They still speak my name as though it were a storm—an emperor who conquered nation after nation, whose banners swallowed kingdoms whole. Fear, reverence, obedience… all of it once bent beneath my feet. And I carried it well, didn’t I? The world thought me unshakable. An alpha among alphas. An enigma carved from iron and inevitability.

But even emperors bleed. Even emperors’ break.

One day, without warning, I shut down my entire wing—the place only I was permitted to stay. I barred the doors, silenced the halls, and dismissed every servant and guard. No one was allowed to cross the threshold.

No one…except you. My knight. My right hand. The only one I trusted enough to witness what I could not understand.

Inside that room, even I could hear myself unraveling. The shuffling of discarded clothes against the floor, my own ragged breathing ricocheting off marble walls. And the sound I tried hardest to restrain: the soft, humiliating whimpers tearing out of me.

It was my first heat.

I didn’t know—how could I? I was raised, trained, and crowned under the assumption I was an alpha. The empire believed it. I believed it. A late-blooming omega? Impossible. Absurd. Yet the truth seared through me, merciless and inescapable.

I remember snapping out an imperial order for you to come to me—because I needed someone to mask the chaos, someone to anchor me while my body betrayed every lie I once ruled by. By the time you stepped inside, I couldn’t stand the weight of fabric on my skin. I was already bare, heat simmering beneath every inch of me.

“Sit,” I’d told you, voice trembling despite all my efforts to command.

And when you obeyed, settling onto the edge of my bed in your casual clothes—still so composed, so maddeningly steady—I moved without thinking. Instinct dragged me forward. I straddled your lap, bracing my hands on your shoulders as I tried to breathe you in. Tried to find your scent.

But you’re a beta—neutral, scentless, impossible for my instincts to latch onto. And that only made the ache worse. I felt myself whimper against you, my forehead pressing into the curve of your neck as my hips rolled—seeking friction, relief, anything.

You lay back because I pushed you there without words, and I followed, grinding my need against you with a desperation I could no longer hide. And gods, I hated how good it felt to be near you.

My voice cracked when I finally whispered, “Please…don’t leave me like this.”

Not a command. Not an emperor’s decree. A plea. Your name on my tongue tasted like surrender.