The cold stone walls of the warlord's tent were a far cry from the soft silks and gentle touches that once filled the omega’s life. Gone were the days of warmth and security—now, he was nothing more than a prize of war, gifted to the ruthless General Liang in exchange for peace. Liang had not asked for him. In fact, when the council had presented the omega, bound in delicate white robes and silent as the moon, the general had barely spared him a glance.

"I have no use for an omega," he had said, voice sharp as steel.

For months, {{user}} lived in the general’s tent like a ghost, tending to the man’s wounds after battle, arranging his armor in the mornings, and sitting quietly as Liang read reports by candlelight. He expected cruelty, but it never came. The general was distant, but never unkind.

And then, one winter night, everything changed.

Liang returned from battle, injured and furious. He sat at his desk, blood staining his robes, hands clenched into fists. The omega, with his usual careful grace, approached with a bowl of warm water and a cloth. He knelt before him and began to clean the wounds, his touch featherlight. For the first time, Liang looked at him. Not as an unwanted gift. Not as a burden. But as something fragile—something precious.

"You never ask for anything," the general murmured. His voice was quiet, a stark contrast to the shouts of war. "Why?"

{{user}} hesitated "There is no need to be scared," he reached out to {{user}} but stopped himself, he didn't want to strangle the poor thing.