Chapter Text
The first thing Harry notices is the silence. But not the familiar, gentle kind he’s used to.
No, this silence is heavy. Intentional. Cruel.
It’s the kind of silence that presses against your ribs and holds its breath with you. The kind that signals something is wrong.
He stirs slowly beneath silk sheets, a soft rustle against the vast bed, blinking against the morning light that spills in through the high cathedral windows. Pale gold rays crawl across the carved stone floors of his chambers, gilding the pillars, the velvet chaise near the hearth, the arched door that separates him from the rest of the castle.
From the rest of the world.
He frowns and shifts upright, the air cool against his bare arms. He slept in his pale cream nightgown again, the one trimmed in lace, soft as milk, cut low enough at the collar that it slips slightly off one shoulder when he sits up. His shoulder-length curls spill down in loose, tangled waves from sleep, the strands catching the sunlight like they’re spun gold. He looks like a storybook painting; one of those precious little omega princes kept for show and marriage, not for choice.
His bare feet find the icy floor as he pads to the door. He expects the usual soft creak when he pushes it open.
But it doesn’t move.
He tries again but the knob doesn’t turn.
It’s locked.
From the outside.
He blinks at it in disbelief, then tries harder, twisting with both hands now. Nothing. It doesn’t budge. His heart stumbles in his chest.
“No…” he breathes. He steps back, then forward again, rattling it. Pounding once. Then again. “No, no, no—”
The sound echoes off the stone walls of his chamber, swallowed whole by the thick castle air.
He knows this silence now. He’s been sealed in.
Trapped.
A sour twist grips his stomach, panic rising like bile in his throat. His plans; everything he spent for days arranging, timing, burns away like mist in the sun. They knew. Somehow, they knew.
He’s not going anywhere.
He stumbles back from the door, chest tight, turning toward the rest of the room, his golden prison.
It’s beautiful, by all accounts. The largest suite in the East Wing of the castle, with ceilings that vanish into arching shadows and windows too tall to open. His canopied bed is draped in blush and ivory gauze, matching the marble fireplace carved with roses and vines. There are velvet armchairs, pale furs, silken tapestries, opulence in every corner.
The balcony doors gape open on the far end, letting in the dawn wind that flutters the gauze curtains. The view is magnificent, as always. From here, he can see the rolling green hills of Aurenmere, his family’s kingdom, stretching all the way to the forests that edge the cliffs beyond.
But the drop from his tower is steep, deadly. No footholds, no ivy, no lower roof. He knows this. He measured it. Hoped once, foolishly, that maybe the sheets tied together could form a makeshift rope. He even practiced the knots.
But no. He’s five stories high and dreams don’t stretch that far.
If he tries, he’ll die.
So he stands there, barefoot and breathless, the lace hem of his nightgown fluttering around his ankles as the wind toys with his curls, and he feels it; that hot, coiled thing that’s been building in his chest since the day his father announced it.
Rage.
Not the loud, childish kind. But the deep, helpless kind. The kind that grows in your bones when you realize they’ve made your choices for you. That you’ve never had any to begin with.
He presses both palms to the stone railing of the balcony, tilts his face up to the cold sky, and swallows back the scream pressing against his teeth.
His father has made his decision.
And Harry has no way out.
A few days ago…
The dining hall of Aurenmere Castle has always been too large.
Tonight, it feels cavernous. Cold. Hollow in all the places where the Queen’s laughter once lived.
The long oak table stretches nearly the full length of the hall, candles flickering in tall iron sconces. Servants glide like shadows around the perimeter. Tapestries depict the kingdom’s past victories; wars, alliances, conquests, reminders of everything King Alistair of Aurenmere values above his own children’s peace.
Harry sits halfway down the table, dressed in soft lavender silk embroidered with silver thread. His mother loved lavender. She said it made his eyes glow.
He smooths the napkin on his lap, feeling small and decorative, like the carved angels above them.
His siblings are scattered along the table. His eldest sister, Evelyn, sits beside her alpha husband, hands folded neatly, eyes cast down. She’s calm, composed; the perfect omega queen-in-training. Harry envies her composure. Not her fate.
Beside her is Caspian, the oldest son, proudly alpha, broad-shouldered, smirking like he owns the air they breathe. His omega wife sits next to him, swollen with their second child, while Caspian speaks loudly about battlefield strategy, about honor, about duty.
Harry feels sick. He doesn’t belong in this conversation. He never has.
