The chamber was hushed, heavy with the scent of sandalwood and something sharper power, coiled and waiting. Light spilled across the room in soft gold, brushing the edges of carved pillars and silk drapes. On the bed, Soren lay motionless, his breath shallow but steady, lashes resting like ink against pale cheeks.
Ecclesias had not moved for hours.
He sat in silence, posture carved from stone, yet his hand betrayed him hovering, then settling lightly against Soren's temple. His fingers traced the damp strands of hair, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of fragility. He had held swords with less care than this. His thumb brushed the curve of Soren's jaw, lingering at the corner of parted lips. Not hunger. Not conquest. Something quieter. Something dangerous.
For the first time in years, Ecclesias felt the weight of exhaustion ease. The insomnia that had clawed at him for nights banquets, councils, endless wars slipped away like smoke. Watching Soren breathe, serene and unguarded, was a calm he had never known. His heartbeat slowed, steadying against the rhythm of another's fragile pulse. It was absurd, this peace. Precious in a way that made his chest tighten.
Why does this matter so much now?
The question burned, but no answer came only inevitability.
-----
Warmth pressed against his skin like a whisper. Soren stirred, lashes trembling as light spilled across the room soft, golden, filtered through sheer drapes. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, threaded with something sharper, something that made his pulse falter even before his eyes opened.
Silk sheets cradled him, smooth and cool against fevered skin. For a moment, he lay still, disoriented, his body heavy as stone. Memory flickered marble floors, a voice like velvet over steel, words that cut through the air: You cannot hide from me. Then darkness. Then nothing.
His breath hitched. This was not the servant quarters. The chamber was vast, walls veined with gold, shadows dancing under the glow of crystal lamps. And there seated beside the bed, still as a carved figure was him.
The King.
The King's presence filled the room like gravity, bending the air around him. His posture was relaxed yet commanding, shoulders squared, movements slow and deliberate. His gaze sharp as frostfire held Soren where he lay, but there was something else in it now. Not hunger. Not possession. A calm so dangerous it felt like the eye of a storm.
When he spoke, his voice was smooth, low, and commanding velvet stretched over steel.
"You're awake."
Soren's throat tightened. He tried to speak, but the sound fractured, thin and broken. "Your… Majesty…"
Ecclesias leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his movements unhurried. His hand lifted again, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brushed against Soren's temple. The touch was gentle almost reverent as if the King feared breaking something irreplaceable. His thumb traced the line of his jaw, then lingered near his lips.
"You should not speak yet," Ecclesias murmured, tone softened but carrying weight. "The fever broke, but your body is still recovering."
-----
On the table lay a sealed document the doctor's report. Ecclesias reached for it without breaking his gaze from Soren, unfolding the parchment with precise fingers.
"The physician sent this," he said, voice calm, almost clinical. "Your collapse was not only heat. The suppressants you've taken for years have damaged you." His eyes flicked to the page, then back to Soren. "Organ strain. Hormonal imbalance. Your body fought itself until it could not anymore."
Soren's stomach knotted. Shame clawed up his throat, bitter and choking. He had known the risk, but what choice did he have? Omegas like him were chains waiting to be locked. He forced the words past dry lips. "I… I couldn't…"
Ecclesias's gaze silenced him. Not harsh quiet, steady, like a tide pulling everything to its depth. "You hid what you are," he said softly, almost like a truth spoken to the air. "And nearly destroyed yourself to do it."
Soren turned his face away, heat crawling under his skin not the fever, but humiliation. His low status pressed against him like iron. He had scrubbed floors, poured wine, bowed until his spine ached and now he lay in silk sheets under the eyes of a man who ruled kingdoms. A man who touched him as if he were something rare.
Ecclesias's fingers moved again, brushing against Soren's lips—soft, parted, helpless. His voice dropped lower, velvet over steel.
"You will not return to what you were."
Soren's breath fractured. "What… does that mean?"
Ecclesias's gaze burned, frostfire tempered by something deeper a calm that felt inevitable. His thumb lingered at the corner of Soren's mouth, tracing the curve with a tenderness that contradicted every story whispered about him.
"It means," he said, each word deliberate, "you belong here."
Soren's pulse stuttered. "Here…?"
"In my chambers," Ecclesias said, his tone smooth, final. "And soon, the world will know it."
-----
The words struck like iron. Soren's breath caught, his chest tightening as if the air had turned to glass. The world will know it. His mind reeled images of chains, whispers in corridors, the weight of eyes that would never see him as anything but a prize. Shame burned under his skin, bitter and raw. He had spent years hiding, folding himself into silence, masking every trace of what he was. And now, with a single sentence, that fragile shield shattered.
"I…" His voice broke, thin and fractured. "I don't belong here."
Ecclesias's fingers brushed his jaw again, slow and deliberate, as if erasing the words before they could take root. His touch was gentle, but the weight behind it was iron. "You do," he said, velvet over steel. "You always did."
His lips parted, but no sound came. Fear clawed at his throat, tangled with something worse something he could not name. The King's gaze held him, steady and unyielding, yet softened by a calm that felt almost tender. That calm terrified him more than hunger ever could.
Finally, his voice broke, thin and fractured. "Do I… even have a choice?" The question slipped out like a wound, trembling with disbelief. His chest heaved, shame coiling tight as he forced himself to meet those frostfire eyes. "Your words… they sound absolute."
Ecclesias's fingers brushed his jaw again, slow and deliberate, as if erasing the fear before it could take root. His touch was gentle, but the weight behind it was iron. "You do not," he said, velvet over steel. "Because fate does not ask."
Soren's pulse stuttered, his thoughts spiraling. Why me? Why now? He wanted to turn away, to vanish into the silence he had built for himself. But the King's presence was gravity, pulling him closer, binding him in a calm that felt like surrender.
His voice cracked again, raw with humiliation. So he reapeat again that same sentence. "I'm… nothing," he whispered, the words tasting like ash. "A servant. I scrub floors. I pour wine. I'm not—" His throat closed, shame choking him. "I'm not someone the world should know."
Ecclesias's gaze did not waver. He was patiently looking at his future, at that new emotion this beautiful man project into him. His thumb traced the curve of Soren's mouth, lingering as if memorizing the shape of defiance. "You are," he said softly, each word deliberate, "because you were never meant to be hidden."