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The only thing louder than the pre-exam chatter in the university library was the sound of Fourth’s profound boredom. He slouched in a plush armchair, a thick law textbook on ‘International Commercial Arbitration’ lying closed and forgotten on his lap. His phone, however, was held aloft with the reverence of a holy text, its screen displaying a particularly egregious piece of literature.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, his voice a low, annoyed rumble. His best friend, Phuwin, looked up from his own meticulously highlighted notes.
“What now? Did another protagonist trip over absolutely nothing and fall into the male lead’s arms for the tenth time?”
“Worse,” Fourth said, scrolling with an aggressive flick of his thumb. “It’s this omegaverse novel everyone on TikTok was raving about. The Emperor’s Unfavoured Concubine. It’s a masterpiece of wasted potential.”
Phuwin sighed, used to this. “And why is that, oh genius of our time?”
“The main character, Nattawat Jirochtikul,” Fourth began, launching into a well-practiced rant. “Check his stats: son of a Duke, educated, supposedly possesses a ‘keen and graceful mind.’ His starting position is noble, if slightly disadvantaged. Then his stepmother poisons his mother and systematically abuses him. What does he do? Nothing. He takes it. He’s then sent to the imperial harem because of his ‘peerless beauty’—a completely illiquid asset in a power struggle, by the way—and what does he do there? He continues to do nothing! He gets framed, banished to the Cold Palace, and dies of starvation. Dehydration! It’s not a tragedy, P'Phuwin, it’s a managerial failure. A complete lack of strategic initiative.”
“It’s just a novel, Fourth. People read them to relax,” Phuwin said, rubbing his temples.
“Relax? This is giving me stress-induced hives. With his resources, even a basic understanding of game theory would have told him to either form a coalition with the other lower-ranking concubines or, I don’t know, fake his own death and escape. He had options! He just chose the path of least resistance, which, in this case, led directly to a pathetic, dusty death.”
He continued to scroll, his expression one of deep contempt. “The world-building is lazy, the politics are thinner than this paper, and the characters are cardboard cutouts motivated solely by plot convenience. The only named Alpha with any detail is the Emperor, and he’s a non-entity. It’s ridiculous.”
A clap of thunder echoed outside, a precursor to the sudden summer storm that had been brewing. The library lights flickered.
“See? Even the heavens agree with me,” Fourth declared, triumphant.
Later that night, curled up in his apartment, the storm raged in earnest. Rain lashed against the windows, and the wind howled. Fourth, having aced his exam without a second thought, was back on his phone, finishing the novel. He’d powered through, partly out of morbid curiosity, partly to fuel his indignation.
He reached the final chapter. Nattawat, alone in the freezing, dilapidated Cold Palace, wrapped in thin silks, breathed his last. The narrative described his beauty even in death, his pale skin like jade against the dirty floor.
“Oh, for the love of—!” Fourth threw his hands up in exasperation. “That’s it? He just… gives up? No last-minute reveal? No hidden ally? What was the point of his ‘keen mind’ then? To be more acutely aware of his own misery? This is the most unsatisfying—”
BZZZZZT!
A blinding flash of lightning struck nearby, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. The power in his apartment died, plunging him into darkness. A sharp, painful jolt shot up his arm from his phone, and he yelped, dropping the device. His last conscious thought was a final, furious critique of the novel’s absurd ending.
---
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by a throbbing headache and the distinct feeling that something was very, very wrong.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. Not the familiar scent of old books and instant noodles, but an overwhelming mix of sandalwood incense, blooming flowers, and something subtly sweet… like plum blossoms.
The second thing he noticed was the bed. It was impossibly soft, the sheets feeling like liquid silk against his skin. This was not his IKEA mattress.
Fourth’s eyes snapped open.
He was in a large, opulent room. The walls were carved dark wood, and light filtered through intricate paper screens. A beautifully painted silk screen depicted cranes in flight, and the furniture was antique, looking both fragile and immensely expensive. He was lying on a massive, curtained bed.
“What the hell?” he whispered, his voice coming out higher, softer than usual.
He pushed himself up, and the movement felt strange. Lighter. More fluid. He looked down at his hands. They were slender, pale, and delicate, with long, graceful fingers. These were not his hands. His hands, while elegant, were calloused from years of gripping fencing foils and MMA mats.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at his skin. He scrambled out of the bed, his legs tangling in the long, flowing skirts of a… a robe? He was wearing layers of fine, embroidered silk in shades of pale blue and silver. He stumbled towards a large, polished bronze mirror mounted on a stand.