Only Amelie, the youngest at twelve, sits close to him. A little omega still, with big honey eyes and braids tied with ribbon. She leans her shoulder against Harry’s as if to anchor him.
And at the head of the table: King Alistair. His father.
Alone.
No omega queen beside him.
Just an empty chair draped in dust and grief.
Harry can’t look at it too long. It hurts.
He used to sit between them as a child. He remembers his mother brushing his curls behind his ear, whispering warm promises into his hair.
“You will choose your own alpha someday, my love. Not tradition. Not your father. Only you.”
Her voice feels like it comes from another lifetime.
Tonight, the King clears his throat. The entire room falls silent.
Harry’s spine straightens.
He knows that tone.
“Harry Edward.” His father’s voice echoes down the table, old and thunderous. He’s the only one who calls Harry by his full given name. “I have an announcement.”
Harry places his fork down. A tremor travels up his fingers.
Alistair’s expression is stone. “I have secured a marriage for you.”
Everything stops. Breath. Sound. Thought.
Harry blinks, like he misheard. “A… marriage?”
Amelie’s fingers curl around his under the table.
The King continues as if reciting inventory.
“Lord Alec of Darnmouth has agreed to take you as his omega and wife.”
The name hits Harry like ice water.
Alec of Darnmouth.
A widowed and cruel alpha.
A man whispered about in corridors; tales of his temper, his brutality, his treatment of servants. A man feared, not loved. Certainly not someone a young omega marries willingly.
Harry’s chair scrapes loudly as he stands.
“No.”
Caspian scoffs. Evelyn tenses. Amelie gasps softly.
The King narrows his eyes. “Sit down.”
“No,” Harry repeats, louder. His curls fall into his eyes as he shakes his head. “Father, he’s— he’s old. He’s like thrice my age—”
“He’s fifty,” Alistair corrects.
“And mean,” Harry fires back. “Everyone knows it! He’s ugly, and cruel, and he… he hurts people! You can’t expect me to—”
“I expect you,” the King thunders, “to serve your kingdom.”
Harry’s breath stutters. “I won’t marry him.”
Alistair exhales sharply through his nose. Not anger; disappointment. As if Harry is a disobedient horse.
“You have no say in the matter,” the king states calmly. “Lord Alec commands three provinces and two fleets. His allegiance strengthens our borders and secures our future. In exchange, he asked for a young, fertile omega to warm his house again.”
Harry feels bile rise in his mouth. “He asked for me like I’m—like I’m cattle.”
“Like you are a prince,” his father corrects. “And an omega with responsibilities.”
Harry’s heart is breaking in the center of his chest. “But, I’ve just turned eighteen.”
“And? You already are of breeding age."
Harry’s voice cracks. “I’m not ready for a mating bond—”
“You are overdue.” Alistair’s gaze hardens. “You will wed him before fall ends. You will give him heirs, and you will secure peace for Aurenmere.”
“I won’t,” Harry whispers, throat tight, vision blurring.
Amelie grips his arm. “Daddy, please… Harry’s scared—”
“Silence,” Caspian snaps at her. “This isn’t for children to—”
“Caspian.” Harry glares through tears. “Let her speak—”
“Harry.” Evelyn’s voice is soft but firm. “Please. Sit.”
“No,” he chokes. “I won’t sit. I won’t marry him. I won’t be given away like—like—”
“Like your mother was?” the King cuts in sharply.
Harry’s breath punches out of him.
The hall feels colder.
The King’s voice softens, but not gently. “She did her duty. She gave this kingdom four heirs. She died a queen.”
“She died in pain!” Harry shouts, the memory burning behind his eyelids. “And she never wanted this for me. She told me… she promised me—I’d get to choose my alpha!”
The room stiffens.
Alistair’s expression turns unreadable. Stone carved into stone.
“Your mother is gone,” he says quietly. “And the promises she made cannot dictate the needs of a kingdom.”
Harry’s vision splits. He feels eight again. Five. Three. Lost.
“My mother wanted me to be happy.”
“And I want you to understand you must fulfill your duties as a prince," Alistair replies. "Aurenmere needs this alliance. I need this alliance. And you will obey.”
Harry’s voice finally shatters. “You’re selling me.”
“I am securing our bloodline. And your future.”
“You’re sending me to a monster!”
“He is a good alpha for you,” the King states simply. “You will be mated, marked and bred. And you will smile as you do your duty.”
