Larem knocked once, formal and precise, before crossing the threshold. Soren lifted his eyes from the book on his lap, realising with a faint jolt that he had been staring at the same line for far too long without understanding a word of it.
"Come in," Ecclesias said.
The door opened. Larem stepped inside with his satchel over his shoulder, eyebrows already signalling disapproval.
"Your Majesty. Your Grace," he said, inclining his head.
Soren sat in an armchair by the window, a blanket over his legs, a thin stack of books resting against his thighs. Morning light fell across his hair and the side of his face. Ecclesias had placed the chair there himself, then dragged his own chair close enough that Soren could feel his warmth even without being touched.
From his place beside him, Ecclesias watched Larem like a man unwilling to be moved from his post.
"You are out of bed," Larem observed.
"With your permission," Soren said.
"And under mine," Ecclesias added.
Larem's eyes flicked between them, weighing something invisible, then he walked to Soren's side.
"Your wrist, Your Grace," he said.
Soren freed his hand from under the blanket. Ecclesias' gaze dropped to the movement as if every small shift mattered. Larem's fingers closed around Soren's wrist, steady and impersonal. The king's attention, in contrast, was anything but.
He watched the line of Soren's throat, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows. Soren could feel it like a warm weight, like being held without hands.
"Well?" Ecclesias asked after a few measured seconds.
Larem released Soren's wrist.
"His Grace is not about to faint," he said. "For now...."
A breath Soren had not realised he was holding slipped out of him. Ecclesias heard it. The king shifted slightly closer, the legs of his chair scraping just a little over stone, closing the space between them until their knees almost aligned.
Soren's heart gave a small, disobedient jump.
"That is your way of saying I am improving," Soren murmured.
"That is my way of saying you have not tried to die again," Larem replied. "You may be congratulated for the absence of disaster."
Soren's mouth tugged into the edge of a smile. Ecclesias saw that too. Something in his face eased, as if that faint expression was worth more than any report on his desk. His hand, resting on his own knee, turned slightly outward, fingers angling in Soren's direction without quite reaching.
Larem opened his satchel and laid out vials and paper packets on the small table beside Soren.
"Your nutrients and vitamins remain unchanged," he said. "Your blood work looks marginally less tragic."
"I'll take that as praise," Soren said.
"You may," Larem said. "I do not intend to repeat it."
He picked up a slender vial of clear liquid and held it up.
"This as well, Your Grace. Drink."
Soren took it carefully. Ecclesias' gaze followed the movement of the vial to his mouth with such focus that Soren's skin prickled.
"What does it do?" Soren asked.
"It helps your organs finish flushing out what should never have been in you," Larem said. "And gives your pheromonal system something to cling to while it remembers how to function without poison."
Poison. The word scraped softly through the room.
Soren uncorked the vial and swallowed. The taste was sharp and metallic, bitter enough to make his eyes sting. His face twisted before he could help it.
Ecclesias leaned in, his hand lifting halfway, then stopping in midair, fingers curving as if resisting the instinct to touch Soren's shoulder.
"How bad?" the king asked.
Soren forced the tonic down.
"It tastes," he said, voice rough, "like a swamp that decided to become a knife."
A quiet huff almost a laugh escaped Ecclesias. The sound brushed along Soren's nerves.
"Then it is appropriate," Larem said. "You have given your body enough reasons to complain. Consider this its revenge."
He rested two fingers briefly at the side of Soren's neck, then withdrew his hand.
"His pheromones are still unstable," Larem said, turning to Ecclesias. "Not ruined. Strained. If the temple saw the readings, they would panic. I would prefer not to listen to them."
Soren stared at his hands.
"Strained," he repeated.
"Yes, Your Grace," Larem said. "At the water. At the stress. At whoever thought it wise to test how far a dominant omega could be pushed before he broke."
His tone cooled on the last words.
"An ordinary omega would likely be dead," he added. "Or permanently damaged. Your status as a dominant omega born from so‑called bad blood and your very stubborn habit of surviving are what kept you here."
Soren swallowed.
"So being born wrong finally did me a favour," he said.
Larem's jaw tightened.
"You were not born wrong," he said. "You were born inconvenient. That is not the same."
He shifted his attention back to Ecclesias.
"What I need from you, Your Majesty, is restraint," he said. "Your presence steadies him. Your scent helps his system decide not to panic. That much is useful. Anything sudden is dangerous."
Ecclesias' eyes softened when they flicked back to Soren.
"I hear you," he said.
"With respect," Larem replied, "I am not certain you do."
He squared his shoulders.
