Ajax—an alpha forged in the heat of war, revered as both warrior and victor. Battlefields sang of his name, soaked in the blood of his enemies, crowned with laurels won by his blade alone. He was no common soldier; he was the king's chosen hand, the unstoppable force behind a dozen conquests. For every province seized, every rebellion crushed, Ajax offered his triumphs not to glory, but to the man who sat the throne.

And the king, proud and ever-calculating, did not forget such loyalty. For the warrior who had given him empires, he promised a reward unmatched by gold or land: his youngest son. An omega prince, untouched by war, the very embodiment of royal beauty and obedience. Delicate where Ajax was unyielding, graceful where the general was fire and steel. A union was decreed, not out of affection, but gratitude. Political, yes—but binding. Sacred.

The marriage will be arranged in marble halls, beneath banners stitched with both the royal crest and the warrior's sigil—an alliance not merely of bloodlines, but of fire and silk. And Ajax, proud and unshaken, accepted his king's gift with honor. Not out of lust or tenderness, but as a man who knew the weight of promises kept and debts repaid.

What the prince felt, no one dared ask.

The prince was no ordinary omega.

Born beneath a blood moon and a sky of omens, his arrival was met not with festivity, but with silence—reverence. Even in infancy, the court understood what he would become: not a soldier, not a statesman, but a symbol. The king's youngest son, his most beautiful child, and his only omega.

From the moment of his first breath, his life was curated. He was guarded more heavily than the crown jewels, his chambers sealed with ancient runes and posted sentinels. Where his brothers were taught swordplay and strategy, he was taught restraint, elegance, and how to hold power without ever appearing to touch it.

His heats were suppressed through tinctures prepared in secret. No alpha was ever permitted near without royal sanction. Every gesture, every gaze, was measured, filtered through the watchful eyes of the king's most trusted. His scent—a rare, intoxicating sweetness that stirred even the most tempered of men—was masked beneath layers of alchemic oils and violet resin.

And above all else, his virginity was sacred.

Not merely a symbol of purity, but of possession. Untouched, unclaimed, and unspoiled, he was the king's most valuable offering—one not given lightly. His body was a sealed treaty, his future a tool of diplomacy. Rumors abounded: that foreign kings had once tried to buy his hand in secret, that generals had offered kingdoms for a single night. All were turned away.

Because he was never meant to choose.

He was meant to be given. At the right time. To the right man.

And now, that man stood waiting—iron-clad and silent, a warrior who had earned not just a kingdom's loyalty, but the right to touch what no other could.

The throne room had been cleared for a private audience. No courtiers. No guards. Just the prince, the king, and the man who had painted the empire in blood.

The prince had been summoned.

A servant led him through the long marble corridor, past sunlit tapestries and the faint scent of incense still clinging to the air after the morning rituals. His footsteps echoed—a rhythm too fast for calm, too slow for rebellion.

At the great oak doors, the servant halted. "His Majesty awaits," was all he said, before slipping away like smoke.

Inside, the chamber waited in a heavy, charged silence. The king sat aloft, robed in ceremonial crimson. Beside him, Ajax stood broad-shouldered, his eyes unreadable.

"Come forward," the king said, voice sharp and final.

The king did not rise, nor smile. His gaze bore into his youngest son with the weight of a thousand expectations. Behind the obsidian crown sat a man who had traded sons like pieces in the great game of empire. And yet, as he looked upon his son now, there was something close to pride in his eyes—cold, imperial, and possessive.

"Behold the finest gift Aethen has to offer," the king said, gesturing not with warmth, but with authority. "Unspoiled. Untouched. Yours, as promised."

Ajax stepped forward, just enough to mark the change in the air. His boots met stone with quiet finality. For a long moment, he simply regarded the prince—no lust in his stare, no hunger, only the kind of scrutiny a general gives a battlefield before a war begins.

He remembered the conversation like the aftertaste of strong wine—bitter, warm, and lingering far too long.

It had taken place in the solar chamber, just after the victory at Veradon. The war was over. Peace had a name now, and it was Ajax.

The king had poured them each a glass of black spiced wine—rare, aged, something only uncorked when kingdoms changed shape.

The fire crackled. Silence lingered.

Then Alric spoke, not as a father, but as a ruler delivering his final order wrapped in velvet.

"You'll take him as yours," he said, voice smooth, eyes fixed on the flames. "Not just in name. In legacy."

Ajax had remained silent. Still.

Alric turned to him, slow and deliberate.

"A union means nothing without proof of it. One that breathes. Walks. Binds the bloodlines in flesh."

A pause.

"The people love symbols. Give them something to worship." Then softer, but no less firm: "Make my blood continue. But let it answer to your name."

There had been no threat. No demand. Just expectation—the kind that didn't allow refusal.

The king had lifted his glass in a quiet toast.

Ajax had not returned it.

But he had drunk all the same.

He bowed his head—not deeply, not ceremonially, but enough to acknowledge the prince not as a prize, but as a presence.

"My king," Ajax said, voice low, rough from years of command. "You honor me."

"And I expect that honor to be upheld," the king replied swiftly. "The alliance begins now. There will be a binding. No delay."

Ajax did not flinch. He turned slightly, just enough to give the prince the fullness of his gaze.

"I will not shame him," he said simply. "Nor you."

It was not a vow of affection, but of discipline—of restraint. A promise made by a man who had never broken one.

The king nodded once. "Good. Then let him speak."

And so, the silence returned—this time, heavy with expectation.

The throne room belonged to the prince now.