Winter sunlight streamed through Imperial Wing windows with the coldness of steel. Henri sat on the bed's edge, tracing his bandaged wrist. The throbbing reminded him of the pain endured to keep the jasmine buried beneath alchemical snow. The Cassia Extract left an internal scar, welding his soul to Yan's. He was not just the executioner; now the anchor, and the weight suffocated more than the layers of gray silk.
The side door creaked. Yan entered, already armored for travel. His black shoulder pads absorbed light, transforming him into a shadow against the pale marble. Ashes and storm marked his scent, but today, unease was stronger.
"Get ready," Yan ordered. His voice was a low thunderclap. "We'll leave for the Temple of the Frozen Sun at noon. The people need to see that the monster is still under control."
Henri stood up, feeling a wave of submission wash through his limbs, tinged with cold dread and longing he could not suppress.
"It's dangerous, Your Majesty. The Council is still biting its lip in fury after yesterday's hearing."
Yan stopped a few steps from Henri. The warmth emanating from him was an affront to the room's cold. He reached out his hand, but as his fingers hovered over the young man's bandaged wrist, the hesitation was sharp, almost vulnerable. His golden eyes, now calm but burning with feverish, desperate intensity, locked onto Henri's, pleading for trust that he couldn't voice.
"Danger is the only language this empire understands, Henri. And you will be my eyes in the shadows. Lucius and the official guards will remain on the perimeter. You will stay with me. Inside the carriage."
The journey to the temple, situated in the hills overlooking the capital, was marked by the rhythmic sound of horses' hooves against the frozen ground. Inside the imperial carriage, the space was cramped, a wooden and velvet box that forced an unwanted intimacy. Henri felt Yan's every movement. The emperor's knee brushing against his sent shocks of electricity through the alchemical inhibitor. The smell of Yan's burnt wood filled the air, making it dense, almost liquid.
Henri watched the landscape through the gap in the curtain. Snow-covered straw huts, masking misery with silent whiteness. Somewhere in the hills, his clan brothers waited for the signal—for the Berserker's death. The dagger in his thigh felt unbearably heavy.
"What do you see?" Yan asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
"A people who fear the sun, Your Majesty," Henri replied, without taking his eyes off the window.
"They don't fear the sun. They fear the eclipse," Yan leaned forward, forcing Henri to look at him. "You sacrificed your own flesh yesterday to protect me. Why? An assassin doesn't die for his victim. A tribute doesn't burn for his master."
The question hung in the air, heavy with suspicion and a longing Yan struggled to smother beneath his curiosity. Henri tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue from his own tense, bitten lip—fear and shame intermingled, sharp as glass.
"I didn't do it for you," Henri lied, his voice coming out as an icy whisper. "I did it for my survival. If you fall, I'll be the first one executed by the ministers." The words were meant to convince Yan—and maybe himself—that self-preservation was his only reason, masking any conflicted loyalty beneath necessity.
Yan let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle, his eyes shadowed with disappointment as his gaze flicked away from Henri's face.
A convenient lie. But its scent suggested otherwise in the library.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
Upon arriving at the Temple of the Frozen Sun, the reception was glacial. The priests, shrouded in white robes, bowed with a reverence that seemed more an act of fear than respect. Yan descended from the chariot with the arrogance of a fallen god. Henri followed him, two steps back, his hands hidden in his sleeves, his senses on high alert. The air up there was thin, and the scent of myrrh incense battled against the stormy smell that Yan exuded.
The ceremony was brief and tense. Yan stood before the stone altar, offering the blood of a hunted beast to the winter deities. It was the moment he turned to bless the crowd of peasants that the first sign of danger appeared.
A sharp whistle ripped through the cold air.
"Get down!" Henri roared.
His body reacted before his mind could process the command. He leaped upon Yan, knocking the emperor against the stone altar at the exact instant a black-tipped arrow pierced the wood of the ceremonial throne, where Yan's head had been seconds before.
Chaos erupted. Panicked screams echoed through the temple columns. Lucius and the guards drew their swords, but the attackers weren't coming from the entrance. They emerged from the ceiling beams and from behind the statues of the gods. They were shadows dressed in gray—Henri's clan.
"Treason!" Lucius shouted.
Henri felt a chill in his stomach that had nothing to do with the weather. Recognition hit like a punch—those movements, so familiar, so precise. The 'Silent Step' technique. It was his brothers. Shame and panic raced through him; they had come to finish what he had started.
Yan rose from the ground, his fury awakening like a dormant volcano. His golden eyes began to blaze with an inhuman light. The smell of ashes became unbearable, a suffocating cloud that made even the nearest attackers falter.
"Stay behind me!" Yan ordered Henri, drawing his black steel sword. The blade emitted a vibrant sound, a death song that seemed to resonate in Henri's bones.
Three assassins advanced simultaneously. Yan moved with an agility that belied his size. He was a blur of brute strength and deadly precision. The first enemy sword was broken in two by the impact of his blade; the second found empty space as he spun his body; the emperor's armored arm blocked the third. With a roar, Yan delivered a sideways blow that cut through air and flesh, felling two of the men with frightening ease.
But Henri saw what Yan did not. A fourth assassin, positioned in the shadows of a statue, was preparing a crossbow loaded with a green-tipped dart. Paralysis poison.
Henri did not hesitate. He drew his own dagger, the black steel gleaming in the torchlight. With a fluid movement, he threw the weapon. The dagger flew across the hall, plunging into the shooter's throat before the trigger could be pulled. The man fell silently, the dart firing harmlessly against the ceiling.
