The next morning Arion wake up with a leaking ass and full breast, he doesn't take a rest he goes in the bathroom and clean it up , then wash up as fast as he could, after he finishes he get out of the bedroom completely naked, he marches towards his wardrobe and grab his fighter tunics and sword .
He made all completely clean, he fix his hair , and soon , goes out to the king's office, he doesn't run , he walk, the swelling in his lower stomach had disappeared under his tunic ., as a soon as he get in the office he bow to the king and Immediately request for immediate deployment to the Western Territories it was an audacious, bordering on insubordinate, but his frantic determination was misinterpreted as zealous loyalty. The Captain of the Guard, impressed by the Dragon-Slayer's sudden, aggressive commitment to security detail—and eager to be rid of the warrior's volatile presence. The king's approved the request with suspicious speed.
Within twelve hours of his desperate self-purging and hormonal breakdown, Arion was mounted, ready to ride. He was pale beneath the dust of the road, but his eyes were unnaturally bright, fixed on the distant western horizon. He carried no emotional baggage—only his weapons, a canteen, and a desperate, terrifying need. His mind was a singular, focused terror: he was pregnant, and his body was in a full, demanding heat, a condition that left him vulnerable and exposed. He knew that if he didn't reach Kyon, if he didn't receive the savage coupling his pregnant body was demanding, he would break down completely, likely in front of Cassian or some other predatory alpha. No way that ain't gonna happen on my watch.
He rode like a man possessed, pushing his horse to its limits. His fear of being found out by anyone other than Kyon—of the milk stain on his tunic, the swollen abdomen, the overwhelming, distressed scent of his omega heat—was a constant, searing motivation.
He had no time for planning, no room for regret. He was no longer running from his shame; he was running to the source of his violation, believing, in a terrifying lapse of reason, that only the alpha who had broken him could put his body at a momentary, brutal peace. The distance felt endless, but Arion clung to the image of Kyon—not the serene prince, but the possessive alpha, the one who would take him roughly and deeply enough to satisfy the frantic biological craving that now defined his existence.
He left a city that was rapidly descending into political intrigue, blissfully unaware that he was abandoning a life of slow, psychological torment for a journey that promised a far more immediate, physical danger. He was riding straight into Kyon's elaborate net, completely oblivious to the fact that his early arrival would utterly shatter his true master's careful timeline. The King, the Council, and even Cassian—who would undoubtedly notice the empty room and the lack of his favored pawn—would have to scramble to adapt. Arion's premature departure was a wild card, turning Kyon's meticulously laid plans into a chaotic game of improvisation.
•welcomes to the western capitals •
A simple word written on a wall, Arion's reckless, desperate ride ended not in a frantic reunion, but in the overwhelming anonymity of the Western Capital. He had envisioned a small, manageable city where the local prince's residence would be a clear landmark. He was wrong. Really wrong.
While his own capital city was a sprawling, ancient metropolis, a chaotic labyrinth of history and power, this Western Capital was a different kind of monster. It was a vast, modern nexus of trade and alliance, its wide boulevards and towering, functional architecture spreading out for miles. It was too big and too vast for a man on foot to easily locate one prince among thousands of officials, guards, and merchants.
Arion quickly realized his grave mistake. His premature arrival had served only to bury him. With no direct command or escort, he couldn't simply ride up to Prince Valerius's court. He had to assume the role of an undercover agent, a difficult task for the famously recognizable Dragon-Slayer. He secured lodging at a small, discreet inn on the outskirts of the diplomatic district.
The days stretched into a weary week. Arion was tortured by the waiting. His body remained a battlefield: the morning sickness was a brutal daily ritual, and the demanding, insistent heat simmered constantly beneath his skin, making every minute a tightrope walk of control. He spent his days in a feverish, agonizing search for Kyon, relying on vague rumors and the directions of nervous local guards.
The worst part was the agonizing proximity of his target. The city, despite its size, was a dense ecosystem of the elite. Arion would sometimes linger near the official routes that led to the diplomatic compounds, his senses strained, hoping to catch a trace of the familiar amber scent.
But fate, it seemed, was determined to mock his desperation. He missed Kyon over and over again. Once, Arion was checking a map near a grand fountain when a procession of foreign dignitaries passed. He felt a sudden, sharp prickle on the back of his neck, a faint memory of the alpha's control. He spun around, but all he caught was the faint lingering scent of white tea and the quick flash of a black silk cape disappearing around the corner. He was a meter away, yet missed him completely.
Another time, Arion had stopped to rest by the wall of the Royal Exchange. He was doubled over, fighting a sudden wave of nausea and clutching his churning stomach. As he straightened, he saw a carriage pull rapidly away from the main entrance. Inside, shielded by dark glass, he saw a momentary glimpse of a serene, aristocratic profile—the perfect mask of Prince Kyon. He had been mere seconds too late.
The continuous near-misses added a new layer of frustration and futility to his anxiety. He was trapped in a city of shadows, constantly pursuing a ghost, all while his body was steadily preparing to reveal the one secret that could destroy him.
" damn it , I miss it again!" He doesn't wait for a moment to long and start following the carriage.
Arion sweat a lot more than intended to as he follows closely behind.