The face that stared back at him was not his own.
It was breathtakingly beautiful, in a way that was almost unsettling. Porcelain skin, large, doe-like dark eyes framed by long, sooty lashes, a delicate nose, and lips that naturally curved into a soft, pouty bow. His—no, this body’s—hair was long, falling in a silken black curtain past its shoulders. It was a face made for poetry and tragedy.
A cascade of foreign memories, like a dam breaking, flooded his mind.
The stern face of a Duke—Father. The cruel smile of a stepmother. The sneers of a stepsister and stepbrother. A long, lonely journey in a carriage. The towering vermilion gates of the Imperial Palace. The title he’d just been ranting about…
“Nattawat Jirochtikul,” Fourth breathed, the name a curse on these new, unfamiliar lips.
He was in the novel. He was the Nattawat Jirochtikul, the Unfavoured Concubine. The one who was destined to be framed, banished, and left to die a pointless death.
The initial wave of sheer, unadulterated terror was quickly bulldozed by a surge of pure, indignant fury.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he said to his reflection, the beautiful face twisting into a scowl that looked profoundly out of place. “This is the most cliché, overused, lazy plot device in the entire genre! Transmigration? Really? And into this useless character?”
He paced the room, the silken robes swishing around his ankles. His analytical mind, the one that could dissect complex legal frameworks in minutes, kicked into overdrive, shoving the panic aside.
“Okay. Okay. Assess the situation. I am Nattawat. I am in the imperial harem.” He recalled the novel’s timeline. “The new consorts arrived yesterday. The presentation to the Emperor is… tomorrow.”
His eyes widened. That was the point of no return. That was when the Emperor would notice his beauty, marking him as a target for every other scheming consort in the place.
“No,” Fourth stated, his voice firm and decisive in the quiet room. It was the same tone he used when he’d decided to take the national fencing championship. It was the tone of a winner, not a victim. “Absolutely not. I did not get isekai’d into this ridiculous story just to follow the script to a dismal end.”
He walked back to the mirror, meeting the eyes of the beautiful boy destined for dust.
“Listen up, Nattawat,” he said to the reflection. “I don’t know what kind of deal you made with the universe, but your tenure as the protagonist is over. Effective immediately, I am the new CEO of this body. And the first order of business is a hostile takeover of this pathetic plot.”
A slow, sharp smile spread across his new face. It was a smile full of cunning and intent, a expression that had never once graced the original Nattawat’s features.
“Step one: Escape the harem. Tonight.”
The plan was, in Fourth’s professional legal opinion, flawless. He had assessed the variables: cover of night, a basic understanding of the harem’s eastern layout from Nattawat’s memories, and a compelling motive to not die a slow, dramatic death. His resources were limited—a bag of stolen pork buns and a profound sense of self-preservation—but he was innovating.
Dressed in the thickest, darkest robes he could find in Nattawat’s wardrobe (which were still laughably impractical for espionage, made of silk and embroidered with what looked like silver thread), he slipped from his assigned room. The palace was a maze of moon-washed courtyards and silent, sweeping corridors. He moved with a predator’s grace that was entirely his own, a blend of martial arts footwork and fencer’s agility, feeling a thrill that his boring, modern life had never provided.
This was, he decided, infinitely more interesting than International Commercial Arbitration.
He was halfway across a secluded garden, envisioning a future as a wildly successful merchant’s pampered (and only) wife, when he walked directly into a solid, immovable object.
Oof.
The air left his lungs in a soft whoosh. Before he could face-plant onto the meticulously raked gravel, a strong arm shot out, wrapping around his waist and hauling him back upright. He found himself pressed against a chest that felt like carved marble beneath rich, brocaded silk.
A scent enveloped him—clean, sharp sandalwood and a crisp, citrusy note, like a sun-warmed bergamot. It was undeniably an Alpha’s scent, and it was… distractingly pleasant.
Fourth looked up, and up, into the face of his impediment.
Oh.
The man was… statistically significant. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, lips set in a firm, amused line. His eyes, dark and intelligent, regarded Fourth with a curiosity that was neither angry nor alarmed, merely deeply intrigued. He was, in a word, devastatingly handsome.
“Hi,” Fourth squeaked, then cleared his throat, offering a sheepish smile. The man’s arm remained a solid, warm band around his waist. “I know you must think that I am doing suspicious sneaking around in the palace at midnight, but I have a good reason.”