"His body is still occupied with driving out poison and repairing what can be repaired," he said. "A sharp spike of stress, a hard alpha reaction, an attempt at marking, a quarrel, even… misplaced enthusiasm, could overload what reserves he has left. If you care for him as a person and not as a symbol, you will act accordingly."
Soren's cheeks burned.
"Larem," he said under his breath.
"It needed saying," Larem answered. "You may hate me for the words. You will still be alive to do so."
He gathered his satchel.
"Your Grace," he added, looking at Soren, "you are allowed light study. If the room tilts, if your chest feels tight, if your vision blurs, you stop. You do not push through it to impress anyone."
Soren nodded.
"I understand," he said.
"Good," Larem said. "Because if either of you ignore me, I will separate you and repeat my reasons to the entire court."
He bowed.
"Your Majesty. Your Grace."
Then he left, the door closing softly behind him.
For a few heartbeats, the only sound was Soren's breathing and the muted noise of the palace beyond the walls.
"You terrify him," Soren said at last, eyes still on the door.
"I terrify most people," Ecclesias said. "Larem is just honest about it."
"That is not what I meant," Soren replied.
"I know," Ecclesias said quietly.
He shifted his chair closer until their knees actually brushed. The contact was light, accidental on the surface, but he did not move away. The warmth of him bled through the blanket, steady and grounding.
Soren's heart reacted before his head did, jumping against his ribs, his body recognising warmth, weight, scent.
Ecclesias folded his hands loosely between his knees, but his attention never left Soren's face steady, anchored, as if the rest of the room had faded to fog.
"Larem is right," he said. "You come first. Not the council. Not the empire across the border. Not their obsession with your blood. You."
Soren's throat tightened.
"Kings do not say things like that," he said.
"Then perhaps I am doing kingship badly," Ecclesias answered.
Soren risked a sidelong glance.
The king's gaze was fixed on him with a quiet intensity that made Soren's skin feel too thin. Not scrutiny. Not calculation. Something warmer. Something that sat in Soren's chest and refused to leave.
"Do you know what it feels like," Soren asked slowly, "to spend your life as a problem in someone else's way, and then have the king of an entire country look at you like you are…" He broke off, the words shrivelling on his tongue.
"Like you are what?" Ecclesias asked softly.
Soren's pulse stumbled.
"Like I am not replaceable," he said. "Like I am not just… convenient."
Ecclesias' fingers flexed once between his knees, as if it took effort not to reach for him. Then, deliberately, he lifted a hand and let it hover near Soren's face stopping short, giving space.
"May I?" he asked, voice low.
Soren's breath caught. He nodded once.
Ecclesias' fingertips brushed Soren's cheekbone, feather-light, as if testing whether Soren would vanish. His thumb traced a careful line toward the corner of Soren's mouth and stopped, lingering there without pressing.
Soren's heart lurched, then raced. His skin prickled everywhere the touch did not reach.
"You are not convenient," Ecclesias said. "You are difficult, exasperating, and frequently reckless. I cannot imagine surviving this place without you."
"Larem said not to provoke my system," Soren managed, and the attempt at dryness came out thin.
Ecclesias' mouth curved faintly.
"He will have to adjust his treatment," he murmured. "My honesty seems to be a persistent condition."
Soren let out a small, helpless sound that was dangerously close to a laugh.
"You are impossible," he said.
"And yet you are still here," Ecclesias replied.
Soren's eyes flicked to Ecclesias' mouth before he could stop himself. He felt heat slide low in his belly, sudden and sharp, and the thought made him go still. That reaction his felt like something waking up under his skin, startled by being wanted and not punished for it.
As if Ecclesias noticed the shift, his hand slid away from Soren's cheek, slow, controlled, and came to rest on the arm of the chair again close, but not claiming.
He reached for the stack of books on the small table and took the top one, thumb brushing the worn spine.
"Arven sent this," he said. "Reports on Vharian campaigns. Their methods. Their obsession with certain bloodlines. I would like your opinion."
Soren hesitated.
"You want me to help you chase the people who tried to steal me," he said.
"I want you," Ecclesias said carefully, "to use that mind of yours, if you feel able. Not because you owe me. Because you see through things I do not, and I trust that."
"And if I say no?" Soren asked.
"Then you say no," Ecclesias answered. "You read something else. Or you sleep. Or you sit there and breathe. You are not here on condition of usefulness, Soren."
His name, spoken that way quiet, certain, without title did something odd to Soren's balance. The room tilted, not from weakness, but from the realisation that this man meant it.
