he might have cursed this place. This collar. The bruises of obedience. Now, he simply breathed.
They wanted to see him fall apart.
Instead, he was becoming something else.
Not noble. Not free. Not even safe.
But still here.
And that counted for something.
Rythe stood at the window of his war room, arms folded, gaze fixed on the training yard below. The council session had ended hours ago, but his mind was still tangled in what it had revealed—not through words or decrees, but through silence.
Through Aurean.
He'd expected the nobles to sneer. He'd expected Aurean to wilt under it, to crack beneath the scrutiny of former peers and the weight of shame. But the boy hadn't flinched.
Not once.
Not when the duke of Glassmere scoffed aloud. Not when Rythe's brother had leaned over to whisper something mocking. Not even when Rythe himself had tested him—asking him to pour wine before all present, kneel beside the table like a loyal pet.
He had done it all.
But not like a broken thing.
There had been control in his movements. A steady, deliberate restraint Rythe couldn't place. No trembling. No wide-eyed fear. Only poise—as if Aurean had already processed everything they could do to him and come out the other side harder.
Or colder.
Rythe wasn't sure which disturbed him more.
There was a knock at the door—one of the guard captains delivering the day's reports—but Rythe waved him off with a quiet grunt.
He remained at the window.
Below, Aurean crossed the courtyard. Alone. The chain at his collar had been unfastened for the day, and yet he did not walk faster or further than expected. He walked like he was still being watched.
Because he was.
And he knew it.
Rythe narrowed his eyes.
He had assigned Aurean to serve him as a way to reassert control. To put him within reach. To remind him what his station was. But now, each hour they spent together was becoming something else—something Rythe hadn't accounted for.
The boy wasn't breaking.
He was settling.
Adapting.
Surviving.
Rythe didn't know if that should alarm him.
Or intrigue him.