Harry feels something inside him break.
A quiet, fragile thing.
A thing that has always been soft and bright and hopeful.
He sees the empty chair beside his father; the Queen’s chair, and the ache in his chest becomes unbearable.
Alistair lifts his goblet.
“The wedding preparations begin tomorrow.”
Harry sinks back into his seat, shaking. Amelie is crying beside him, but Caspian hushes her harshly. Evelyn stares down at her plate. No one speaks.
No one fights for him.
And Harry realizes; truly, fully, that he is alone.
...
He should’ve expected this.
Should’ve known they wouldn’t trust him to stay quiet and obedient. That his resistance wouldn’t end with a dinner table tantrum and a locked door.
But still; being caged like this makes the fury boil beneath his skin.
After pacing circles through the room again, Harry snaps.
He grabs the nearest thing within reach, a porcelain vase, delicate and painted with forget-me-nots, and hurls it at the door.
It shatters with a deafening crash, fragments skittering across the stone floor like broken ice. His breath comes out in gasps.
“Open the door!” he screams, pounding his fists against it now. “You can’t keep me in here! I’m not a prisoner!”
He backs up and kicks it, heel slamming into the wood. It hurts, but he doesn’t stop. He picks up a silver candleholder from the mantle and slams it into the center of the door once; twice, three times.
“Let me out!” he cries, voice cracking. “I demand to see my father!”
A low voice speaks from the other side of the door, deep and steady.
“Is something the matter, my prince?”
Harry freezes.
The voice is unfamiliar. Older. Calm in a way that enrages him more.
“Who’s that?” Harry demands. “Who are you?!”
“I am the guard assigned to your chamber.”
“Then you’ll unlock this fucking door,” Harry snarls, throwing the candleholder aside. “And let me out right now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, prince,” the voice replies, maddeningly even. “I have orders. You are not to leave your quarters under any circumstance.”
Harry’s body trembles with rage. “I’m not a criminal. I am not sick. I am not your hostage!”
“My orders are not to harm you,” the guard interrupts. “Only to ensure your safety. If you need something, it can be brought to you. Food, fresh linens, clothing—”
“I don’t want your fucking handmaidens or tea trays or cage silks,” Harry hisses. “I want my freedom.”
Silence answers him.
“I swear,” he says, wild now, pushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “I swear on the grave of my mother, Queen Isolde, if you don’t let me out, I’ll throw myself off the balcony and my father’s precious alliance will be worth nothing but a corpse.”
A long beat of silence follows. For a moment, all he hears is his breath, ragged and sharp, and the blood pounding in his ears.
Then the voice returns. “Are you… dressed?”
Harry’s mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“Have you changed out of your nightwear, my prince?”
He stares at the door like it’s grown horns. “Why would that matter?”
“His Majesty instructed me to fetch you once you’re prepared to be seen.”
“Are you bringing my father?”
“Yes.”
Harry doesn’t trust the certainty in his voice. But it’s the only thread of possibility he has.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Wait for me then.”
He steps away, heart still racing, and moves to the gilded wardrobe in the corner. It’s filled with day gowns; each one tailored to flatter, to float, to impress. He chooses a deep green silk with gold-thread embroidery down the front. The weight of it feels ceremonial. Like a battle flag.
He strips off his nightgown and steps into the dress. It clings to his figure the way it was meant to; showcasing his narrow waist, the gentle slope of his hips, the smooth flush of his chest. He brushes his curls out, wincing at the knots, then begins to braid a thin section across his head, just like his mother used to. A braid like a crown. A crown of his own.
His scent, naturally soft and sweet, grows stronger in the warmth of his agitation; vanilla orchid and blooming orange blossom, layered with something greener underneath, something sharp and defiant.
By the time he’s done, he looks every bit the royal omega he was raised to be.
He returns to the door, schooling his voice. “I’m ready.”
The lock clicks.
And before he can prepare himself, the door swings open.
The alpha steps inside.
He’s tall and broad through the shoulders. His frame fills his eyes. Armor black as dusk clings to his form, worn and battle-scuffed, not polished for display like the other soldiers of court. A black cloak is draped over one shoulder, fastened with a silver wolf’s-head clasp.
He closes the door behind him in one silent movement and leans back against it.
Harry’s breath catches in his throat.
He doesn’t recognize the face right away. He hasn’t seen it in years, after all. But the moment stretches, eyes locking, and suddenly, he does.
