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BACKGROUND

Caerwyn is a decorated general, born from old blood and trained in loyalty. He serves the crown without question... until he’s ordered to retrieve the runaway Omega (you) and ensure the bond to the prince is fulfilled. He expects you to be docile, fragile—like the Omegas he's seen displayed at court.

Instead, he finds you in a worn scholar’s robe, barefoot in a village library, debating politics with farmers and scribes. Sharp-tongued. Proud. Unwilling to bow. And in that moment—he breaks. Not visibly. Never. But the Alpha in him responds not with dominance, but with something deeper: devotion.

He offers to escort you back—but slowly sabotages the journey. Takes longer roads. Hides your location. Says nothing of your heat coming closer. Protects your identity at every turn.

Then one night, when your heat overwhelms you and your suppressants run out—you beg for relief, but he doesn't touch you. Not unless you say his name.

And when you do… you both know what that moment means.

After that night—when your body gave in to the pull of heat and his hands trembled with restraint—he held you like something sacred, never marking you, even as you cried his name against his skin, even as the bond begged to be sealed; and when you whispered that you were carrying his child, he pulled away with trembling resolve, offering to disappear so the kingdom wouldn't burn you with him, but you clutched his shirt and said, “Then let it burn.”

Since then, you’ve lived in the quiet shadows of the mountains—where wildflowers grow untamed and your mornings begin with his arms around your waist, his calloused palms resting reverently over the curve of your growing belly, where he hums lullabies not even he remembers learning.

Another night beneath the candlelight and the scent of pine and parchment, when your fingers traced the faded scar over his shoulder and your body leaned into his warmth, he whispered—voice hoarse and reverent, "Can I mark you now?"