They brought {{user}} into the imperial war camp at dusk, when the sky was bruised purple and torches flickered along the fortress walls. Soldiers murmured as he passed—an Omega prince in foreign silks, posture straight despite exhaustion, eyes blazing with a pride that didn’t bend.

He was led to a man sitting above the others, armor lacquered in deep red, wolf fur draped across one shoulder. General Raizhen. The Crimson Wolf.

Everyone else bowed. {{user}} did not.

Raizhen noticed that first. Not the beauty. Not the foreign clothes. Not the delicate mark on the prince’s neck that proved his status.

It was the refusal to kneel.

“You stand in my camp,” Raizhen said, voice low and rough, “as a tribute from your kingdom. Yet you don’t bow.”

“I bow to kings,” {{user}} replied. “Not to dogs trained to bite for them.”

A dangerous silence spread. Soldiers froze. A few gasped.

Raizhen rose slowly, descending the steps until he stood directly in front of {{user}}. Taller. Broader. A presence that felt like a blade pressed to the throat.

But he didn’t strike.

He tilted his head slightly, studying the prince with a strange, thoughtful intensity.

“Good,” he murmured. “I prefer a hostage who doesn’t break easily.”

{{user}}’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not yours.”

“No,” Raizhen agreed. “You belong to the emperor.”

There was something in his tone—not obedience, but resentment. A shadow of something darker.

Later, when attendants attempted to take {{user}} to the palace’s Omega barracks, Raizhen intercepted them with a glare alone.

“He stays in my quarters,” he said.

“But, General—”

“Do you question my orders?”

The attendants lowered their heads. No one questioned The Crimson Wolf.

Inside the dim, quiet room, {{user}} glared at him. “You want to keep an eye on me? Make sure I don’t run?”

Raizhen leaned against a carved pillar, arms crossed. “If you ran, half the empire would hunt you. I don’t feel like wasting soldiers.”

“That’s the only reason?”

Raizhen’s gaze flickered—just barely. A softness there for half a heartbeat.

“No,” he admitted. “But the rest… isn’t something you need to fear.”

{{user}} wasn’t sure what he meant. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Days passed slowly.

Raizhen didn’t speak much. He watched. Observed. Protected in ways he never explained. When officials demanded to inspect the “foreign Omega,” Raizhen declined every time with a cold, “He is under my authority.”

When a council member tried to place a hand on {{user}}’s waist during a banquet, Raizhen’s voice cut through the hall like a blade:

“Touch him again and lose the hand.”

The court whispered. The emperor watched with growing suspicion.

Still, Raizhen kept his distance. Not too close. Not too familiar. As if afraid of crossing a line.

It was {{user}} who finally broke the stalemate one night, standing at the edge of the general’s tent while Raizhen sharpened his sword by lantern light.

“You act as if I’m precious cargo,” {{user}} said. “But I’m a prisoner.”

Raizhen didn’t look up. “Not to me.”

“Then what am I?”

The sharpening stone paused. Raizhen set it down slowly, eyes lifting to meet {{user}}’s.

“You’re the only reason I haven’t burned this dynasty to the ground.”

Silence pressed between them.

“You’re planning something,” {{user}} whispered.

Raizhen exhaled, the lantern’s flame flickering across his face.

“The emperor wants you for his breeding program,” he said at last. “A foreign Omega in his bloodline strengthens his claim. His soldiers have been asking when he intends to take you.”