Chapter 3: Should I bring in an alpha?

Arthur stared at him. The word *no* swelled in his throat, hot and choked, but it died before it could pass his lips.

Malakor wasn't even hiding it anymore. The polite veneer of the loyal Regent, the thin layer of courtly deference they had both performed for years, had been stripped away like rotten bark. To demand the Royal Guard was to strip Arthur of his skin. Those three thousand blades were the only wall between the King and the hungry wolves of the council chamber. Handing them over didn't just put a sword to his neck—it handed Malakor the hilt.

"You..." Arthur's voice cracked. He gripped the edge of the mahogany desk so tightly his fingernails dug into the polished wood, leaving faint crescent scars. "You dare."

"I dare, precisely what is necessary to keep your head on your shoulders, Your Majesty," Malakor said. His tone remained perfectly level, flat as a frozen lake, which only made the threat sharper.

"The Guard answers only to the reigning monarch," Arthur breathed, a cold sweat breaking out across his collarbone, clashing violently with the fever burning in his lower belly. "If I sign them over to you, I am no longer a king. I am a captive in my own palace."

Malakor tilted his head, a dark strand of hair falling across his forehead. He took a single step closer, the heavy scent of pine and winter frost thickening, intentionally pressing down on Arthur’s compromised senses.

"You may refuse," Malakor said softly. He reached out, his leather-gloved finger catching the edge of Arthur’s chin, forcing the younger man to look up into his dark eyes. "The choice is entirely yours. You can walk back into that council chamber tomorrow, bare your throat to Vance and Collins, and see how long your crown stays on. There are many men in this court who would gladly put a real sword to your neck, Arthur. I am merely offering you a shield. For a price."

Arthur flinched away from the touch, his head spinning from the brief contact. His skin felt like it was on fire, his internal organs aching with the desperate, primal urge to simply collapse and submit to the overwhelming alpha presence in the room. But beneath the haze of the heat, beneath the terrifying vulnerability of his omega biology, the blood of kings still ran. He could not win a physical fight. He could not win a battle of raw command.

He had to use the only weapon he had left: ink.

He forced his breathing to slow, swallowing down the thick, sweet taste of his own panic. He looked at Malakor, keeping his eyes steady even as his body trembled.

"The Guard will not follow you blindly, Malakor," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a strained, rough whisper. "They are sworn to the bloodline. If you march into their barracks with a piece of paper signed in secret, the commanders will suspect treason. There will be an uprising before nightfall."

Malakor’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't speak, waiting for the trap to spring.

"You may have the Guard," Arthur said, the words tearing out of his chest like jagged glass. "But under one condition."

A tense silence filled the space between them. Malakor watched him, his posture shifting from predatory confidence to sharp, calculating suspicion. He looked for the trick in the King's eyes, searching the flushed face and the clouded, feverish gaze for a hidden play.

"Speak," Malakor commanded.

"You may issue commands in my name," Arthur said, his fingers tightening on the desk as another wave of heat rolled through him, making his vision momentarily blur. "But every order must bear the Crown's written seal within twenty-four hours. Without it, the order is void, and the commander who obeyed it answers for treason."

Malakor stood perfectly still. His dark brows knitted together as he turned the condition over in his mind, dissecting it with the cold precision of a veteran general.

Arthur held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

It was his last bid for control.

Without the royal seal, Malakor remained tethered to the throne.

A golden leash.

Short.

Tight.

But a leash nonetheless.

Malakor was silent for a long moment.

His thumb traced the pommel of his dagger.

"Agreed."

He stepped back, the oppressive weight of his aura lifting just enough for Arthur to catch a shallow, ragged breath. "The decree will be drawn up tonight. You will sign it before the morning session."

Arthur closed his eyes, a tiny, involuntary shudder passing through his shoulders. He didn't trust his voice to answer.

Malakor turned toward the door, his heavy black cloak sweeping across the stone floor. He paused with his hand on the iron latch, looking back over his shoulder at the crumpled figure of the King.

“Fix your condition before tomorrow.” Malakor said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. "You will be seen at court. The court will be watching your every movement, and I will not have my investment ruined because you cannot control your own skin."

The door clicked open, then shut. The heavy bolt did not slide back into place from the outside, but the silence that returned to the room was absolute.

Arthur waited. One second. Five seconds. Ten. He listened to the distant, fading echo of Malakor’s heavy boots down the stone corridor.

The moment the sound vanished completely, the last thread of Arthur’s strength snapped.

His knees gave out entirely. He slid down the side of the mahogany desk, his royal robes bunching around him as he collapsed onto the hard floor. He pressed his face against the cool stone, a choked, agonizing sob tearing from his throat. The heat surged back with terrifying, unchecked ferocity, a wave of liquid fire that made his entire body writhe. His fingers clawed at the rug, his chest heaving as the sweet, heavy scent of peaches and honey bloated the air of the room, thick enough to suffocate.

A shadow fell over him.

Arthur gasped, flinching back against the desk, his hand blindly reaching for the sword he had dropped earlier.

"Your majesty! My Liege, it’s me."

A figure dropped to its knees beside him. It wasn't Malakor. It was Liran, the commander of his personal shadow guard—the only man in the entire palace who knew the truth, a beta whose own scentless nature made him the perfect keeper of the King’s secrets. Liran had entered through the hidden servant's passage behind the tapestry.

Liran’s hands were gentle but firm as he caught Arthur’s shoulders, lifting the King's head from the stone floor. "My Liege, he is gone. The corridor is clear. I watched him leave the wing."

Arthur’s eyes were wild, the pupils almost entirely dilated, his skin burning to the touch through his silk shirt. He grabbed Liran’s tunic, his knuckles white, his breath coming in short, pathetic gasps. "The... the vial," Arthur choked out, his mind fracturing under the weight of the fever. "In my pocket. Get it."

Liran quickly reached into Arthur’s doublet, pulling out the dark blue glass vial. He popped the wax seal with a dagger and held it to Arthur’s lips. Arthur drank it greedily, the bitter, burning liquid scraping down his throat. But even as the medicine hit his stomach, they both knew it was too late for simple suppressants. The heat had broken through the dam. The double dosage earlier had caused a violent, volatile backfire.

Arthur slumped against Liran’s chest, his body shaking with deep, systemic tremors, a low, miserable whine escaping his throat. The room was a trap of his own pheromones, a beacon that would draw any alpha within a mile if the wind shifted.

Liran looked down at his King, his face tight with grim realization. The medicine would only dull the pain; it wouldn't stop the biological demand. Arthur was burning alive from the inside out.

"My Liege," Liran whispered urgently, leaning close so his voice wouldn't carry past the heavy drapes. He looked toward the barred windows, then back to Arthur’s sweat-slicked, flushed face. "The suppressants aren't going to hold it. Not this time. You won't make it to the morning session like this."

Arthur gripped Liran's arm, his eyes pleading, though he didn't even know what he was asking for.

Liran swallowed hard, his voice dropping into a desperate, hushed tone. "Should I... should I bring in an alpha?"