"All my life," Soren said, "my place depended on what I could give. Coin. Favour. Silence. Service. You are telling me I could do nothing, and you would still—"
"Yes," Ecclesias said, before he could twist away from the thought. "I would still be here."
Soren looked at him then, fully.
The king's eyes were dark and sharp and entirely fixed on him. Not on the bruises. Not on his status. On him.
Soren's heart tripped, then steadied into a faster, unfamiliar rhythm.
"I will read," he said quietly. "Slowly."
"Slowly is acceptable," Ecclesias said.
He held out the book. Soren reached for it. Their fingers brushed bare skin against bare skin.
Heat shot up Soren's arm. Ecclesias' breath caught almost imperceptibly, and his eyes flicked down to the point of contact as if it were the most important thing in the room.
Soren's throat went dry.
He took the book and tried to open it to the marked page. The words swam.
"You are staring," Soren said, without looking up, because looking up felt dangerous.
"I am verifying that you remember how to read," Ecclesias replied.
"You are a terrible liar," Soren said.
"I am not lying," Ecclesias answered. "You have moved your lips on the same sentence twice."
Soren snapped the book shut halfway down the page, breath catching.
"It is very difficult to concentrate," he said, heat crawling up his neck, "when the king sits there looking at me as if I hung the moon."
Ecclesias stilled. For a heartbeat, the air between them narrowed to the space of a breath.
"It is not the moon," he said. "It is the fact that you are here. Breathing. Arguing. Existing. I have not yet grown used to it."
Soren's chest rose too fast.
"Larem is going to kill us both," he whispered.
Ecclesias' gaze dropped to Soren's mouth again, then lifted asking.
He moved slowly, not sudden, not careless. He shifted from his chair to the edge of Soren's, careful not to jostle ribs or tilt him too sharply. One hand braced on the armrest, caging without trapping. The other came up, hovering near Soren's jaw.
"May I kiss you?" he asked, voice roughened. "If you say no, I stop."
The question alone made Soren's pulse leap.
Soren swallowed. His fingers tightened on the book and then, deliberately, he set it aside on the small table. He met Ecclesias' eyes.
"Yes," he said, soft but clear. "You may."
Ecclesias exhaled once, as if he had been holding himself back for hours.
Then he kissed him.
At first it was careful warm lips, a measured pressure, a pause where Ecclesias seemed to check Soren's breathing with his own. But Soren didn't pull away. He tilted his face up, answering with a small, involuntary sound that slipped past his mouth before he could stop it.
That sound changed everything.
The kiss turned hungry not rough, not careless, but fierce in its focus. Ecclesias angled his head and deepened it, his hand finally settling along Soren's jaw, thumb under his ear. The touch grounded him even as it made Soren's whole body spark.
Soren's breath caught. His fingers slid from the arm of the chair into Ecclesias' sleeve, gripping fabric as if it were an anchor. Heat ran down his spine in a sudden rush, sharp and bright and frighteningly alive. His body reacted before his mind could argue with it: a flare of excitement low in his belly, a shiver along his skin, his pheromones answering weakly but unmistakably still strained, but not silent.
A soft, sensual sound escaped him again half sigh, half something needy when Ecclesias' mouth moved more firmly against his, when the king's thumb brushed the corner of Soren's lips as if mapping them.
Ecclesias made a quiet sound in response pleased, restrained and the kiss grew deeper, longer, tracing the edges of Soren's restraint until it frayed. Not breaking. Not snapping. Just… opening.
Soren tasted breath and heat and the faint bitterness of the tonic still clinging to his tongue. His heartbeat thundered. His lungs worked hard, but this was not drowning. This was the sensation of being wanted so intensely that it made his skin feel too small to hold him.
Ecclesias stayed careful even in the intensity keeping his weight braced on the chair, not pressing Soren back, not crushing ribs. All the force went into his mouth and the steady hold of his hand, into the way he kissed as if he had been hungry for months and had finally been fed permission.
When Soren's breathing hitched too sharply, Ecclesias gentled without being told, easing the pressure and slowing the pace, kissing him once, twice still fervent, but controlled, giving Soren room to breathe.
They broke apart on a shared breath.
Ecclesias stayed close, foreheads almost touching, his hand still cupping Soren's jaw as if reluctant to let go.
Soren's lips tingled. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes a little dazed. He drew in air in quick, shaky pulls, trying to pretend his body hadn't just betrayed him with every small sound.
Ecclesias looked at him openly, reverently, like Soren was something he had almost lost and could not quite believe he was allowed to hold.
"Larem will reprimand me for that," Ecclesias murmured, voice low and rough, "but it will be me he reprimands. Not you."
