Chapter 2: Control of the royal guards

The heavy iron bolt scraped back with a sound like a dying gasp.

Arthur pulled the door open just a crack, his body trembling so violently he had to lean his weight against the frame to remain standing. The air from the corridor rushed in, cool and sharp, but it did nothing to quench the fire roaring beneath his skin.

Malakor didn’t wait. He pushed the door open, his massive frame easily brushing past Arthur as he stepped into the chambers. He closed the heavy oak door behind him, the latch clicking into place with a definitive, horrifying finality.

For a second, Malakor just stood there. His chest expanded as he took a deep, deliberate breath of the room's atmosphere. His eyes darkened, the pupils dilating until the dark irises were almost entirely swallowed by black. The scent of sweet peaches and heavy honey was thick enough to taste, entirely stripped of the artificial, bitter alpha mask Arthur usually wore.

The raw, primal instinct struck Arthur like a physical blow.

Panic cut through the haze of heat.

Arthur stumbled backward, his right hand flying instantly to the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his hip. His fingers fumbled against the leather grip. "Stay back," he rasped, his voice raw. He tried to draw the blade, but his wrist was weak, the steel catching in the scabbard with an uncoordinated, metallic screech. "I am your King, Malakor. Step back."

Malakor didn’t stop. He advanced with slow, measured steps, his black cloak billowing softly behind him like the wings of a crow. He didn’t reach for his own weapon. He didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his alpha aura began to bleed into the room, a heavy, oppressive scent of crushed pine and winter frost that tore through Arthur’s defenses.

"You can barely hold your footing, let alone a blade," Malakor said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.

"I will take your head myself," Arthur choked out, his vision blurring as Malakor closed the distance. The heat in his belly flared, a desperate, traitorous part of what he was, screaming at him to drop the sword and sink to his knees before the dominant force in front of him. He gripped the hilt with both hands now, his knuckles white, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. "My father... my father named you his sworn brother. You swore an oath on his blood to protect his line. To protect me!"

Malakor stopped exactly three paces away. The tip of Arthur's trembling sword hovered inches from the center of the Regent’s chest.

Malakor looked down at the blade, then up into Arthur's flushed, sweat-slicked face. A cold, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Your father is in his tomb, Arthur. And I have kept my oath. I protected his line. That's why you sit on the throne."

He reached out, his gloved hand moving with lightning speed. He caught the flat of Arthur’s blade in his palm and twisted.

The sword was wrenched from Arthur’s weak grasp, clattering uselessly to the stone floor. Arthur gasped, his knees buckling, but Malakor caught him by the upper arm before he could hit the ground. The grip was iron, burning through the thin silk of Arthur’s torn shirt.

"Do not insult my intelligence by hiding behind a dead man's ghost," Malakor whispered, his face inches from Arthur's. "I have suspected for three years. Every missed tournament. Every sudden 'illness' during the changing of the seasons. The faint, sweet undertone you could never quite scrub from your skin. Today simply provided the proof."

Arthur writhed against the grip, his fingers clawing at Malakor’s forearm, but it was like trying to move a mountain. The heat was making him dizzy, his own sweet pheromones mixing with Malakor's sharp pine scent in a way that made his head spin.

"Then why?" Arthur breathed, his forehead pressing against Malakor’s chest as he fought to stay conscious. "If you knew... why didn't you speak? Why didn't you bring the lords into the chamber and watch them drag me from the throne?"

Malakor’s grip tightened, just enough to bruise. "Because I am a pragmatist." He lowered Arthur slightly, forcing him back until the King's spine hit the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. "If I exposed you today, the kingdom would drown in blood."

He leaned closer.

"You would die before sunrise."

He smirked.

"That is... if you were fortunate."

The harsh reality of the words acted like a bucket of ice water. Arthur’s eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog of his heat. He forced his spine straight, using the desk behind him for support, and shoved hard against Malakor’s chest.

This time, Malakor let him push him back. The Regent stepped away, giving the King space, his arms folding across his broad chest as he watched Arthur struggle for composure.

Arthur wiped a hand across his sweaty brow, his chest heaving. He pulled his torn collar together, trying to shield his throat, trying to summon the regal dignity he had practiced his entire life. He was still the King.

He wants something, Arthur thought to himself. He’s bargaining. Which means I still have leverage.

"So, you wish to play the savior," Arthur said, his voice stabilizing, though it was still a breathy whisper. He leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankle to hide the trembling in his knees. "You keep my secret, you keep the kingdom intact, and you keep your position. A tidy arrangement. We will continue as we were. I will find a stronger suppressant, and the council will be managed."

Malakor looked at him, his dark eyes filled with something close to pity. It made Arthur’s blood boil.

"Do you think I'm the only one who noticed?" Malakor asked softly.

The words hung in the air, heavy and sudden.

Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat. The false confidence he had just gathered shattered instantly. "What?"

"Vance is an old fool, but he has the nose of a hound," Malakor said, stepping around the spilled wine. "The dukes don't press for a marriage because they care about your happiness. They're convinced you have a weakness. A young king with no heir invites ambition. A queen would give them influence over the throne. They're circling because they want something over your head—Men like Vance don't wait for proof."

Arthur's stomach dropped.

Vance's lingering stare.

The whispered conversations that always stopped when he approached.

The careful questions about his health.

Arthur swallowed, his fingers digging into his palm.

The power dynamic in the room shifted entirely, the weight of the crown crushing Arthur down into the wood of the desk. He was completely at this man's mercy.

Arthur looked up, his eyes bright with a mixture of fever and raw vulnerability. He stopped trying to play the king.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked, the words barely audible.

Malakor stopped his pacing. He turned to face Arthur fully, his expression unreadable, a mask of pure, unyielding stone. He didn’t rush his answer. He let the silence stretch, letting Arthur taste the desperation, letting the sweet scent of the room remind them both of exactly what was at stake.

"Control of the Royal Guard," Malakor said.

Arthur went completely still. His heart seemed to stop beating entirely.

The Royal Guard.

The only soldiers in the capital who answered to the Crown alone.

Without them...

He wouldn't be king.

To hand them over was to surrender the throne.

Malakor added nothing else. He simply stood there, waiting, his dark gaze locked onto the shivering, broken King.

Arthur stared at him, his lips parted, but no sound came out.​