The man didn’t speak. He merely raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, as if to say, ‘I have all night. Enlighten me.’
Encouraged by the lack of immediate shouting for guards, Fourth launched into his defense. “I was sent here by my father and his evil wife to become the emperor's concubine.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And let's be honest, one look at me and the emperor will be mesmerized. You can't see how hot I am because it's dark and only the moonlight is giving us illumination, but I am like, seriously good-looking. It is described that I have skin fair as snow, hair the colour of spilled ink, and lips red as blood. I am like Snow White, but, like, a dude and Asian.”
The handsome man’s expression shifted from curiosity to pure, unadulterated confusion. Fourth realized he was babbling. He needed to streamline his argument. Back to the core thesis.
“Anyway. The point is, I am hot, and I’m smart. Why should I settle for being a concubine? One of a hundred other Omegas and noble Betas? The emperor’s attention would be divided into mathematically insignificant portions. And if I somehow get his favor—which, to be honest, with my good looks, it's only a matter of time; I am cursed with my mother's good looks—then I become a target for every jealous consort in this gilded cage. It’s a lose-lose situation.”
A deep, resonant voice, as handsome as the rest of him, finally broke the silence. “So you don't want to serve the emperor?”
“Of course not!” Fourth exclaimed, as if this were the most obvious conclusion in the world. He found himself resting a hand on the man’s chest, partly for emphasis, partly because the man still hadn’t let him go. “That’s practically a death sentence. I am planning on running away. Become a maid, maybe marry a farmer or a rich merchant who will be bewitched by my beauty. With my brains, we will make a fortune, and I will be their only partner. None of that concubine nonsense you find with these men of nobility.”
“You don't want your spouse to take a concubine?” the man asked, his tone unreadable.
“Absolutely not,” Fourth stated firmly. “Don't get me wrong. I know sharing is caring, but sharing a spouse is like sharing a toothbrush. It’s unsanitary and something I will not do.”
The analogy made the man’s lips twitch. “So your plan is to run away?”
“Basically… yeah,” Fourth said, deploying his most convincing, sheepishly pleading smile. “As long as you don't expose me.”
“You could be punished for this,” the man stated, a fact, not a threat.
“I know. It's basically defying the emperor. But if I disappear and you don't sell me out, he won't know. There's like ten more of us new consorts. I’m statistically negligible.”
The man was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes scanning Fourth’s face, taking in the determined glint in the doe-like eyes, the stubborn set of the pouty lips. He seemed to come to a decision.
“Become my personal attendant,” he offered. “You will not be required to go into the harem, and you will be under my protection.”
Fourth’s eyes lit up like twin stars. A job interview! And he aced it! “Oh my God! You'll do that? For me?”
Finally, the man released him, and Fourth took a graceful step back, the space between them suddenly feeling much colder.
“I am not doing it for you,” the man said, his tone coolly practical. “I need a personal attendant, and you need a way out. It's a win-win situation.”
“You won't regret this!” Fourth promised, his mind already racing. “I am a decent cook, I can clean, and I know MMA so I can protect you. Oh! Can you get me a sword?”
The man blinked, thrown by the non-sequitur. “You want a sword?”
“Obviously. How am I supposed to protect you without one? I guess I can just beat people up, but a sword would be more convenient. And dignified.”
“Do you even know how to wield a sword?” the man asked, a note of genuine skepticism in his voice.
Fourth drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height, the moonlight glinting in his determined eyes. “Don't underestimate me. I am a champion fencer. Won gold at the Olympics.” The lie—or was it the truth of a past life?—slipped out with effortless confidence.
The handsome man let out a soft, incredulous huff of laughter, a rich, warm sound in the cool night air. He looked at this bizarre, beautiful Omega who talked of defying the emperor, shared toothbrushes, and Olympic gold medals with the same fervent conviction.
“Very well,” he said, a slow, intrigued smile finally gracing his features. It transformed his face from austerely handsome to heart-stoppingly attractive. “Come with me… what is your name?”
“Nattawat,” Fourth replied, instinctively giving the name of this body. “But you can call me Fourth.” It felt right to reclaim a piece of himself.
“Fourth,” the man repeated, the name sounding foreign yet fitting on his tongue. “A strange name. I am Norawit. Follow me.”
As Fourth fell into step beside Norawit, a triumphant grin spread across his face. He had done it. He had successfully negotiated his way out of his tragic fate and into stable employment with a ridiculously attractive, and apparently influential, boss. The benefits package—including protection and a potential sword—was excellent.