The tired blue eyes. The shadowed jaw. The hair, darker now, dusted with grey at the temples. The calloused hands, the faint scar near his mouth.
It’s him.
His father’s friend.
The man from the garden parties; the one who always stood a little apart from the crowd, who never smiled unless Harry’s mother made him, who used to watch Harry with something unreadable in his expression.
Harry’s heart stumbles in his chest.
He hasn’t seen him since the Queen died. Since the garden went quiet.
What the fuck is he doing here?
The silence stretches.
Harry’s breath is shallow, eyes still locked on the man now standing just inside his room. He doesn’t move. Neither of them does.
The air… shifts.
Harry smells it first.
That scent.
It hits like a storm. Deep, musky cedarwood, threaded with something sharp and smoky, like clove and black pepper, tangled with the darker undertone of aged leather and something burning beneath the surface.
An alpha. A powerful one.
It rolls across the room in waves, crashing over Harry’s skin, into his lungs, pulling goosebumps to his arms and heat to his cheeks. His knees wobble slightly. His body reacts before his mind can even name it.
His own scent flares instinctively in response, softening the air like a bloom caught in wind.
And then their eyes meet again.
Oh.
Harry knows.
This isn’t just a scent.
It’s a pull.
It coils low in his belly. Makes his mouth dry. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to touch, to test. He can see it; the alpha feels it too. That flicker of surprise in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.
But then the man blinks and bows deeply, one hand across his chest in a formal salute. “Good morning, my prince.”
The spell breaks.
Harry exhales sharply, blinking as the room rights itself.
His cheeks are burning. He can feel the heat in his neck.
Still; he raises his chin. “Who are you?” he demands, though his voice comes out a little too breathless.
He knows. But he wants the name. He needs to hear it.
The man straightens. His voice is rich, steady.
“My name is Louis William Tomlinson. Used to be Captain of the Royal Guard. Longtime servant of the crown… and an old friend of your father's.”
Of course. Harry confirms it’s him.
The one who used to stand at the garden gates during summer balls. The man his mother trusted with patrol when the lanterns stayed out late.
He’s older now. Sharper. Worn from time and war. But Harry remembers the way his mother once teased him: “Louis never takes his armor off, unless you offer him a garden and a glass of wine.”
Harry swallows tightly. “So it was you at the door?”
“Yes, as I said earlier. I’ve been tasked to watch your chambers. Day and night.”
Harry frowns. “You said you were bringing me to my father.”
A pause. Then Louis offers him a small, tight smile; barely more than a quirk of the lips. “I’m afraid I misspoke. The king has not requested your presence at this time. But I will inform him that you wish to speak.”
Anger flares up in Harry’s chest again, igniting the leftover coals. “So you lied.”
“I followed my orders,” Louis replies calmly.
“Orders to lock me in a tower like some storybook omega waiting for a monster to claim him?”
“Orders to protect you,” Louis corrects, and his eyes flick briefly to the shattered porcelain shards still scattered by the door. “Which is difficult to do when you’re flinging heirlooms at the wall.”
Harry glares at him. “Maybe if someone listened to me, I wouldn’t be flinging things.”
Louis steps forward just slightly, his boots silent against the stone floor. “I’m listening now, aren’t I?”
Harry narrows his eyes, lips twitching. He moves to reach for a second vase, this one smaller, green glass glinting on the shelf—
Louis is across the room in an instant.
His hand wraps firmly around Harry’s forearm, stopping him.The contact sends a jolt up Harry’s spine.
Louis’ grip is strong, calloused fingers warm against his skin, the press of his scent suddenly overwhelming at such close range. Harry’s breath catches again. The heat flares behind his ears.
“Don’t,” Louis says quietly. “Please. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Harry looks up at him, close now, chest to chest, nearly. The tension thickens. He can see the lines at the corners of Louis’ mouth, the tiredness in his eyes. There’s sincerity in his voice; real concern. Not a soldier’s performance.
Harry swallows. “Do you know why I’m locked in here?”
Louis hesitates. Then: “Yes.”
“Then you understand,” Harry says, voice tight, “why I’m angry. Why I feel like I’m drowning in my own silk gowns.”
Louis says nothing.
“I’m to marry a man nearly three times my age. A cruel alpha with no warmth left in his blood. I’ll be bonded. Bred. Sold.” His voice shakes. “I’d rather die before any of that happens.”
Louis’ jaw tightens. But still; he doesn't argue.
