The silence in the imperial chambers hung heavy. Only the crackle of firewood and the splash of water into the copper tub broke it. Henri plunged in, letting the heat scald his skin, marked by his brothers' dried blood. The clear water turned a pale, funeral pink. Each drop on his scars felt like lead. He was no longer the invisible assassin from the north. He was now the traitor who had saved the tyrant, the omega who exposed his scent to protect the monster he was meant to slay.
He closed his eyes. Darkness brought back the Temple of the Icy Sun: the steel's glint, the shock in the first assassin's gaze, and above all, Yan's warmth at his back. The alchemical inhibitor was in tatters within him. Jasmine, once stifled, now bloomed in his mind with force. It answered the ashes lingering in the next room.
The water is cooling down.
Yan's voice emerged from the shadows. Henri didn't move. He didn't need to look; he knew the Emperor was near the door, watching with that golden intensity that read not just his movements, but his lineage.
"Did the blood come out?" Yan's voice was low as he approached. His steps were slow, but the scent of burnt wood already filled the small space, making the steam in the bathtub vibrate.
"The blood from the skin washes away with water. The blood of the spirit is more persistent," Henri answered quietly, his voice echoing against the metal of the bathtub. "You should be being treated by Doctor Sun. The outbreak at the temple was severe."
Yan stopped beside the bathtub. He reached out, and for a moment, Henri tensed his muscles, ready to attack or flee. But the Emperor took the silk sponge and began to clean Henri's back with a gentleness bordering on the absurd.
"Sun wants to prick me with needles and give me teas that blur my vision," Yan replied, brushing off Henri's rigidity. "He doesn't understand that the cure isn't in a bottle. It's right here. In this aroma, you tried to hide as if it were a disease."
Henri felt Yan's touch through the water. A complex warmth transcended the physical, intensifying Henri's turmoil. The mark on his wrist, hidden beneath the surface, pulsed at a frequency that made him want to cry and scream at the same time—his fear and pain suddenly surging. The bond of destiny was not a blessing; as Henri realized this, guilt mingled with dread, wrapping him in a golden collar.
"I am an assassin, Your Majesty," Henri spat, turning to face Yan. The water spilled over, soaking the marble floor and the imperial boots. "I was trained to cut your throat. The men I killed in the temple… they were my only family. I sacrificed them for an instinct I didn't even know I possessed. Don't treat me as if I were your salvation. I am your greatest mistake."
Yan dropped the sponge. He leaned over the tub, closing the distance between their faces until Henri could see the tiny golden sparks in the Alpha's pupils.
"Then why didn't you finish the job?" Yan murmured. "I was on my knees. The fire was consuming me. You had the dagger. Why did you throw the steel at them and not at me?"
Henri opened his mouth to reply, preparing to spit out some lie about strategy or survival, but the scent of jasmine betrayed his lips. He felt shame and resignation as the icy, pure perfume filled the bathroom, enveloping Yan like a caress. Henri recognized, with sudden clarity, that this was the answer his body gave, regardless of his mind's wishes.
"See?" Yan gave a sad, almost tender smile. "The assassin wants me dead, but my destined partner wants me alive. I'll spend the rest of my days trying to figure out which one of you will win, Henri."
News of the "Miraculous Omega" spread through the palace before sunrise. Whispers raced along the corridors like hungry rats. Servants who had once avoided Henri now bowed, fear twisted into superstitious reverence. To the court, Henri was no longer an insignificant tribute; he was now the celestial being who had calmed the Berserker with jasmin.e.
General Lucius was the first to confront reality. He entered Yan's office the following morning, where Henri was sitting at the side table, trying to organize reports from distant provinces to keep his hands busy.
"The Council is in turmoil, Your Majesty," Lucius announced, shooting a sharp glance at Henri before fixing his gaze on the young man. "They call the boy 'The Jewel of the North.' There are poets in the capital writing odes to the scent that saved the Emperor. But Minister Zhao is furious. He says that a pure-blooded omega without official registration is an affront to imperial law."
Yan, reviewing a tactical map, did not raise his eyes.
Zhao can write whatever laws he wants. I am the source of the law.
"Your Majesty, this isn't just about laws," Lucius insisted, stepping forward and lowering his voice. "The northern clan failed in their attempt, but they now know that Henri is a destined partner. Other clans will be interested. If you have a weakness, and that weakness smells of jasmine, the whole world will try to pluck that flower from your garden to watch you burn."
Henri felt the weight of Lucius's words. Waves of worry, then dread, washed over him as he realized he wasn't just an assistant; he was a bigger target than the Emperor himself, intensifying his sense of responsibility and vulnerability.
"Henri is not a weakness," Yan said, standing. He put his hand on Henri's shoulder—as possessive a public show of dominance that made Henri grit his teeth."He is my strength. If Zhao or any other clan tries to touch him, I'll make the temple outbreak look like child's play."
The training sessions began on the third night after the attack. Yan had realized that Henri's scent was more than a passive sedative; it was an anchor he needed to learn to deploy before the fire reached the point of no return.
They locked themselves in the meditation room, a circular enclosure of cold stone, devoid of furniture except for two straw mats in the center.
"Sit down," Henri ordered. He wasn't using the servant's voice. In that space, he was the instructor of a discipline Yan had never known: the absolute control of the senses.
Yan obeyed, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. Henri sat down in front of him, inches away.
"Your fire isn't an illness, Yan," Henri began, his voice echoing softly. "It's an excess of Alpha energy that has nowhere to flow. You try to suppress it, only to increase the pressure. You need to learn to circulate this energy through the bond."
"How?" Yan asked, sweat already beading on his forehead from the effort of concentrating.
Close your eyes. Find the warm spot in your chest. Now, seek my scent. Don't look for it in the air. Look for it within yourself. The bond has already stitched our systems together. The jasmine is in your blood now.
Henri took Yan's hands. The contact was like opening a dam. Yan's fur—ash and electricity— surged against Henri's mind. The assassin hesitated, his mind invaded by war and pain, but didn't let go.
"Focus on the ice," Henri hissed, forcing his own pheromones out. "Imagine the snow covering the fire. Don't try to extinguish the flame. Just calm it. Use the jasmine as a veil."
Yan gasped, his nails digging into Henri's hands. For a moment, the scent of ashes was so strong Henri thought his lungs would ignite. But slowly, a balance emerged. Jasmine enveloped ash, creating an aroma that was both complex and stable.
It was the first time Yan had felt fury without pain. He opened his eyes, and the gold was clear, limpid as honey under the sun.
"I can feel you," Yan whispered, astonished. "I'm not just smelling you. I feel your fear. I feel your guilt for your brothers."
Henri pulled his hands back, his face becoming a mask of coldness once more.
"The bond is a two-way street, Your Majesty. That's why it's dangerous. If you fall, I fall. If I die, a part of you dies too."
"Then I'll make sure you never die," Yan said, the determination in his voice more terrifying than any outburst.
While a fragile peace settled in the meditation hall, danger outside took new forms. Minister Zhao was not alone in the conspiracy. He met in the dungeo shadows with an envoy from the Blood Lotus, a clan known for forbidden alchemy.
"The Emperor has found his cure," Zhao said, watching the envoy fiddling with a vial of emerald liquid. "But a cure can become a poison if the dosage is altered."
"The omega is strong," the envoy replied, his voice distorted by an iron mask. "He withstood the cassia. But he won't withstand the Dragon's Blood. If we inject that into the anchor, the whole ship will sink."
Zhao smiled. He didn't need to kill the Emperor with a sword. He only needed to corrupt the one thing that kept him sane.