He was so busy congratulating himself on his strategic genius that the critical, world-altering detail never once crossed his mind: in the entire history of the empire, an unmated Omega had never been appointed as a "personal attendant" to an unmatched Alpha prince. It was a contradiction in terms, an impossibility.
But as Norawit led his new, peculiar acquisition towards the Crown Prince’s wing of the palace, a place no harem consort was ever meant to enter, he knew exactly what he was doing. He hadn’t hired a servant.
He had just acquired a consort.
Fourth stared at his new quarters, his brow furrowed in a mixture of delight and profound confusion. This wasn't a servant's room. This was a suite fit for... well, for someone far above a personal attendant. It was larger and more opulent than the concubine's room he'd just escaped, complete with a separate receiving area, a beautifully carved wooden bathtub hidden behind an ornate screen, and a bed so vast he could probably perform his fencing footwork on it.
"Wow," he murmured, running a hand over the silken bedspread. "Norawit must be really high up in the security detail. Or maybe he's the head eunuch? No, the scent is pure Alpha. Head of the Imperial Guard, then. The benefits are insane."
The next morning, his theory was both challenged and reinforced when two stern-faced Beta women entered without knocking, announcing they were there to bathe and dress him.
"Whoa, hold on," Fourth said, holding up his hands. "I'm perfectly capable of bathing myself. It's a core competency for the job."
The women stared at him as if he'd suggested juggling live scorpions. "It is the protocol for your station," one of them said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
Fourth, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. "Okay, fine. Free spa day. But go easy on the perfumes. I don't want to smell like a walking flower shop."
The "bath" turned out to be an extensive ritual involving scrubbing, oiling, and enough fragrant powder to make him sneeze. Then came the robes. They were a masterpiece of white and black silk, embroidered with elegant, silver-threaded cranes in flight. It was heavier and far more formal than anything he'd worn as a concubine. A cool, smooth pearl necklace was fastened around his throat, a jade bracelet clasped around his wrist, and his long, dark hair was styled into a half-updo secured with hairpins of white gold and mother-of-pearl that felt prohibitively expensive.
"Okay, this is a bit much for making breakfast and sweeping floors," Fourth commented, examining his reflection. He looked like a prized art exhibit. "But hey, if this is the uniform, I'll rock it."
He politely dismissed the two Betas, his mind already on his duties. First order of business: impress his new boss with his culinary skills.
He found the palace kitchens with ease, the staff falling into a hushed silence as he entered, a vision of luxurious white and black amidst the steam and clay pots.
"Hi everyone! I'm Nattawat, but you can call me Fourth," he announced with a friendly wave. "I'm Norawit's new personal attendant. I'm just here to whip up his breakfast, so don't mind me."
The head chef's eyes widened slightly at the casual use of the Crown Prince's given name, but his gaze then dropped to the crane embroidery on Fourth's robes and the priceless hairpins in his hair. The message was received, loud and clear. This was no mere servant. This was the Crown Prince's newly chosen Consort, here on a whim.
"Of course, my lord," the head chef said, bowing deeply. "If you require any assistance, please let us know."
"Oh, don't worry about me. I'm just making something simple," Fourth said, already rolling up his voluminous sleeves, much to the horror of the watching staff. "I promise I won't burn your kitchen down."
He moved with a confident efficiency that was utterly alien in the precise, hierarchical world of the imperial kitchens. He hummed as he chopped ginger and scallions, tasted the broth with a critical eye, and adjusted the seasoning of the congee with an expert hand. He ended up preparing a simple but comforting chicken and ginger congee, accompanied by a few perfectly balanced side dishes.
A wide-eyed young servant helped him carry the laden tray to Norawit's chambers. Without a moment's hesitation, Fourth pushed the door open and strode in.
"Norawit! Rise and shine, I brought breakfast!" he called out, his voice echoing in the stately room.
He found Norawit standing by his bed, dressed only in thin, black inner robes that did little to hide the powerful build of his chest and shoulders. The servant behind Fourth gasped and immediately averted his eyes, face pale. Fourth, entirely unbothered, simply marched to the table and began efficiently setting out the dishes.
"You can go," Fourth said to the trembling servant, who scurried out without a word.
Fourth turned back to Norawit, who was watching him with an expression of sheer, unadulterated bewilderment. "The absence of coffee in this era is a crime against humanity," Fourth declared, pouring a cup of fragrant jasmine tea. "But I found this. Apparently, you enjoy jasmine tea, so I made that. I must say, though, while jasmine is in my top three, I prefer chamomile or rooibos. That is what tea should taste like." He pushed a bowl of steaming congee towards the empty seat. "Come on, sit and eat. I cooked all this myself. It's really good. It's what my Nana used to make for me."