“You were there,” Harry adds. “At the garden parties. You knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“She promised me I’d get to choose.”
Louis’ voice is low. “I know.”
Silence stretches between them again. The ache of something unspoken thick in the air.
Harry exhales shakily and steps back. “So? Do you agree with it?”
“I agree,” Louis says slowly, “that you are not a child. And that this decision… should not have been made without your consent.”
That catches Harry off guard. His eyes flick up to Louis’ face again.
That scent, that voice… that body…
Gods, he’s…
He’s so fucking hot.
Harry’s heart kicks against his ribs.
The tension stretches again; Louis watching him too carefully, Harry pretending not to notice the way his fingers twitch in the space between them.
He lets the silence carry for just long enough to feel dangerous. Then, he smirks faintly. Eyes soft, but sharp.
“If it were you I had to marry…” he murmurs, letting the words fall like silk, “I’d do it gladly. You’re an alpha I’d take.”
Louis blinks.
His mouth parts.
He stares at Harry for one silent beat too long, like he didn’t quite hear right. Or maybe he did, and doesn’t know how to survive it.
Then he clears his throat and steps back quickly, nearly to the door again.
“I— I’ll have the servants bring up your breakfast, my prince.”
He bows again and slips through the door before Harry can get another word in. The lock clicks behind him.
Harry stares after him.
And then… for the first time since that cursed dinner, since the news broke open his chest like glass…
He smiles.
....
The door opens again less than thirty minutes later.
Harry’s sitting on the velvet chaise by the window, hair glowing in the morning sun, the green silk of his dress fanned neatly around his legs. He looks calm. Regal. In control.
It’s a lie.
He watches with quiet curiosity as two servants enter, heads bowed, silver trays balanced between them. They lay the table in silence: fresh bread, honeyed figs, soft cheese, and a steaming bowl of clove-laced porridge. A silver teapot releases a curl of steam.
Louis steps in behind them, silent as ever, arms folded behind his back, eyes scanning the room like a wolf in a den.
“Leave us,” Harry says simply, voice like satin.
The maids freeze.
“My prince?” one whispers, uncertain.
“I wish to eat alone,” he adds, lifting his chin. Then, after a beat, “With my guard.”
The women exchange looks, then glance toward Louis.
“My prince, I’m not—” Louis starts, but Harry cuts him off with a small, dagger-sharp smile.
“I, Prince Harry of House Aurenmere, am asking you to sit and share my breakfast,” he says sweetly. “Will you disobey a royal command?”
Louis’ jaw works silently.
Then, wordlessly, he nods for the servants to go. They bow quickly and vanish through the door, which shuts with a soft click behind them.
Louis doesn’t move.
Harry gestures toward the seat across from him. “Well? Sit.”
“I’m not hungry, my prince.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Another pause. Another stare.
Louis sighs and finally crosses the room to sit, his black armor creaking softly as he lowers himself onto the cushioned chair. He doesn’t touch the food.
Harry does.
He picks up a fig and pops it in his mouth, chewing slowly, watching Louis over the rim of his teacup.
The silence settles.
“You eat like you’re used to being alone,” Louis says quietly.
Harry hums. “I am.”
“You have siblings.”
“They’re not as close to me the way she was.”
Louis frowns faintly. “The queen?”
Harry nods, gaze distant now. “I used to eat every morning with my mother and Amelie. Even when she was a smaller pup. It was our time, us three having breakfast in the garden.”
He stirs his tea absently, the spoon chiming against the porcelain.
“After Mother died… Amelie and I kept the tradition. She’s the only one who still looks at me like I’m more than a pawn.”
Louis says nothing.
“I’m scared for her,” Harry says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s twelve. She still plays with dolls. And I already know how this ends.”
He meets Louis’ eyes.
“She’ll turn sixteen. Her scent will change. And my father will hand her off to another withered old warlord to seal another fucking treaty.”
Louis’ lips press into a hard line.
“I was supposed to protect her, I promised my mother I would” Harry says, swallowing thickly. “But once I’m married and mated, I’ll be carted off to whatever cursed fortress Alec keeps his dying horses in. And she’ll be here. Alone.”
A pause.
Then, Louis speaks, low and firm. “She won’t be alone.”
Harry stares at him. “You promise that as a soldier?”
“I promise that as someone who remembers what your mother stood for.” Louis leans in slightly, voice lowering. “Isolde would not want her youngest crushed beneath duty before she’s even bloomed. If I can prevent that fate, I will.”
