The King's private study loomed at the very top of the central tower—an untouched world of mahogany and glass that Aerion had only glimpsed in official portraits. Now, standing outside the door, it didn't feel majestic. It felt like a cage.
Min-jun hesitated before pushing it open. His fingers trembled on the handle, and Aerion didn't miss the way he avoided meeting his eyes. The door swung open with a hush, sealing them in a different world.
The air inside was sharp—almost sterile—but carried the distinct, heavy scent of dominance. Cedarwood, smoke, and something darker. Alpha. King Theron's presence was everywhere, saturating the walls, the silence, the floor itself. Aerion's Omega instincts coiled in alarm. His spine straightened out of pure defiance.
Theron stood at the far end of the room, a silent monolith against the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul glittering like fractured glass behind him. He didn't turn. Didn't speak.
"You may leave us, Min-jun," the King said at last, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet—cool, controlled, and absolute.
Aerion heard the door click shut behind him. And then they were alone.
The silence pressed in. It wasn't peaceful—it was tense, coiled like a spring. Aerion kept his hands behind his back to hide the way they shook, forcing his gaze upward to the man who hadn't even looked at him yet.
He studied Theron's reflection in the window—broad shoulders, elegant posture, the stillness of a man used to control and used to being feared. But something about that stillness was… brittle. Like it had been held too long.
When the King finally turned, the air shifted.
His eyes—deep obsidian—locked onto Aerion's with a force that made his chest tighten. Not out of fear, but something harder to name. There was no fire, no anger. Just fatigue. And a strange flicker of something else—remorse?
"Prince Aerion," he began. His voice was quieter now, almost tired. "Do you know why you're here?"
Aerion didn't hesitate. "I assume it's not to discuss my asset reports, Your Majesty." The sarcasm came easier than he expected. Bitterness, sharper than he'd realized, crept into his voice. "I suppose you remembered the spare exists."
Theron's jaw clenched.
He stepped forward, slow and measured. Every inch he closed made Aerion's body tense, heart pounding as if it hadn't gotten the message that fear was beneath him. The scent grew stronger—closer—and Aerion hated the way his body reacted. As if some traitorous part of him wanted to yield.
"A spare?" Theron echoed. His tone didn't rise, but it tightened like wire. "Is that truly what you think you are?"
Aerion's throat tightened. He forced the words out anyway. "It's how I've always been treated. Shoved aside. Trained in secret. Left to rot when I didn't fit the mold they wanted."
His voice cracked slightly at the end, more from exhaustion than emotion. But still—he hated that Theron had heard it.
The King studied him again—this time not like a ruler appraising a tool, but like a man seeing someone he hadn't expected to exist.
"Your defiance," he said finally, "is both your weakness… and your most valuable trait."
He turned away before Aerion could react, retrieving a data pad from the desk. The sound of it being set down was startling in the silence.
"The crisis is worse than the public knows. The Fujiwara alliance has collapsed. Their heir—the one I was to marry—has been incapacitated. Possibly permanently."
Aerion's breath hitched. That union was the bedrock of the kingdom's economic stability.
"And… what?" he asked cautiously. "You want me to go take their place?"
"No." Theron looked up. His voice dropped, quieter than before. "The councils made their move without me. They invoked an ancient pact. One that gives them the right to force a union if the throne is in danger."
Aerion stared, not following. Not wanting to.
"The House of Zenith has offered support," Theron continued, eyes dark. "But only if there is an heir. And only if that heir comes from a union… between us."
It took a second for the words to land.
Aerion froze.
"You can't be serious."
"I am." The King's voice was stripped of everything now—authority, warmth, even anger. "The council has already signed the pact. The ceremony is to be held within the week. The union must be binding. And it must produce an heir."
Aerion's vision tunneled. His knees nearly gave out.
Marry him? The King? Produce an heir?
He opened his mouth, but no sound came. He felt heat rising in his throat—not from arousal, but from the raw humiliation of having his life rewritten like a line in a budget proposal.
"You can't force this," he whispered, barely trusting his voice.
Theron didn't flinch. But for a moment, something flickered in his expression—something that looked far too much like regret.
"No. But I can ask you not to fight it. And I can promise you that I will not treat you as a spare."
Aerion's fists clenched at his sides.
But inside? He was breaking.
Aerion turned away, not trusting himself to speak. His thoughts were spiraling, his chest too tight.
But before he could move, he felt Theron step closer—close enough that his warmth reached Aerion's back.
"You were never the spare," the King said quietly. "You were the plan they feared."
Aerion's breath caught.
And for the first time, he wondered if saying no... was even still an option.