*We return now to the moment the guards came back empty-handed, their failure echoing through the marble halls like a death knell. This was before the King stepped into the forbidden wing before his shadow fell across the door where Soren hid.*
----
The boots struck the floor in perfect rhythm, heavy as war drums, but their silence was louder than steel. Ecclesias stood at the center of the grand hall, still as a blade unsheathed. His gaze swept over them, cold and precise.
"Nothing?" His voice was soft, almost bored. That was worse than fury.
One guard swallowed hard. "We searched every wing, Your Majesty. The scent… it's gone."
Gone. Ecclesias's jaw tightened. He could still feel it faint, elusive, curling through the air like a whisper of defiance. Rare. Dangerous. Perfect. And they had failed to bring it to him.
"Do you know," he said, his tone velvet over steel, "what failure costs?"
The hall froze. No one spoke. Then came the sound a single command, quiet and lethal. "On your knees."
Armor clattered as the guards obeyed. Ecclesias didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Power curled through the silence like smoke. "You had one task. One." His gaze cut like frost. "Strip rank. Strip privilege. You will serve until your bones break."
The punishment fell like a blade, and whispers rippled through the palace. Servants scattered, fear sharp in their eyes. Everyone knew what it meant when the King moved like this calm, deliberate, merciless.
Ecclesias turned, his coat sweeping the marble. "Clear the corridors," he said. "I will find it myself."
The words struck like thunder. A King did not enter servant spaces. A King did not hunt. But Ecclesias was already moving, his steps slow, unhurried, lethal.
"Your Majesty—" Kael, his attendant, voice tight with alarm. "It's beneath you. Allow me—"
"Step aside." The command was quiet, but Kael felt it like a blade at his throat. He obeyed, though his hands trembled as he opened the passage to the servant wing. Behind him, whispers bloomed like poison.
---
Servants huddled in corners, voices sharp with disbelief.
"The King… in the servant wing?"
"This has never happened."
"What does it mean?"
"Someone's life is already over."
Another voice, hushed and trembling: "Where is Soren? He was serving wine earlier…"
"Gone,he didn't feel well, so he asked to rest." someone whispered back.
"And now the King is hunting. Oh my God I hope he's okay and will not get in trouble for it... "
"Shh, the king is here."
Fear rippled like a storm through the corridors. They pressed themselves against the walls, heads bowed, eyes wide as Ecclesias advanced with his guards and Kael at his side. His presence bent the air, heavy and suffocating. His coat swept the floor black velvet stitched with gold, boots gleaming like obsidian. His hair was a crown of midnight, his eyes shards of ice, narrowing with hunger and calculation.
Kael dared again, voice low, urgent. "Your Majesty, this is not—"
"Not what?" Ecclesias's tone was silk stretched over steel. He didn't look at Kael, didn't slow his stride. "Not proper? Not expected?" His lips curved in a shadow of a smile, cold and lethal. "I do not care for expectation."
Kael fell silent. He knew better than to press further.
The sound came first boots striking marble in perfect rhythm, slow and deliberate, like a drumbeat announcing doom. Each step echoed down the corridor, heavy enough to make the air tremble. Soren felt it before he heard it, a vibration crawling up his spine, tightening around his throat.
*He's coming. He's really coming here.*
Soren crouched in the linen storage room, heart pounding like a trapped bird. Sweat streaked the powder on his jaw, dampened his collar. His mask was unraveling, piece by fragile piece. He clutched the edge of the shelf, forcing his breath to steady, but nausea twisted his stomach, bitter as the pill still burning his tongue.
*Don't shake. Don't let him see. If he touches me, it's over.*
The suppressant dulled his pheromones to a whisper, but it couldn't erase them. They clung to him like silk threads, faint but persistent. Incense from the banquet masked some of it; drafts scattered the rest. For now, it was enough to confuse the guards. For now.
But not him.
Ecclesias moved like a shadow carved from steel, his steps slow, unhurried, lethal. His scent flooded the corridor dominance sharp as steel, warm undertones curling like smoke. It coiled around Soren like chains, dragging his instincts to the surface despite the suppressant clawing at his veins.
*This isn't chance,* Ecclesias thought, his gaze locking on the trembling figure behind the door. *It's inevitability. The world bends for this moment.*
"Open the door," he said, his voice velvet over steel.
Chel hesitated. "Your Majesty, that room—"
"Now."
The handle turned.
---
The door closed behind him with a muted click, sealing the silence like a trap. Soren's breath shattered. He didn't move. Couldn't. The air felt heavier now, charged with something sharp and electric, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Ecclesias stood just inside the threshold, his presence filling the narrow room like a storm. His expression was carved in cold elegance jaw tight, lips curved in a predatory calm. His eyes, shards of ice, flickered with something darker. Hunger. Not crude, not impatient something sharper, more dangerous. A hunger that didn't devour. It claimed.
He moved closer, each step measured, unhurried, like a predator savoring the hunt. The faint trace of Soren's scent delicate, elegant, a contradiction of warmth and frost coiled through the air, teasing him like silk threads. Even dulled by herbs and powder, it cut through incense and detergent like a blade.
This isn't chance, Ecclesias thought, his gaze locking on the trembling figure. It's inevitability. The world bends for this moment.
"Why," he said at last, his voice low, magnetic, velvet over steel, "are you hiding?"
The question sliced through the silence like a blade. Soren's throat closed. Words tangled and died before they could form. He swallowed hard, tasting ash and fear.
"I… I wasn't—" His voice cracked, fragile as glass. He hated the sound. Hated the weakness in it.
Ecclesias inhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as the sound curled through him like smoke. Even his fear sounded like surrender. How could weakness feel like power?
"You weren't hiding," the King repeated, softer now, dangerous in its calm. "Then why does fear cling to you like frost?"
Soren's breath shattered. His body screamed to obey, to bow, to yield, but his mind clawed for escape, for invisibility, for survival.
"I'm just… tired," he managed, forcing the words past lips that felt numb. "The banquet ... too much work."
Ecclesias studied him in silence, and Soren felt stripped bare under that stare. Every lie, every mask, every fragile thread of control unraveling.
The King's hand lifted, slow, deliberate. Not to touch. Not yet. Just enough to make the air tremble between them. His scent surged, flooding the room dominance sharp as steel, warm undertones curling like smoke. It wrapped around Soren's lungs, dragging his body toward a surrender he fought with every shred of will.
"You smell," Ecclesias murmured, his voice a velvet blade, "like temptation carved into flesh."
Soren's pulse shattered. Sweat beaded at his temple, streaking the powder on his skin. His collar clung damp against his throat. His breath came in shallow bursts, trembling like glass. He wanted to speak, to deny, to run but the door was closed, and the King was between him and freedom.
Ecclesias stepped closer, until the space between them was a breath, a heartbeat, a blade's edge. His voice dropped lower, lethal in its calm.
"You can hide from guards. You can hide from the world." His eyes burned like frostfire, hunger coiling in their depths. "But you cannot hide from me."