Altair’s pen scratched steadily against the parchment, the faint scent of ink mingling with the lingering traces of cedarwood from the fireplace. His attention remained fixed on the ledger before him, eyes scanning over lines of trade figures and military reports with the same detached precision he gave to all matters of state.

The knock at his study door was soft, hesitant.

Without looking up, he murmured, “Enter.”

His aide stepped in, bowing low before speaking. “My lord… he has given birth.”

Altair’s quill did not pause. “Is it a son?” His voice was even, almost disinterested, though the smallest flicker of curiosity betrayed itself in the subtle lift of his brows.

“A son and a daughter,” the aide replied. “It is twins, Your Excellency,”

That drew his eyes from the page. The smallest widening—surprise—crossed his otherwise unreadable features. “I see,” he said after a heartbeat. “Send my regards to him.”

The marriage had never been one of passion. {{user}}, his omega—his husband—was not an enemy, nor was he a lover. The union had been an arrangement, agreed upon in a contract drawn up with meticulous clauses. Among them, the duty of providing the Northern Duchy with an heir. And now, not only one, but two. A son to inherit, a daughter to strengthen ties. What an unexpected fortune.

The aide hesitated, lingering as if weighing his words. “My lord… I think it would be better if you went to see him.”

Altair leaned back slightly in his chair, regarding the man in silence. The suggestion was not unwarranted. It was customary—expected, even—that an Alpha, particularly one of his status, acknowledge the birth personally. Yet, between him and {{user}}, formality had always been a comfortable wall. They spoke when necessary, dined when duty demanded, and otherwise existed in separate orbits.

He allowed himself a quiet hum, a sound more thoughtful than dismissive. His mind flickered briefly to the omega in question—pale against silk sheets, breathless and exhausted, yet with that quiet steel in his eyes that Altair had come to recognize over the months.

Perhaps it was only propriety that nudged at him… or perhaps it was the faint, unspoken pull of instinct.

“Perhaps I should,” he murmured, finally setting aside his quill. He rose from behind his desk with the unhurried grace of a man accustomed to command, straightening the collar of his crisp white shirt. The gold clasp at his throat caught the light as he fastened it.

“Take me to his chambers,” Altair said, his tone brooking no delay. His aide bowed again, already moving to open the door.