Time no longer moved in hours.
It passed in aches.
In the slow drying of blood between his thighs. In the dull throb of bruises that refused to heal. In the way his stomach turned when he tried to eat and refused to stop turning when he didn't.
The heat had broken, finally. Three days ago, maybe four. He didn't remember anything but flashes—hands, voices, scents. He stopped counting after the fourth Alpha.
After Ryven, he thought he had no strength left to fight. But the others came. Each time more efficient. Less curious. Like he was no longer a challenge—just a body, already opened.
When it ended, the guards had dragged him back to his cell. No words. No explanation. Just cold chains and a bucket of water to "clean himself."
He hadn't moved since.
His body felt alien now—raw and swollen in places that still ached when he shifted. He tried to disassociate, to pretend he was watching from far away. But even that escape was harder now. His body kept pulling him back.
Back to something that felt wrong.
Something growing.
Seo-Yun lay curled on the floor, hand pressed to his stomach. It had started yesterday—the nausea. First just a wave. Then relentless. Food made it worse. Water tasted bitter. The scent of anything Alpha made his skin crawl.
And then there was the other thing.
The way his core ached not with bruising anymore, but with a strange tightness. A warmth.
He knew.
He didn't need Varian's tests. Didn't need a scan or a confirmation. He had read the book. He had read this exact arc. He remembered the line.
"Ciel realized something foreign had taken root in his belly—not just heat lingering, but life forming. A punishment dressed as a gift."
Seo-Yun turned his face to the wall and wept.
It wasn't loud. Not the kind of sobbing that echoed in the cell. Just silent, steady tears. Salt trailing over cracked lips. His hands trembled where they rested on his stomach, as if he could press hard enough to make it untrue.
But it was already too late.
His body was adjusting. Shifting. Accepting.
He felt it—the slight pull, the unnatural awareness of something else inside him. Not yet a child. Not yet anything more than cells and inevitability. But it was real.
And it was his.
And not his.
He slammed his fist into the floor, again and again, until the skin split and blood bloomed red. He needed to feel something else—something sharp, something loud. Anything to drown out the quiet horror building in his chest.
The door opened.
He didn't turn.
Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.
A figure knelt beside him—small hands, a cloth soaked in cool water, pressing gently to his forehead. The child again. The one from before.
"You're burning," she whispered. "You need to drink."
Seo-Yun didn't respond. He couldn't.
She reached into her tunic, pulled out something small—wrapped in linen. "I brought you something. It's just bread. Stolen."
Still silence.
Then, softly, she asked, "Do you know?"
His eyes fluttered open. Blood stained his lashes. "Yes."
The girl looked down. Her voice, when she spoke, was so quiet it barely stirred the air. "They say the first one is always claimed by Kaelith. No matter who bred you."
Seo-Yun's breath hitched.
She placed the bread beside him and stood. "Don't let them take your mind," she said. "They don't know how to fight something they can't see."
When the door shut again, Seo-Yun lay there in silence.
He didn't eat.
He didn't cry again.
He just stared at the ceiling, hand trembling on his belly.
A flicker of something passed through him.
It wasn't hope. Not yet.
It was a name.
One he would give this child.
Even if he never got to say it aloud.