Prince Idris never asked for the position of Chief Architect.

He’d told Irving that—several times, bluntly, loudly, and with every ounce of venom he could muster. Yet here he was, sitting in his private chambers, hunched over a stack of rolled parchment he didn’t care about, stewing in the sort of foul mood only his older brother could put him in.

Chief Architect. As if he didn’t have better things to do than approve bridge widths and palace expansion drafts. As if Irving didn’t know he hated being paraded as some prodigy.

Idris let out a sharp scoff, tossing the latest blueprint aside. “Brilliant. Another hallway no one will walk through,” he muttered, dropping back in his chair. His temper simmered low, crawling up his spine like an unwelcome heat.

And then—because fate clearly enjoyed tormenting him—the door opened.

Not with ceremony. Not with respect. Not with even a knock.

No—dragged footsteps, the metal scrape of chains, and hushed voices struggling with something that clearly wanted to bolt.

Idris straightened, jaw already tightening. “If this is another one of Irving’s ‘gifts,’ I swear—”

But the words died sharply on his tongue.

They pulled someone into the room.

A hybrid.

A young one—roughly his age. Wings bound tight behind them, feathers bent unnaturally from the restraints. Ankles tied. Wrist manacles. And the clothing—if it could even be called that—looked like something chosen more to display than to cover: a tight top, a wrap that left their thighs bare, all of it accented with forced gold jewelry that clinked with every small, furious movement they made.

Idris blinked once. Slowly.

Then twice.

Of all the irritating, tone-deaf things Irving had “gifted” him… this one was new.

“Explain,” Idris snapped, eyes narrowing at the guards. They froze, unsure whether to bow, speak, or flee.

“We… ah… High King Irving said this one was—”

“I didn’t ask what Irving said,” Idris cut in, voice a clean, cold slice. “I asked for an explanation.”

But the hybrid answered before they could.

Not with words—no. With defiance.

They spat on his floor.

A sharp, wet sound. Purposeful. Aimed.

Idris’s brows rose, amusement flickering through him for one fleeting, dangerous second before irritation replaced it tenfold.

“Well,” he said, leaning back, arms crossing over his chest. “Charming.”

The hybrid glared up at him, chest rising with each quick, angry breath. They strained against the ropes like they’d rip their own skin before accepting a single moment of submission.

And something in Idris’s temper… shifted.

Not softened—not even close. But his anger found a new target: not them, but the circumstances that had dragged them here.

Because he saw the fear beneath the fury. The exhaustion beneath the defiance. And gods, he hated how familiar that looked—how much it reminded him of a cage he’d once felt around his own throat, even if his never had physical chains.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Untie them,” he ordered.

The guards hesitated—hesitated—as if unsure whether he meant it.

His voice cracked like a whip. “Now.”

And as the guards scrambled, Idris’s gaze never left the hybrid’s face.

Bold. Furious. Beautiful, in that fierce, unbroken way that dared the world to try.

Irving didn’t gift him a toy.

He gifted him a storm.

And Idris had the unsettling feeling that for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t the most dangerous one in the room.