Norawit slowly picked up a rich, dark outer robe and slipped it on, his eyes never leaving Fourth. "You... cooked this?"
"I told you I could cook, clean, and do all kinds of stuff," Fourth grinned, radiating pride. "You will not regret hiring me. Now eat before it gets cold."
Norawit sat, took a tentative spoonful of the congee, and his eyes widened in genuine surprise. "This is... exceptional. Better than the imperial chefs."
"Hey, don't let the head chef hear you say that," Fourth laughed, already piling more food into Norawit's bowl. "I just made a deal with him regarding a steady supply of pork buns, and I am not giving that up." He leaned against the table, ignoring all protocol for how one should behave in the presence of a prince. "So, what's on the itinerary for the day? Dusting? Polishing your armor? I'm ready."
Norawit took a sip of his tea, a slow smile playing on his lips. This Omega was a hurricane in crane-embroidered silk. "I have court duties first. And thereafter, we are going to the training grounds, and then to the blacksmith to get you your sword."
Fourth's face lit up with a brilliant, unguarded grin. Court duties sounded boring, but they were a small price to pay for a field trip to a blacksmith. "Court duties? Sounds like fun. I'll be the quiet, attentive attendant who secretly judges everyone's terrible arguments and lack of evidence."
Norawit didn't doubt it for a second. As he ate the best breakfast of his life, served to him by a boy who thought he was a servant but dressed and acted like a prince consort, he realized his days of boredom were officially over. The game was afoot, and he was immensely curious to see what move this bizarre, beautiful Omega would make next.Of course! Here is the next chapter, delving into the court session and the growing rumors.
The walk to the Emperor's Hall was a lesson in social hierarchy that Fourth completely failed to read. As he strode beside Norawit, he remained blissfully unaware of the silent earthquake his presence was causing. Courtiers, officials, and servants alike paused in their tracks, their eyes darting from the Crown Prince to the stunning, unfamiliar Omega at his side.
Whispers slithered through the corridors like snakes.
"...who is that?"
"...the crane embroidery!He wears the Prince's sigil!"
"Look how close he walks!And the Prince allows it?"
"A love match,surely... but from which family?"
Fourth, accustomed to standing out for his intellect, misinterpreted the attention entirely. He leaned closer to Norawit, his voice a low, confidential hum.
"Is it me or are people looking at me?" he whispered.
Norawit, who was acutely aware of the exact nature and reason for every single glance, gave a nonchalant reply. "They are looking at me." It was technically true; they were looking at him with his new consort.
Fourth nodded, his logic satisfied. "That makes sense. You are the boss, after all." He then grinned, his eyes crinkling. "I must say, you look good in black. Powerful, you know? That's very sexy."
Norawit's stride didn't falter, but a spark of amusement lit his dark eyes. "You think I look sexy?"
"I have eyes, don't I? Of course, you look sexy. Stop fishing for compliments," Fourth chided, bumping his shoulder playfully against Norawit's arm—a gesture that made a nearby duke choke on his own breath. "You are already rich and powerful. You don't need compliments from me."
They arrived at the grand, imposing doors of the Emperor's Hall. Norawit stopped and turned to Fourth. With a tenderness that was both possessive and natural, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from Fourth's forehead, tucking it neatly behind his pearl-adorned ear.
"We are going in now," Norawit said, his voice dropping into a tone of gentle command. "You will sit on my left and behave."
"I am always behaved," Fourth protested, puffing out his cheeks in a pout.
Norawit merely raised a single, disbelieving eyebrow, a silent testament to their breakfast encounter.
Fourth sighed in dramatic surrender. "Okay, fine. I'll behave. No critiquing the emperor's interior design choices out loud. Promise."
They entered the hall, and the whispers died instantly, replaced by a respectful, heavy silence. Fourth felt the weight of hundreds of eyes upon them. He followed Norawit to the front of the hall, where two ornate chairs were placed just below the empty dragon throne. Norawit sat in the right-hand one, and Fourth, remembering his instructions, took the left.
He sat up straight, trying to look like a competent, attentive attendant. He folded his hands in his lap, the jade bracelet cool against his skin. For the first few minutes, he was the picture of decorum.
Then the court session began.
