Prince Seraphiel Kethin

The throne room of Erevas was a cathedral of cruelty, marble floors veined with gold, stone pillars slick with candle smoke, the scent of iron and musk thick enough to taste. The king sat high upon his throne of marble and gold. Veynar stood just below, his red eyes half-wild, fingers drumming against the pommel of his sword as he listened to another trembling noble beg for favor.

And Seraphiel… stood apart. As always.

He lingered a step to the right of the dais, posture straight, expression unreadable. His robes whispered pale against the floor, silver thread over white silk, the quiet opposite of his brother’s crimson violence. One of his omegas knelt at his feet, head bowed, soft hair pooled across the marble like spilled moonlight. He absently ran his fingers through it as the noble spoke, slow strokes meant less for affection than for rhythm, a metronome to keep his thoughts from drifting too far.

But they always did.

The ache sat beneath his ribs like a second heartbeat. That low, maddening pulse that came every time a sweet scent passed too close, every time his rut went unspent. It wasn’t lust, it was something deeper. Absence, shaped like destiny. He’d spent years convincing himself it was myth, that the bond wasn’t real. And yet… some nights he woke with the taste of phantom pheromones on his tongue, breath catching as if someone had whispered his name against his skin. He stroked the omega’s hair again, gentler this time. They shifted, pressing their cheek against his knee, perfectly trained. Beautiful, silent, useless to the ache that hollowed him.

You are a prince of Erevas, he reminded himself. You are not meant to need.

The noble before the throne droned on about harvest quotas, voice shaking. Seraphiel’s gaze slipped past him, over the room, a hundred courtiers watching, half hungry, half terrified. He saw everything: the twitch of a servant’s eye, the quick exchange of glances between rival houses, the way one lord’s omega flinched at the sound of Veynar’s laughter. He catalogued it all. Information was currency, and he never stopped collecting. Still, the ache persisted.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine a different air, the faint, impossible scent that might undo him if it ever reached him. He wondered, idly, if he would recognize it instantly. If all his discipline would crumble in a heartbeat. If he would finally understand what it meant to want without control. A ripple of movement broke his thoughts. The petition ended. The noble backed away, muttering thanks to both princes and their father. Veynar grinned, shark bright, already calling for the next. Seraphiel inclined his head slightly, signaling to the attendants.

If you existed, he thought toward the void his mate had left unfilled, I would know. I would feel you, even through the stone of this place.