The release was as abrupt and impersonal as the arrest. Seven months after Arion was thrown into the dungeon, the heavy iron door groaned open. A grim-faced official, flanked by two anonymous guards, simply stated, "You are free. The alliance has been secured; your utility as a political sacrifice has expired. Leave the capital immediately." There were no apologies, no explanations, only a cold order to vanish.
Arion walked out of the darkness and into the blinding light of the courtyard. He moved slowly, his body heavy and scarred, his legs unsteady from months of severe deprivation and the immense weight of his seven-month pregnancy. His clothes were rags, and his skin was pale and etched with grime. He was no longer the imposing Dragon-Slayer; he was a ghost. Very few people recognized him. The fame that had once made him a target now failed to register on the faces of the palace staff. They saw only a dirty, pregnant man being expelled from the dungeons, not a warrior legend.
His first priority was not revenge, nor confrontation, but sanctuary. The thought of facing Kyon—of seeing the man who had orchestrated his torture, or the man whose scent would send his body into a frenzy of conflicting rage and need—was unbearable. He needed to be whole before he faced that fight.
He remembered a place. Years ago, before his legend had fully taken root, his father had gifted him a property—not a military holding, but a small, elegant house deep in a remote forest bordering the family's distant lands. It was a place of quiet solitude, far from the capital's cruel machinations, situated next to a small, neglected farm. It was a secret refuge, given to him when his father had hoped he might choose a simpler life.
Arion used the last of his meager savings, acquired through the kind guard loris's occasional slipped coin, to secure passage on a merchant caravan heading east. The journey was agonizing. He endured the bumpy ride, the stares, and the constant, dull ache in his back and hips. But with every mile that separated him from the Western Capital and Kyon's presence, a sliver of his mind returned to him.
Finally, he reached the forest. The house was exactly as he remembered: small, built of dark, rich wood, nestled beneath a canopy of ancient trees. The farm was overgrown, the fields choked with weeds, but the air was clean, smelling of pine and rich earth.
His time for plotting was over; his time for survival had begun. Arion threw himself into the practical demands of the house and farm. He couldn't afford a doctor, a midwife, or a servant, anymore . He became a man of simple labor, forcing his battered body to work, using the exhaustion to block the hormonal shifts and the fear of the impending birth.
He cleaned the house, clearing the dust and decay of years. Then, he attacked the farm. With stubborn resolve, he cleared the weeds, turned the earth, and planted seasonal fruits and vegetables. He worked from dawn until dusk, the gentle, repetitive labor of the soil providing a soothing contrast to the violence of his memories.
His objective was simple: gain enough months to pass the time until the baby's arrival. The physical labor, though often painful, was a necessity. He took his small yields—baskets of fresh berries, early vegetables, herbs—to the nearest small village market, selling them for just enough coin to buy salt, oil, and the occasional spool of thread to mend his clothes. No one in the village asked who the quiet, pregnant man was, and Arion offered no information.
The ninth month arrived, and with it, the pain. The final weeks were a blur of intense, solitary suffering. He knew the child would be an alpha, strong and demanding, a child of the royal bloodline. The sheer size of the baby in his small frame made every movement a struggle.
The labor started abruptly one cold, rainy night. It was long, hard, and brutally painful.
"Ugh!, ngh!" He groan feeling uncomfortable but what else could he do?,He was completely alone. There was no soothing alpha scent, no steady hand, only the rough straw of the small shed he had prepared behind the house and his own desperate screams echoing through the dark, uncaring forest.
*
*
*
"WAHH!" The baby let out a high pitched scream.
He delivered the child himself, using his teeth to sever the cord, relying on the primal instincts that even his soldier's life had not erased.
It was a boy. He was large and strong, and the moment Arion finally held him, cleaning the baby with trembling hands, he opened his eyes. They were wide, clear, and the color of dark, knowing amber.
Arion looked at the infant, not with love, but with a paralyzing, terrifying exhaustion. He had survived the dungeon, the betrayal, and the excruciating childbirth. Now, he held the living, breathing proof of Kyon's brutal claim. The silent exile was over. The game was about to start again.
Arion breathed hardly in, he glance at blood between his legs , and the tiny crying child, yes another problem just got created, Arion felt absolutely exhausted and helpless from head to toe.