The banquet had ended hours ago, yet the corridors of the palace still shimmered with traces of perfume and laughter. Servants scurried about clearing goblets, petals, and the faint glitter of celebration left on the marble floors.
Rin walked briskly down one of the quieter halls, his cloak drawn close around him. His steps made little sound on the polished stone.
"I can't believe I lost it," he muttered under his breath. His fingers brushed the inside of his satchel—empty where the small vial should've been.
It was the heat suppressant—one he'd brewed himself from Monks hood (Aconite, a real, toxic plant) and winters root . A simple precaution, but one he couldn't afford to lose. His cycle was approaching, the faint ache at the back of his neck already reminding him.
He quickened his pace. The sooner he retrieved it from the Prince's chambers, the better.
The hallways grew quieter the deeper he went, but the lingering warmth from the banquet still clung to the air. Somewhere nearby, laughter drifted—soft, lilting, feminine.
Then—scent.
Sweet, intoxicating, heady.
Omega pheromones.
Rin's steps faltered. His hand instinctively went to the small vial of Aether Veil hanging from his belt, ensuring the stopper was tight. The last thing he needed was to be recognized for what he was.
Rounding the corner, he caught sight of the commotion.
A small cluster of noble omegas lingered outside the ballroom doors, their silks brushing together as they whispered. And at the center of their attention—Prince Alaric.
He stood tall and impassive, though a faint tension lined his jaw. The delicate fragrances in the air pressed against him like invisible heat.
"Your Highness," one of the omegas purred, her voice sweet as honey. "It's such a relief to see you well again."
"Indeed," another added, tilting her head. "We feared you'd forgotten your admirers."
The air shimmered faintly with the clash of scents—floral, fruity, powdery.
It was suffocating even for Rin from several paces away.
Alaric's composure didn't break, but his hands curled faintly at his sides. His golden eyes flicked once toward the corridor ahead—cold, restrained.
"…If you'll excuse me," he said curtly.
His voice was polite, his tone sharp enough to silence them. The omegas pouted, but Alaric brushed past them with the quiet authority of a man barely keeping his temper in check.
Rin hesitated at the corner, watching the prince's retreating figure. The faint shimmer of pheromones still hung thick in the air, and even from that distance Rin could sense it—the strain beneath Alaric's calm.
He's losing control again, Rin realized.
He turned quickly, deciding it was best to retrieve the vial and leave before anyone noticed.
He didn't see the figure that stepped from the other side of the hall.
"Your Highness," a soft, familiar voice called.
Alaric stopped.
The man approaching him was dressed in sapphire silk, his every step graceful and deliberate. A silver pendant gleamed at his throat.
**Lord Mario of House Faron**—his former fiancée.
And now, the Second Prince's betrothed.
"It's been some time," he said, smiling faintly. "You didn't even glance my way at the banquet."
Alaric's gaze was cold. "There was no reason to."
He took another step closer. "You wound me, Your Highness. We were to be wed once. Surely that deserves at least a kind word."
Her scent unfurled—a rich, sugared amber, calculated and intoxicating. The same scent he once found cloying, but now it hit him like fire to dry leaves.
His jaw tightened.
"Mario," he said lowly, "control yourself."
"Oh?" he whispered, tilting his head. "Does my scent still bother you so much?"
The words dripped like poison wrapped in silk.
The pheromones grew stronger—thick enough that even the torches flickered faintly, reacting to the energy.
Alaric's composure cracked. His pulse thundered beneath his skin, his breath sharp as the familiar ache returned—low in his throat, searing through his chest.
Not now. Not here.
He turned sharply away from his, but his vision blurred, his senses overwhelmed by a blend of sweetness and something else—faint, distant, real.
A trace of metallic calm, like crushed herbs and rain.
Rin.
And there—beyond the haze—he caught sight of a figure slipping quietly into his chamber.
The herbalist.
Alaric's breath hitched. The haze of Mirelle's scent pressed close, suffocating. Something primal inside him rebelled against it—recoiled, then snapped.
He pushed him away.
"Enough," he growled.
He stumbled back, shocked. "Alaric—!"
But he was already moving—shoulders tense, steps quick and unsteady as he stalked down the corridor toward his chambers.
The doors shut behind him with a dull thud.
Outside, Mario stood trembling, his carefully composed expression fracturing. "He… pushed me?"
Inside, Alaric leaned against the wall, eyes burning gold, trying to steady his breathing. The faint trace of Rin's scent lingered in the air—clean, sharp, grounding. It cut through the chaos, tethering him to reason.
And for the first time that night, his body obeyed the calm he thought he'd lost.