Soren let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and then had to swallow it down.
"He'll do more than reprimand," Soren said hoarsely. "He'll draft laws."
Ecclesias' thumb moved once along Soren's cheekbone, so gentle it felt like apology and devotion at the same time.
"It was worth it," he said.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared taking in the colour high in Soren's cheeks, the parted lips, the way Soren's lashes trembled as he tried to steady his breath.
Soren's heart skittered again, smaller now, like a bird settling.
"You're staring again," Soren murmured.
"Yes," Ecclesias said. "I am."
He forced himself to ease back a fraction, not abandoning the closeness, just giving Soren space to settle. His hand slipped from Soren's jaw and returned to his own knee, fingers curled like a man restraining instinct by habit.
Soren reached for the book again, mostly to occupy his hands. He opened it to the marked page.
The words blurred.
He read the same line twice.
He felt Ecclesias' gaze and could not decide whether he hated it or needed it.
"You are staring," Soren said, without looking up.
"I am verifying that you remember how to read," Ecclesias replied.
"You are a terrible liar," Soren said.
"I am not lying," Ecclesias answered. "You have moved your lips on the same sentence twice."
Soren snapped the book shut halfway down the page.
"It is very difficult to concentrate," he said, heat crawling up his neck, "when the king sits there looking at me as if I hung the moon."
Ecclesias' knee pressed lightly against Soren's again under the blanket a steadying touch, almost absentminded, but sure.
"It is not the moon," he said. "It is the fact that you are here. Breathing. Arguing. Existing. I have not yet grown used to it."
Soren's breath stuttered.
For the first time, the weight of being wanted did not feel like a chain.
It felt like something frightening and precious: a choice.
***
Later, the palace changed its rhythm.
Messengers moved a little faster. Certain doors stayed closed longer than usual. Servants carried sealed notes along back corridors instead of open ones through busy halls. The hum of the palace shifted from ordinary business to something tighter, more focused.
Ecclesias convened a council in one of the smaller war rooms.
Not for battle.
For what came before.
Arven stood at one end of the table, fingers splayed over a map marked not with borders, but with names stewards, scribes, money‑changers, minor nobles whose coin had travelled in the wrong directions. Two senior captains flanked him, their armour muted, their faces set.
Ecclesias took his seat at the head of the table without crown or cloak, only a simple dark coat and the sort of stillness that made the air feel heavy.
"We will treat this as a campaign," he said. "But the enemy is information, not armies."
Arven nodded.
"We have traced most of Harren's channels," he said. "Some lead directly to Vharian agents. Others to people who do not yet realise they are part of a chain."
"Then we teach them," Ecclesias said. "Quietly."
They spoke of false leads and bait, of letters that would be allowed to pass and ones that would disappear, of which eyes in the palace could be trusted and which would be carefully fed the wrong truths. They discussed how much weakness to show, and where.
"At court, they will see a convalescent consort," Arven said. "Still fragile. Still unsteady."
"Let them," Ecclesias replied. "If pity keeps their guard down, we will use it."
One of the captains shifted.
"You are comfortable making His Grace appear weak, Majesty?" she asked.
Ecclesias' gaze cooled.
"I am not making him anything," he said. "They already chose to see him as fragile and unfit. I am letting them keep their mistake a little longer."
He rested his hand on the edge of the table, fingers curving against the wood.
"They will pity him," he went on. "They will underestimate him. They will think he is barely holding together. And while they do, we will cut out every hand that ever reached for him."
No one at the table mistook that "we" for anything but personal.
Arven's mouth tightened in something almost like satisfaction.
"We can turn their fear into silence as well," he said. "Once a few examples are made."
"Carefully," Ecclesias said. "I do not want panic. I want absence. Gaps where their network used to be."
"And His Grace?" the captain asked quietly. "What does he know of this?"
Ecclesias' eyes softened for a heartbeat, the hardness in them turning inward.
"He knows enough," he said. "And no more than that."
He rose, signalling the end of the meeting.
"The palace will feel different for a while," he said. "Let them feel it. Controlled urgency is a language Vharian agents understand. They will lean forward to listen. When they do, we will be waiting."
As the council dispersed, the hum of movement picked up again in the corridors faster, sharper, but contained. The palace adjusted around a new, invisible front line.
In the small study by the window, Soren turned another page, unaware of the routes being closed and the traps being laid in his name. He only knew that the air felt thinner when Ecclesias was gone, and that when the king returned, his eyes went first to Soren checking, every time, that the most important piece of his world was still exactly where he had left it.