Harry’s chest aches. He looks away, eyes misting despite himself.
For a moment, it’s quiet again.
Then:
“You remember her,” he whispers.
“I do.”
A long breath escapes Harry’s lips.
He looks up, and suddenly… the lines in Louis’ face don’t look so harsh anymore. The greys in his hair don’t look so cold.
There’s a man beneath the armor. One who’s seen loss. Maybe one who still carries it too.
...
Afternoon in the East Wing is always quiet.
Too quiet.
The high castle ceilings echo with nothing but the wind, the occasional flutter of curtains, the distant clink of armor and shoes that never reach his door. And with every passing hour locked inside his golden cage, Harry feels more like the ghost of a prince than the boy his mother once braided flowers into.
He paces the room barefoot again, green silk trailing behind him, until the silence threatens to devour him whole.
Then he moves to the desk.
Ink, parchment, forgotten letters. A copy of a book his tutor once forced on him. A feather quill he doesn’t bother to sharpen.
“Are you always so quiet?” Harry calls toward the door without turning around.
No answer.
Of course he’s still there. He has to be. He hasn’t left the hall outside since that morning.
“I know you’re standing out there,” Harry continues. “Don’t you ever sit?”
More silence.
Harry smiles faintly to himself.
Then: a knock. It’s soft. Three raps.
He turns, surprised. “Enter.”
The door opens; and Louis steps in again, same black uniform, cloak trailing behind him like dusk.
“I assumed you’d fallen asleep,” Louis says, tone even.
Harry shrugs. “Couldn’t.” He gestures vaguely at the room. “Not much to do when you’re locked up like a criminal.”
Louis’ mouth twitches.
“You’re not a criminal.”
“You say that, but I haven’t seen the sky beyond my balcony in two days now.”
Louis doesn’t reply.
Harry walks toward him slowly, his bare feet silent against the marble.
“You’re just standing there,” he murmurs. “Just listening. Like a shadow.”
“I’m your guard.”
“You’re my jailor.”
“I’m here to ensure your safety.”
“By keeping me alone with my thoughts and a balcony high enough to fall from?”
Louis’ jaw flexes.
Harry crosses his arms. “You said I wasn’t alone. Prove it.”
Louis arches a brow. “How?”
“Talk to me,” Harry says. “Sit again. If I can’t leave this room, at least let me pretend I’m not going mad inside of it.”
There’s a long pause. The kind that stretches tension across the air like string.
Then Louis sighs and steps forward. He removes his cloak, folds it over his arm, and takes the chair by the fireplace. His armor shifts with a low scrape of metal.
Harry sits on the floor across from him, pulling his legs up beneath him, resting his cheek against the velvet seat of the chaise.
They don’t speak for a while. The fire crackles. Outside, a raven calls once from a tower spire.
Then Harry speaks softly.
“Do you believe in soulbonds?”
Louis lifts his gaze, surprised.
Harry continues before he can answer. “My mother did. She told me omegas feel it in their chest. This… ache. This magnetic pull. Like something alive is waking up inside of you. A string between your bones and someone else’s.”
Louis watches him carefully, silent.
“She said when you feel it, you’ll know,” Harry murmurs. “Even if it hurts.”
He picks at the embroidery of his gown. Louis doesn’t speak.
So Harry presses gently, his voice almost shy. “Have you ever felt it?”
Louis leans back, gaze fixed on the fire. His scent shifts, something bitterer beneath the cedar now. Ashes and old memory.
“I did once,” he says quietly.
Harry lifts his head.
Louis’ eyes remain on the flames. “She died. Before we bonded fully. Before she could give me a pup.”
Harry swallows. “I’m sorry.”
Louis just nods.
The silence this time is heavier.
Harry watches him, studies the way the firelight dances across the metal of his chestplate, softening his sharp features.
He’s never seen an alpha like Louis. So contained. So still. Like he’s lived a thousand years and carries every one of them in the bend of his shoulders.
“You must think I’m selfish,” Harry says eventually. “Crying over a future I haven’t even lived yet. While you’ve lost yours entirely.”
Louis turns to him slowly. Their eyes meet.
“I think,” he says carefully, “you’re the only one in this castle still brave enough to want something more than what’s been settled for your life.”
Harry feels his throat tighten.
