The power dynamic of the Royal Palace had shifted in a way that left the courtiers and guards in a state of perpetual confusion. The "Serpent King," once feared for his icy, lethal commands and absolute dominance, had become a shadow of patience. In contrast, the "Consort," once the picture of stoic submission, had become a frost-bitten wall of cold anger.
Arion leaned into his role as a ghost. He moved through the halls with a chilling silence, his eyes hardening into flint whenever Kyon entered a room. He made no effort to hide his disdain. When Kyon spoke to him during council meetings, Arion would respond in monosyllables, if at all, his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall.
Everyone noticed. The servants whispered in the kitchens about how the Prince had lost his "bite." The generals wondered why the King allowed his Consort to speak to him with such blatant disrespect. But Kyon never fought back.
One afternoon, Kyon entered Arion's private study. He wasn't carrying a decree or a chemical vial. He held a small, weathered box wrapped in plain linen.
"I saw this in the lower market records," Kyon said softly, placing the box on the edge of the desk. "It's a collection of Northern charcoal pencils. The kind the mountain artists use. I thought... I remembered you mentioned the palace ink is too thin for your sketches."
Arion didn't even look at the box. He kept his eyes on the map he was studying. "I didn't ask for gifts, Kyon. Especially not from you."
"It's not a bribe, Arion," Kyon replied, his voice devoid of the old, manipulative silk. It sounded weary, but sincere. "It's just a tool. You shouldn't have to suffer the court's poor supplies just because you're stuck here."
"I am stuck here because of you," Arion snapped, finally looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed with a lingering, deep-seated fury. "Do you think a box of charcoal erases the mark on my belly? Does it erase the fact that I have to hide my son's true name from the world?"
Kyon flinched, but he didn't retreat. "No. It doesn't. Nothing I do can erase that. I am just trying to make the 'stuck' part a little more bearable."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the door. "The kitchens are preparing a Northern stew tonight. I've told them to serve it in your quarters. I won't be joining you. I thought you might appreciate the privacy."
***
The true test came a week later when Arion's cycle hit.
In the past, Kyon would have used this as an opportunity for "stabilization," using his scent to force Arion into a state of helpless, drugged compliance. Arion braced himself, locking the doors to his suite, his body already beginning to burn with the unwanted fever of his Omega status. He felt the familiar, agonizing pull of the bond, his instinct screaming for the Alpha's presence.
But the presence never came.
Arion sat huddled on the floor of his bathing room, gasping for air as the heat intensified. He waited for the click of the lock, for the scent of burning amber to flood the room and break his will.
Instead, he heard a soft rustle outside the door.
"Arion," Kyon's voice came through the thick wood, muffled and strained. He was there, but he wasn't coming in. "I've placed suppressants and cold linens by the door. I've ordered the guards to the end of the hall. I'm... I'm going to the South Wing until this passes. I don't want my scent to make this harder for you."
Arion gripped the edge of the tub, his knuckles white. "Go away," he choked out.
"I am going," Kyon promised. "But I wanted you to know... you are safe. I won't touch you. Not like this. Not ever again unless you ask."
The silence that followed was deafening. Arion dragged himself to the door and found the supplies. No traps. No aphrodisiacs. Just medicine and water. For the first time, Arion felt a crack in his own resolve. It was easier to hate a monster than it was to hate a man trying desperately to be better.
That night, as the fever ebbed, Arion sat by the fireplace, the logbook heavy in his lap. He looked at the ink,the meticulous records of Kyon's self inflicted torture.
This book was the key to a revolution. If he sent it to the Eastern Lords, they would have the evidence they needed to storm the palace and drag Kyon to the gallows for treason and biological heresy. Arion and Aiden would be "rescued." The nightmare would end.
But Arion looked at the charcoal pencils on the desk. He thought of Aiden's laughter in the nursery earlier that day, and the way Kyon had stood behind a door just to offer him water.
If he sent the book, he would be destroying the father his son was beginning to love. He would be plunging the kingdom into a bloody civil war that would likely claim more lives than Kyon ever had.
He stared into the flames, the book hovering over the heat.
Is he truly changing? Arion wondered, his heart aching with a confusing, bitter conflict. Or is this just the ultimate deception? The Serpent pretending to be a lamb until the guards are lowered?
Arion didn't burn the book. But he didn't send it, either. He tucked it back into its hiding place, the secret a heavy, cold weight between them.