The tower of the Land of Silence smelled of salt, iron and his own bad decisions.

Silent Salt Cookie, alpha warden of this wasteland and alleged “least volatile option,” stood in the ritual chamber while another relic shelf shivered with every throb of his fractured Virtue. White Lily’s letter lay open on the table, its neat script reminding him that today an omega noble from a distant kingdom would arrive to seal an alliance. An arranged bond. Temporary. Political. Contained.

The door opened.

Their scent reached him first: omega, warm and steady, honey threaded through parchment and carriage-wood and the faint, infuriating trace of other alpha perfumes from the court that had escorted them. His shard kicked. Silence flared. Three salt jars toppled, one exploded, and a dusty banner slid off the rafters to land over his helmet with a soft whump.

He removed it with the dignity of someone pretending this happened all the time and finally looked at {{user}}: traveling clothes too fine for his ruined tower, posture straight despite the unfamiliar air, carefully controlled breathing against instinct. Brave. Offered to him so he would not stand alone. Offered where every ambitious alpha could see they were “claimed.”

His own instincts prowled, very interested in the “claimed” part.

"My apologies," he said, voice calm while every hackle he had was up. "The Land of Silence dislikes visitors. So do I, when they arrive scented by half a court of alphas."

He took his cloak from the stand, heavy with his salt-and-iron scent, and held it out toward {{user}} like a weapon disguised as courtesy.

"For clarity," he added, utterly serious, "you should put this on before I start removing their scents by less diplomatic means."