His fingers curl into the velvet beneath him. The heat from the fireplace feels heavier now. Or maybe it’s Louis' presence. That scent again; deep, earthen, laced with something that makes Harry’s chest ache.
He wants to ask more. About the omega Louis lost. About whether he’s ever loved again. About whether he’s capable of it.
But he doesn’t.
He just says, softly, “Thank you. For sitting with me.”
Louis stands again. “Call for me if you need anything, my prince.”
“I will.”
Their eyes lock one more time before Louis turns and disappears through the door.
Harry watches the handle settle.
His heart is beating far too fast for someone who just sat by a fire.
...
The castle sleeps.
The wind whispers outside the windows, slipping through the cracks in the ancient stone like secrets. The stars glimmer far beyond the high arches of his balcony, distant and indifferent.
Harry lies awake in bed, curled on his side beneath the silk sheets, staring at the canopy above.
He can’t sleep.
His body is still, but inside, his thoughts burn like a fever. They’ve been smoldering since dinner, since the firelight flickered over Louis’ face, since that deep voice told him he was brave for wanting more.
And now, here in the silence, that voice plays in his mind like a melody stuck on loop.
Louis.
Louis William Tomlinson.
His mother once told him that soulbonds don’t just arrive with fireworks. That sometimes they begin like a whisper beneath the skin. A heat in your chest. An ache in your bones. A pull you can’t explain.
Harry feels it now.
He feels it everywhere.
He presses a hand to his chest. His heart races under his palm. It has been all day. Every time Louis looked at him. Every time he didn’t look. Every time he stood too still, too close, smelling like leather and war and woodsmoke and something devastatingly male.
It makes him dizzy to think about it.
And he has thought about it. All evening. Every minute since Louis left his chambers. Since that silence returned.
No alpha ever made him feel like this. Not the polished court alphas. Not the sons of generals. Not even the stablehand with the soft smile he secretly kissed behind the garden wall at fifteen.
Louis hadn’t even touched him tonight, and Harry still burned with it.
The want. The ache. The pull.
It coils inside him like something ancient, something his blood already knows.
Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s always been him.
Maybe Louis is his soulbond. Or maybe he’s not.
Maybe he’s just… the only thing left that feels real.
Because in a few days, Harry will be shipped off like a parcel. Bound to an old monster whose name he can barely say without shuddering. Locked in some freezing northern keep, bred and forgotten.
He won’t be Harry anymore.
He’ll be a title. A belly to carry pups.
So if that’s his fate; if he’s already been written into someone else’s book, then gods, he wants at least one chapter to be his.
He wants to feel something before they take everything from him. He wants to burn before he freezes. He wants to be touched, seen, claimed, by someone he chooses.
And his omega instincts know. They know who they’ve chosen.
Louis.
His guard and his last rebellion.
Harry breathes in sharply and squeezes his eyes shut, face warm against the pillow.
He wants him.
And now that he’s realized it, now that the thought has rooted itself in the dark of his mind; it won't let him go.
-
The days bled together.
They weren’t filled with anything spectacular; not battles, not declarations, not great betrayals. Just... small, quiet moments. But Harry had always known that’s how bonds grow: like ivy creeping up stone, slow and quiet until one day it covers everything.
He hadn’t meant to start teasing.
Not at first.
It began innocently enough. He was bored and restless. Trapped.
And Louis was always there.
The next mornings were slow, filled with breakfast he barely touched and bathwater that cooled too quickly. He started wearing softer nightgowns later into the day; not for any calculated reason, at least not at first. But the way Louis would look away, or refuse to look at all, was enough to keep doing it.
Once, after having called Louis in, Harry had dropped his brush and bent to retrieve it, the lace of his gown rising just above the curve of his thighs.
He heard the faintest sound. A breath. A shift of weight in armor.
That was the moment he knew he wasn’t the only one feeling it.
The pull.
He himself felt it every time Louis stood a little too close. Every time his alpha scent thickened in the air after Harry passed by, leaving behind a lingering note of his own that seemed to stir something primal in them both.
He didn’t touch him. Not then.
He just watched.
But later, it became intentional.
Harry asked more questions. Pushed more boundaries.
“Tell me,” he’d whispered once while brushing his hair before bed, “do you ever get lonely out there? Standing guard? Never having anyone warm to talk to?”
Louis had grunted something noncommittal and told him to get some sleep.
Harry smiled.
