The spy's blood still stained the mossy floor outside the command tent.
They had found him crouched near the war maps, a tiny blade hidden beneath his cuff, coded parchment tucked into his boot. He had been one of Rythe's junior officers—soft-spoken, loyal-seeming. But it had taken only one night of interrogation to uncover the truth: he had been reporting to the enemy all along.
Rythe had overseen the process personally. Not out of rage—though that lingered under his skin—but out of cold necessity. The southern border was already compromised; he would not suffer betrayal from within.
The execution was swift.
And yet, even after the man's body had been dragged away, something in the camp shifted. Paranoia hung like fog. Soldiers no longer shared their rations. Some refused to sleep near others. Whispers swelled like rising water.
Aurean felt it too.
But something else simmered in him—quieter, closer. Not fear. Not anger.
Heat.
It came on slow at first. A strange warmth beneath his skin. A tingle in his spine when Rythe's voice fell too close to his ear. A vague sense of tightness in his limbs, as if his body were trying to rearrange itself for a different season.
He ignored it.
He had to.
But the nights worsened. Dreams came, vivid and scent-heavy. He would wake trembling, his breath shallow, the bedroll damp with sweat and something else he refused to name.
The hounds were the first to notice.
Varnak began growling at anyone who walked too close. The others circled Aurean obsessively. One licked his hand until it bled. Another refused to sleep unless curled against his side.
Rythe noticed too.
He didn't speak of it—not yet—but his eyes lingered. His orders were crisper. Sharper. He started assigning Aurean to tasks that kept him in sight at all times.
Still, the scent—faint but unmistakable—began curling into the air.
Aurean remembered the last time he had felt even the hint of this.
It was years ago, long before the disgrace, before the collar, before the court had declared him unfit. He'd been seventeen. The court physicians had noticed the markers in his blood—omega signatures just beginning to surface.
His father had ordered the best suppressants. "We'll keep it under control," he had said. "You'll marry well. You'll lead the estate. This will pass."
But his heat never truly came.
Suppressed. Caged.
Until now.
Now, under war banners and bleeding moons, in the heart of an enemy campaign, his body had chosen now to burn.
Aurean bathed in the coldest stream he could find just before dawn. The chill bit at his skin, but it did nothing to smother the fire in his chest. His clothes clung damply. His hands trembled.
He returned to camp pale, but composed.
Rythe spotted him instantly.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," the prince muttered as Aurean handed him a report.
Aurean said nothing.
But Rythe's nose twitched. Briefly. Subtly.
A flicker of something crossed his face.
"Stay close today," Rythe said tightly. "Do not speak to anyone unless ordered. And if any man touches you—"
"I can handle myself," Aurean said.
Rythe stared at him. Then looked toward the tent where the spy had been found. "No, you can't. Not like this."
The words weren't cruel. Just honest.
The tension twisted tighter.
And still, beneath the weight of war and treachery, the heat grew.
Not loud. Not fast.
But inevitable.
Like spring pushing through frost.
He stumbled into the woods behind the command camp that night, breath ragged. He hadn't even noticed the tears until one slid down his cheek.
The trees spun. The cold didn't reach him. The heat inside him roared like a second heart.
He didn't hear the footsteps behind him until the hounds appeared—silent, eyes glowing in the dark. They surrounded him without a sound, pressing close. Not lustful. Protective. One rested its head on his thigh. Another whined softly and licked the back of his hand.
Aurean clutched the fur between his fingers and sobbed silently.
He wasn't weak.
But gods, he felt so close to breaking.
The lake was nearly frozen.
It wasn't much—a narrow strip of black water tucked between dying trees—but it had been enough. Aurean slipped beneath its surface before dawn, his body seizing with the cold, breath stolen as if the lake itself were trying to claim him.
He stayed submerged longer than he should have.
Long enough to numb the worst of it—the ache, the burning pulse at the base of his spine, the hunger clawing just under his skin. It didn't banish the heat entirely, but it dulled it. It gave him space to think.
When he emerged, his skin was the color of ivory stone, lips trembling, limbs shaking uncontrollably. But his mind—his mind was clear again.
For now.
He dressed in silence. The clothes clung damply to his body, but he was used to discomfort. The walk back to camp was slow, each step an effort. Dawn had just begun bleeding into the horizon, and the path was empty.
Or so he thought.
He didn't hear the man until it was too late.
A sharp rustle behind him. A heavy weight slamming him into a tree. Pain shot through his ribs.
"You think you're better than the rest of us," the soldier hissed into his ear, hot breath rancid. "Walking around with your pretty face and those cursed dogs watching your back."
Aurean struggled, but his muscles were still sluggish from the cold. The man was bigger, stronger—and angry.
"Thought you could fool us. We smelled it on you. Omega bitch in heat, pretending to be noble." He grabbed Aurean's jaw, forcing his head to the side. "I know what you want."
Aurean bit his tongue until it bled, trying to stay silent.
The man's hand slipped lower, fumbling at Aurean's belt.
Then—
A roar.
The sound tore through the trees like a war cry.
Varnak.
The hound burst from the underbrush first, jaws wide, eyes blazing. He launched at the soldier, teeth sinking into the man's shoulder with a crunch of bone.
Two more hounds followed, snarling, snapping.
The man screamed.
Aurean collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.
By the time Rythe arrived, the scene was chaos.
Soldiers were yelling. One hound had to be dragged off the attacker's half-conscious body. Blood stained the snow. Varnak stood guard over Aurean, growling at anyone who came too close.
Rythe shoved through the crowd, armor unbuckled at the throat, eyes wild.
"Aurean," he called sharply.
Aurean looked up.
Their eyes met.
Rythe took one step forward—and stopped when he saw the torn tunic, the bruises, the handprints blooming dark across Aurean's collarbone.
The camp went silent.
Rythe turned slowly to the wounded soldier, who was now sobbing, arms half-torn open.
"Who else was with him?" Rythe asked coldly.
No one answered.
Rythe stepped forward. Drew his dagger.
And without hesitation—cut the soldier's throat.
Gasps rang out.
Aurean didn't flinch.
Not this time.
The prince gave orders in clipped tones. The body was dragged away. The guards doubled.
He didn't speak to Aurean again until they were alone.
Back in the command tent, Rythe handed him a blanket wordlessly.
"You shouldn't have gone alone."
"I didn't expect to be followed."
Rythe ran a hand through his hair. "They think you're a weakness."
"I am a weakness," Aurean said softly. "You just haven't admitted it yet."
Rythe looked at him—really looked. At the flushed skin. The broken voice. The calm wrapped too tightly over pain.
"You're not," he said.
Aurean didn't respond.
But something in him shifted.