Yan turned to Henri, his eyes wide with confusion, edged in betrayal. He had seen the technique. He had seen the precision. That wasn't the movement of a healthcare worker. It was the movement of a master of death—and the realization stung, casting a shadow of doubt between them.
"Where did you learn that?" Yan asked, his voice distorted by the onset of the outburst.
There was no time for answers. More shadows emerged. The number of attackers was greater than expected. The clan had sent an elite force. They wanted Yan dead at any cost, even if it meant exposing Henri.
Yan began to lose control. The golden gleam in his eyes turned into a liquid flame. He stopped using his sword technique and began to fight like a wounded animal. He grabbed an assassin by the neck and hurled him against a marble column with such force that the sound of breaking bones echoed throughout the temple. The aroma of burning wood gave way to the acrid smell of wildfire smoke. Yan was entering Berserker mode.
"Your Majesty, control yourself!" Henri shouted, fighting off two assassins who were trying to surround him.
Henri moved with the precision of a deadly dance. He didn't use brute force; he used his opponents' inertia against them. A kick to the knee, a strike with the base of his hand to the trachea, a quick spin to avoid a blade. He was a ghost among men. But his gaze never left Yan.
The emperor was now kneeling, his head in his hands, his sword firmly planted in the ground for support. His bursts of rage were accompanied by excruciating pain, as if his brain were being cooked alive. The remaining assassins sensed his weakness. They ignored Lucius's guards and charged at the vulnerable monarch.
Henri realized he couldn't stop them in time with his bare hands. Seeing Yan collapsing and the assassins closing in, he felt desperation rise. He needed something more to protect Yan—a surge of duty both for his own safety and for reasons his heart refused to name. He needed the anchor.
He rushed toward Yan, sliding across the stone floor to avoid a sword strike. He threw himself over the emperor, shielding his body with his own. The assassins paused for a second, confused by the "tribute's" action.
"Get away from him!" Henri roared.
He closed his eyes and, with an effort of will that seemed to tear his own meridians, he broke the inner seal of the inhibitor. Not just a crack, as he had done before. He flung open the doors.
The scent of night-blooming jasmine exploded in the temple. It wasn't a perfume; it was a shockwave of icy purity. The smell was so intense it seemed visible, a bluish mist that spread to every corner of the hall. The clan's assassins, trained to be insensitive to ordinary pheromones, recoiled, suffocated by the force of that divine essence. It was the scent of a pure-blooded omega in full potency, something most of the men there had never smelled.
Yan, who was on the verge of total collapse, inhaled the jasmine. The effect was immediate. The fire in his blood met Henri's glacier. The emperor let out a deep sigh, his body relaxing against Henri's. The golden gleam in his eyes softened, and consciousness returned.
Taking advantage of the attackers' hesitation, Lucius and the imperial guards finally regained control. They advanced with renewed fury, eliminating the last shadows with brutal efficiency. The temple, once a place of worship, had become a morgue.
Henri remained embraced by Yan, their breaths ragged, the jasmine still swirling around them like the echo of a held confession. Henri's chest burned with the terror of exposure; Lucius had seen it. The guards had seen it. The survivors had seen it. He shut his eyes, everything trembling at the edge of unraveling.
Yan stepped back slightly, looking at Henri with astonishment flickering into a fierce, possessive longing. He ignored the blood streaking his face and Henri's dagger lying on the floor, his hands cupping the young man's face with an urgency that bordered on desperation—blurring the line between gratitude, fear, and desire.
"You..." Yan murmured, his voice trembling. "You're not just the cure. You're my match. Destiny isn't an old man's tale. You're real."
Henri looked at the bodies of his clan brothers scattered on the ground. He had betrayed his people. He had saved the monster. The vengeance he had cultivated for years had been killed by the very biological instinct he had tried to suppress.
Lucius approached, his sword dripping blood. He looked at Henri with an expression that wavered between military respect and utter horror.
"Your Majesty," said the General, his voice hoarse. "We need to leave. More of them may be on their way. And we have much to discuss about... your assistant."
Yan stood up, pulling Henri with him. He didn't let go of the young man's hand. The grip was firm, a promise that he would never be alone again, but also that he would never be free again.
"There's nothing to discuss, Lucius," Yan said, his imperial authority returning with renewed force. "Henri saved your Emperor's life. He proved his loyalty. Anyone who questions his nature or his position from now on will be treated as a traitor to the crown."
They walked back to the carriage under the guards' silent gaze. The people, hidden in the trees' shadows, watched the scene with a new kind of dread. The Berserker was no longer alone; he had found his anchor, and the empire would never be the same again.
Inside the carriage, on the way back to the palace, the silence was different. The scent of jasmine and ashes mingled perfectly in the enclosed space. Yan didn't take his eyes off Henri.
"Why did you save me?" Yan asked again. "You're a murderer. I saw how you move. I saw how you threw that dagger. You came to kill me, didn't you?"
Henri looked at his own hands. They were stained with the blood of his clan. He felt the weight of the mark on his wrist, which now glowed softly beneath the bandage.
"Yes," Henri admitted, the truth escaping as a painful sigh. "I came to be your end."
Yan gave a sad smile and leaned down, kissing Henri's forehead. A gesture of tenderness that seemed more devastating than any sword blow.
"Then why is fate so cruel, Henri?" Yan whispered. "Why did it send the only person capable of killing me as the only person capable of keeping me alive?"
Henri didn't answer. He closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the swaying of the carriage.