The court had begun to whisper.
Ever since Aurean had started appearing beside Rythe—even as a silent, marked slave—nobles traded sharp glances over their wine cups. Some smirked. Others bristled.
"A prince with a collar-bound pet," Duke Halvern said, loud enough for Rythe to hear in the council chambers. "You'd think war heroes had better sense."
Rythe ignored them. Publicly.
But each word echoed.
He'd expected disdain. He hadn't expected the weight of politics to shift. Already, the Second Prince had brought forth new proposals, claiming Rythe's judgment might be compromised.
Rythe felt it all tightening—like a rope drawing slowly around his throat.
That morning, he assigned Aurean again to his side. This time, not just to observe. But to serve.
Aurean followed Rythe down the corridor, head bowed, footsteps soundless. The guards at the door glared but said nothing. Rythe let him in first.
In front of the council, Aurean stood still as marble. Rythe tested him, ordered wine, passed scrolls to be delivered, commanded silence.
Each order was obeyed without hesitation.
But nobles watched. And murmured.
"What does the prince gain by keeping that one around?" one whispered.
"Punishment, perhaps. Or pleasure."
Rythe said nothing.
But as he led Aurean out and back toward the barracks, something in him stirred.
In the still silence of the empty corridor, Aurean walked three steps behind. The moment they turned a corner and were alone, Rythe stopped.
"You didn't flinch today," Rythe said.
Aurean lifted his gaze slowly. "Was I supposed to?"
Rythe stared at him.
There was no defiance in Aurean's voice, but neither was there submission. Just a strange, growing steadiness. One Rythe had not seen since the day they met—with blades in the dark.
"You're changing," Rythe muttered.
"Or I'm remembering who I was."
Rythe didn't answer.
That night, Rythe did not return immediately to his chambers. He stood in the rain near the training grounds, listening.
He remembered what the Emperor had said: Don't let sentiment cloud your judgment.
Yet that sentiment burned.
Especially after the humiliation that unfolded just hours before.
His omega lover, Tallen, had come to his bed—perfumed and grinning, only to find Aurean folding Rythe's garments.
"What is that doing here?" Tallen had laughed cruelly.
Aurean didn't respond.
When Tallen climbed into Rythe's bed, moaning deliberately loud, Rythe noticed the way Aurean's shoulders stiffened. But he finished folding every article of clothing without flinching, bowed, and left.
Rythe had not touched Tallen that night.
He hadn't slept either.
Aurean sat quietly among the hounds, legs pulled to his chest, gaze distant.
They circled him—one placing its head in his lap, another resting beside his feet.
Even the youngest pup nuzzled under his arm.
It was not training.
It was kinship.
And when Rythe passed by to check on him, he saw it.
The hounds stiffened. Watched him. One growled.
"Strange," Rythe muttered to himself. "They sense something I don't."
The Imperial Hall was dimly lit, shadows pooling beneath the marble pillars like oil. The Emperor sat high on his obsidian throne, flanked by Rythe's siblings, their gazes sharp and unreadable.
Rythe bowed low.
"You called for me, Father."
The Emperor did not speak at first. He studied Rythe in silence, his gold-ringed fingers steepled.
Then:
"I heard what happened. With the slave."
Rythe's jaw tightened. "He was being assaulted by two of my guards. I stopped them."
The Emperor raised a single silver brow. "Assaulted? Or did he seduce them?"
The words sliced like glass.
Rythe straightened. "He was chained. Cornered. There was no seduction."
"You're sure?" the Emperor asked. "You're quite… invested."
The chamber was silent save for the faint scratch of ink as a scribe nearby recorded the conversation.
"I don't take pleasure in cleaning up scandals," the Emperor continued. "If you insist on keeping that creature near you, then watch him. Breed or not, he's a traitor."
Rythe said nothing.
But something in him coiled—tight, furious.
His father leaned forward, voice low. "One mistake, Rythe. And the wolves won't just whisper. They'll bite."
He gestured for dismissal. The audience was over.
As Rythe turned to leave, he caught his sister's eye—sharp, amused.
"Careful, brother," she said softly. "Even wolves get rabid."
Rythe stalked down the hallways of the inner palace, the Emperor's words burning behind his eyes.
"Did he seduce them?"
As if Aurean had chosen that shame. As if submission was always a ploy.
Rythe's fists clenched as he walked, boots thudding heavily against the stone. He hated how the question had lingered in the air, unanswered—how his silence had tasted like guilt. Like implication.
The guards outside his wing straightened. He waved them off with a flick of his fingers and entered his private chambers.
Aurean was there.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor near the hearth, quietly tending to a scuffed leather boot—his eyes distant, shoulders tense.
He didn't rise. Didn't look up.
Rythe closed the door behind him.
"You're quiet."
Aurean replied without emotion. "What should I say?"
Silence stretched.
Rythe stepped closer, his voice lower now, uncertain. "Do you know what they said about you? What he said?"
Aurean's hands froze over the boot. "I can guess."
"He said you might have seduced them. That your body invited it."
At that, Aurean finally looked up.
His eyes were blank, but something inside them cracked—something old and brittle.
"I didn't," he said. "But would it have mattered if I had?"
Rythe flinched.
"No," Aurean said, returning to the boot. "It wouldn't have. Because I'm not a person to them anymore. Just skin. A symbol of failure. A weapon gone dull."
Rythe sank into the nearby chair, watching him.
He wanted to say something—deny it, argue, even comfort.
But nothing came.
Only the hounds' low growl outside the door, ever-watchful. Ever present.
"I didn't ask to be saved," Aurean said quietly, still not looking at him. "But thank you."
Rythe's throat tightened. "They would have—"
"I know," Aurean interrupted. "That's the point. Everyone knows. No one cares."
The fire cracked between them.
And Rythe, prince of steel and silence, realized that he cared.
That was the danger.
And the Emperor had seen it.