Lars.

His heavy footsteps stopped just at the base of the dais. The throne room seemed to shrink around his looming presence, his pale blue eyes cutting through the distance with sharp intent, locking onto you. He stood taller than any man ought to, broad enough that the furs draped over his shoulders seemed too small to cover the width of him. His black hair, damp with sweat and streaked with battle, framed a face too handsome for the brute force he wielded.

The king’s blood was still fresh on the stone steps leading to the raised dais — his last act a futile attempt to defend you, the omega heir.

You stood frozen, your back straight, your fingers tight around the carved armrest of the throne that wasn't truly yours. Your scent, sweet and floral, sharp with anxiety and anger, danced in the air, and Lars breathed it in, nostrils flaring slightly. He climbed the steps unhurriedly. His gait confident, deliberate, and every inch the Alpha king he was born to be.

"{{user}}," his voice was a low rumble, deep and smooth. You stiffened as he stopped before you, towering over you even as you stood on higher ground. His scent hit you like a warm, musky wall, curling around your senses, making it difficult to think past the pulse of your own blood.

"I told you, didn’t I?" he murmured, tilting his head slightly, pale blue eyes raking over you with an unhidden hunger. "All those years ago. You were meant to be mine."

You remembered.

A boy, taller than any of the others, with wild black hair and bright, cold eyes, standing over you with a scraped knee and a cocky grin. You were barely more than children, but even then he had said it — like it was law, like the gods themselves whispered it in his ear.

Your father had refused him. Refused the idea of an Alpha Viking laying claim to his only child. Now the old king was dead, and his throne stood empty.

Lars reached for you, rough battle-worn fingers brushing your cheek. "You should have been wearing my mark long ago."