Another time, he crossed the room under the pretense of looking for a book and brushed against Louis’ side. Barely a graze of his dress across his armor, but it was enough to draw a sharp inhale from the older man. Enough to remind Harry that this wasn’t just a game.
He was craving something. Something real.
Maybe it was madness; or desperation, but Harry began to believe Louis was the only thing left that might make him feel alive before he was handed off and buried in marriage to a man he’d never ever love.
He wanted to be wanted. And he wanted to choose the alpha who’d want him.
Besides, the way Louis wouldn’t look at him sometimes felt more like hunger than denial.
So Harry soaked in that feeling.
He let it build.
Let it coil like smoke beneath his ribs.
Until tonight; when the silence of the castle finally felt too heavy, too cruel. When the ache inside him stretched wide across his chest and whispered: Now.
He knew he didn’t have much more time left.
The fire is burning low in the hearth, shadows curling along the carved stone walls of his chambers. The moonlight spills silver across the balcony, but Harry doesn’t look at it tonight.He’s not thinking about escape. Not anymore.
He’s thinking about him.
Louis is where Harry had told him to be; making him company until he’d fall asleep, he’s stationed by the fireplace, arms crossed behind his back, cloak draped over one shoulder. Imposing and stoic. A fortress of a man.
But not unmoved. Not anymore.
Harry has seen the cracks forming. He’s felt the tremor in Louis’ restraint, seen it in the way his jaw clenches every time Harry gets too close. The way his eyes flicker away when Harry stretches, bends and breathes.
Tonight, Harry wears white.
A sleeveless nightgown with lace at the edges and a high slit that parts whenever he walks. His bare feet make no sound across the stone floor, and his curls tumble loose down his back, the braid crown still weaved in from earlier.
He hasn’t spoken much since dinner. Not with words.
But his scent is loud tonight; richer, heavier, sweet and ripe. A slow, deliberate call. And Louis; he’s drowning in it.
Harry can feel it.
That pull, thick and undeniable, filling every inch of the room like a rising tide. Omegas feel it first; but it’s always the alpha who breaks.
Louis is going to break.
Harry gets up from bed and pads slowly toward the chair by the fire, where Louis sits now with his elbows on his knees, gloves in hand, head bowed like he’s praying to something he doesn’t believe in.
“I can’t sleep,” Harry murmurs.
Louis looks up. His eyes are dark and watchful.
“You should try.”
“I have.” Harry tilts his head, curls swaying with the movement. “I’m restless.”
He steps closer.
Louis straightens just slightly, a warning tension forming in his spine.
Harry doesn’t stop.
“I’ve been thinking…” he says softly, fingers trailing down the edge of his nightgown, “about what it means to be chosen. To be claimed. To be… touched.”
Louis’ breath is audible now. A quiet inhale through his nose, as if that will help him resist the way Harry’s scent coils in the air like silk.
“I’ve never felt that need, Louis,” Harry whispers. “Not until now.”
He comes to a stop right in front of the chair.
Louis watches him; jaw locked, hands white-knuckled, barely breathing.
Harry places one delicate hand on Louis’ shoulder.
And slowly, carefully; climbs into his lap.
He straddles him.
Knees on either side of Louis’ thighs, silk brushing leather, thighs settling against hard muscle, the lace hem of his nightgown riding up far enough to bare skin. Warm and trembling.
Louis doesn’t move.
Not at first.
His breath is shallow. His eyes burn into Harry’s, wide and stunned and furious with restraint.
Harry’s fingers find the edge of Louis’ tunic. He leans in, his mouth close to the alpha’s jaw, voice so soft it might be mistaken for prayer.
“Don’t you want to taste me?” he breathes. “Just once. Before they take me away?”
For a moment, nothing.
Then… everything.
Louis surges upright with sudden force, grabbing Harry by the waist, lifting him like he weighs nothing, and setting him down on the chaise across the room.
The move is fast and controlled. But not gentle.
Harry gasps, blinking.
Louis steps back, towering now, his alpha scent flaring with something sharp, something that almost smells like panic.
His voice is rough, low and shaken.
“Please, my prince. You may be of age,” he growls. “But in my eyes… you’re still a boy, I-, I… can’t do this.”
Harry stares up at him, chest heaving.
Louis doesn’t wait for a reply.
He storms to the door, throws it open, steps through and turns the lock behind him.
Harry stays where he was placed. Dazed and scorched.
And slowly, slowly, another smile curls at the corner of his mouth.
Because Louis is breaking. And Harry is almost there.