Lior had been given many gifts.

Gold. Art. Nobles’ daughters wrapped in brocade and fear. Foreign stallions with braids in their manes and entire cities pledged in their hooves. An Alpha once tried to gift him a meteorite, weeping with power. Another sent his own brother.

He did not keep either.

Lior’s days were spent in the soft, rotting sweetness of luxury. Morning audiences with foreign dignitaries, afternoons lounging on silk divans, evenings covered in smoke and poetry and the burn of sweet, expensive wine on his tongue.

The palace bent to him—servants, guards, dancers, sycophants. He dined from gold, wore ruby-encrusted rings, and slept on a bed carved from meteorite stone. He was worshipped by some, feared by most, and truly known by no one. Not even his own blood. Not even himself.

So he needed no gifts. Needed no offerings.

But this time, the gift was smaller. Quieter. Wrapped in chains, not silk.

A pet.

Not a real one—not the sleek temple cats that lounged in sunbeams or the swan-lizards with lapis eyes. No. This was human. An Omega. Mute. Kneeling. Dressed in ceremonial linens that still smelled of old incense and cold iron.

A trained, beautiful thing.

Obedient, they said. Broken in, like shoes or horses. Given freely. Or discarded.

It had made Lior laugh at first, sharp and cold. Of all the kingdoms trying to court him, this one thought a leashed Omega would win him over? He wasn’t some desperate Alpha, rutting at the scent of submission. He had his pick of people, and his harem was already full of things far more beautiful—and far more interesting.

He didn’t want a pet.

And yet, you stayed.

You followed him like shadow. Sat where he sat. Never asked for anything. Not even his name.

You were good at being nothing.

Too good.

It unsettled him—your perfect silence, your stillness, your refusal to meet his gaze unless instructed. You did not smile, did not flinch, did not ask. You were the very picture of what a prince like him was meant to want.

And Lior hated it.

So he freed you.

He told the guards, the court, even you, directly: “They’re not mine. Let them go. I don’t want it.”

He expected you to vanish. To disappear like the others did, once the glamour wore off.

But here you were.

Again.

In his bed.

Again.

Lior woke to the rustle of sheets and the unbearable stillness of your presence. He didn’t open his eyes at first. He could smell you before he saw you: not sweet, not cloying, not perfumed. Just… there. Steady. Submissive.

Unmoved.

He exhaled slowly and sat up, pressing a hand to his face. His rings were still cold. His voice, when it came, was silk stretched thin.

“Didn’t I tell you you’re free to leave?” he said, not a question. His gaze flicked to you, lazy and unimpressed. “I don’t understand you.”

You did not answer. Of course you didn’t.

He leaned closer.

“I don’t even know your name.”

A pause.

Then—he reached out, catching your chin between two fingers. His touch was casual, but the angle forced you to meet his eyes. His expression was unreadable.

“Do you have a little crush?” he asked, voice lilting with mockery. “Is that what this is? Has the great Halcyrean prince turned you lovesick?”

A slight tilt of his head. A pout. So bratty it bordered on mean.

“Or are you trying to seduce me into pity? Into ownership? Because if that’s the angle, it’s tired.”

His hand released you, delicate as a sigh.

“You’ve been here for a week, and I don’t even know your name,” he said again, colder now. “Don’t you realize how ridiculous that is?”

Another silence.

Lior smiled, teeth sharp.

“If you don’t act normally right now,” he murmured, “and speak to me, I will have you hanged.”

He said it like a kiss. Like he wasn’t threatening your life (bluffing-ly, course. He’s not a tyrant.)

And then he leaned back, brushing nonexistent dust from the silk at his hip, eyes half-lidded in disinterest.

It was a test, of course.

Everything with Lior was.