The Reborn Sovereign of Ruin, Bound by His Star

Arik was descending from one of the second-story conference rooms when his comm vibrated with a message from Mezos.

’I have the cat.’

Arik stopped on the stairs.

He stared at the message for one full second, then scoffed.

Beside him, Noah glanced over with the exhausted curiosity of a man who had already spent the morning watching succession law, treaty language, and three separate assassination possibilities pass across the same table.

"What?"

Arik turned the comm slightly, just enough for Noah to read the message.

Noah sighed. "Well, Liam is a cat personified."

Arik pinned him with his gaze.

Noah only shrugged with the audacity of a cousin who had known him long enough to develop poor survival instincts. "It is true."

"I am feeding you to Marin."

Noah’s expression shifted. Not fear, exactly. More like respect for a threat with a historical basis. "That is excessive."

"You called my mate a cat."

"Mezos called him a cat first."

"Mezos is useful."

"I am also useful."

"Intermittently."

Noah placed a hand over his chest. "Wounded."

"You will live."

Noah’s mouth twitched, but the amusement faded when he saw Arik look back down at the message.

The bond had warmed faintly under Arik’s skin the moment Mezos messaged. A bright, sharp, deeply Liam-shaped irritation that meant he was alive, offended, and almost certainly complaining.

That should have reassured him.

It did not.

Mezos did not send ridiculous messages during routine escort work unless he wanted Arik to understand two things at once: Liam was safe, and Liam had been difficult enough that humor was now a security strategy.

Arik slipped the comm back into his pocket. "Marin?"

"In the east sitting room," Noah said. "He arrived two hours ago. He has taken over the tea tray, insulted the quality of Wrohanian medical record formatting, and begun reading Amara’s evolution report of the last week as if it personally offended him."

"That sounds like Marin."

"He asked if everyone in this palace was allergic to concise documentation."

"They are."

"He also asked if you had begun collecting damaged people as a political hobby."

Arik looked at him.

Noah stepped back half a pace. "I did not answer."

"Wise."

"Intermittently," Noah said, because apparently he did not value the survival he had just preserved.

Arik left him on the stairs and crossed the upper corridor toward the east sitting room.

The diplomatic palace had become full of movement. Officials walking around as silently as possible. Guards at adjusted posts. Wrohanian staff pretending not to notice Agaronian methods creeping through the building like ivy through stone. Every corridor had gained a second meaning in the last few days—escape route, ambush angle, private passage, controlled line of sight. Arik had approved most of it.

He would never let another danger touch his mate. He didn’t forget Felix’s violence against Liam just two months ago. It doesn’t matter that Liam was a stranger at the time; he wasn’t now.

The east sitting room door was open.

Marin was seated near the window with one leg crossed over the other, a porcelain cup of tea in one hand and Amara’s report balanced on his knee. He was in his seventies, silver hair swept back, a few rebel strands resting on his forehead, his face calm in the sharp, unimpressed way of experienced physicians and long-suffering omegas who had treated too many imperial men to be impressed by power.

He did not rise when Arik entered.

"Your Highness," Marin said, turning a page. "Before you ask, Amara is not dying in any way that surprises me."

Arik paused at the threshold. "Are you trying to assassinate me?"

"I was thinking of being polite in enemy territory." Marin said with a sinister smile.

"Don’t. We both know who you are."

Marin’s sinister smile became deeply pleased. "Good. I dislike wasting charm on people who have already survived Gabriel."

Arik entered the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. "You have been here two hours and you are already threatening palace morale." 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

"I am improving it. Fear gives structure to lazy institutions."

"This is not your institution."

"Then they should be grateful I am not charging reform fees."

Arik crossed the room and took the chair opposite him. The sitting room had been arranged for polite diplomatic waiting, with all pale upholstery, dark carved wood, and too much natural light for a room that had hosted three confidential briefings before noon. Marin had ruined the arrangement by spreading medical files across the low table as if he intended to dissect the palace through paperwork first.

Amara’s report lay open across his knee. Kamal’s file sat beside the tea tray, marked in several places with thin strips of silver paper. Two older medical summaries from Wrohan had been pushed farther away, which told Arik what Marin thought of them without requiring the man to say anything.

Unfortunately, Marin always preferred to say things.

"Wrohanian physicians write as if verbosity could compensate for uncertainty," Marin said, turning another page. "This report uses six paragraphs to say ’we do not know.’"

"They were working under pressure."

"Everyone works under pressure. Some of us still learn anatomy."

Arik leaned back. "Amara."

Marin’s eyes remained on the page. "Stable enough that I am annoyed."

"That is good."

"It is irritatingly good. Her body responded to the first stabilizing protocol better than expected. The poison damage is extensive, and there are layers to it, which I dislike."

"Layers?"

"Yes. Old damage beneath more recent interference. Felix’s work was not a single strike. Either the poison lingered and reactivated under specific conditions, or she was exposed more than once."

Arik’s fingers curled once against the arm of the chair.

Marin glanced at his hand. "If you break the furniture, I will not write a medical justification for it."

"I was not going to break the furniture."

"You considered it."

Arik looked at him.

Marin smiled. "See? Polite."

"You are insufferable."

"Yes, but I am correct. That is why you dragged me across a border instead of asking one of your better-mannered physicians."

"I ordered you here because you are the best."

"And because you wanted someone who would insult you while saying things you dislike."

"No."

Marin lifted one silver brow.

Arik did not dignify that with an answer.

The older omega hummed and set Amara’s report aside, reaching for Kamal’s file. "Kamal is more difficult."

Arik’s face settled.

Marin noticed, of course. He noticed everything medical, emotional, and inconvenient. "Do not look like that either. He is alive, walking, speaking, and pretending his lungs are decorative. That is more than many people would manage with this level of poison scarring."

"Can he be treated?"

"Yes."

The answer came too quickly.

Arik stilled.

Marin opened the file and tapped the page twice. "Improved, not restored. Do not become poetic with my answer. His lungs have adapted around damage for years. His ether response is defensive, which is common in people who survived long exposure by sheer stubbornness and poor medical supervision. I can reduce the active inflammation, rebuild part of the response pathway, and perhaps improve endurance. I cannot hand him new lungs because you asked nicely with imperial cheekbones."

"I was not going to ask nicely."

"I know. That is why I clarified."

Arik sighed.

Marin reached for the only ether tablet in the room and powered on the hologram of the report. "Now, the more sensitive topic: Liam Sienna Canmore."