A minister stepped forward and began droning on about a border dispute involving sheep grazing rights. His argument was circular, poorly supported, and relied heavily on emotional appeals about the "noble shepherds' ancestral lands."
Fourth's attentive expression slowly morphed into one of profound professional distress. His legal mind, honed to a razor's edge, was being assaulted by what he could only describe as "legislative malpractice." He shifted in his seat, a small frown forming on his lips. He leaned slightly toward Norawit.
"He's citing precedent from three generations ago, but the land usage laws were completely reformed under the previous emperor," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "This is inadmissible."
Norawit, who had been listening with a bored expression, didn't turn his head, but a corner of his mouth quirked up. He gave a barely perceptible nod.
The minister continued, proposing a heavy tax on the opposing village.
Fourth couldn't help himself. "A punitive tax will only incite rebellion and cripple the local economy, reducing long-term tax revenue. It's fiscally idiotic," he whispered, more fervently this time. "He should be proposing a joint grazing commission with mutually agreed-upon boundaries. It's basic conflict resolution!"
This time, his whisper carried just a little too far. The minister faltered, shooting a confused look in Fourth's direction. A few officials nearby stared, scandalized. An Omega, speaking on matters of state? And in the Crown Prince's ear, no less!
Norawit brought a hand to his mouth, pretending to cough to cover the laugh that threatened to escape. He then spoke, his voice calm and authoritative, cutting off the flustered minister.
"The Minister makes an interesting point," Norawit began, and then proceeded to dismantle the man's entire argument, not with emotion, but with cold, hard logic—echoing Fourth's suggestions almost verbatim, but framing them as his own royal insight. He proposed a joint grazing commission.
The hall was left in stunned silence. The Crown Prince's analysis had been brilliant, swift, and devastatingly efficient.
As the court moved on to the next matter, Fourth beamed with pride, leaning over to whisper, "See? I'm helpful! You should give me a raise."
Norawit glanced at the beautiful, brilliant boy beside him, who was completely unaware that he had just participated in a royal court session not as a servant, but as a consort influencing the future emperor. The rumors, he knew, would be wildfire by noon.
He simply nodded, his voice a low, intimate rumble meant only for Fourth. "I'll consider it. Now, behave. The Minister of Revenue is about to speak, and I have a feeling you're going to hate his proposal for a new salt tax."
Fourth's eyes lit up with the glee of a shark scenting blood in the water. "Ooh, economics! My second favorite sport after fencing." He settled in, a picture of elegant anticipation, ready to deconstruct the empire's fiscal policy one whispered critique at a time.
The weight of the Emperor’s gaze was a physical pressure, and Fourth felt the delicate fiction of his new life threatening to crumble. Father. The word echoed in his mind, each repetition more damning than the last. He hadn’t just found a generous employer; he’d been adopted as a pet by the crown prince of the entire empire. The sheer, audacious scale of his mistake was breathtaking.
As the last courtier filed out, Fourth grabbed Norawit’s sleeve, hissing under his breath, “Father? As in, like, the Emperor is your father?”
Norawit didn’t even have the decency to look chastised. He merely looked amused. “Yes. I am one of many of my father’s children. And you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that did treacherous things to Fourth’s pulse, “are my consort.”
“Your what now?” Fourth’s voice squeaked. “I can’t be your—”
“Behave and play the perfect, devoted consort,” Norawit interrupted, his eyes glinting, “and I’ll double your salary.”
Fourth’s protest died in his throat. Money. Freedom. The ultimate goals. His brain, ever the pragmatic negotiator, instantly calculated the risk-reward ratio. Playing along with this insane charade was, for now, the most profitable path.
“You have yourself a deal,” Fourth whispered back, sharp and low. “But we will have a talk after this. I can’t believe you lied to me.”
“I saved your life,” Norawit corrected smoothly, his hand coming to rest possessively on the small of Fourth’s back. “You were attempting to run away, defying the emperor’s direct order to join the harem. That is treason, punishable by death. I merely… rerouted your employment.”
“You stole your father’s concubine!” Fourth retorted, his face heating.
“You were not his yet. The presentation had not occurred,” Norawit countered, his logic as infuriatingly sound as Fourth’s own. He pulled Fourth closer by the waist, his lips brushing against Fourth’s ear in a whisper that sent a shiver down his spine. “And now you are mine. This arrangement benefits us both. I get to keep my position as Crown Prince by appearing to have made a politically neutral but passionate match, and I avoid being forced to marry some noble’s daughter I have no interest in.”
“But we are not married!” Fourth hissed, his hand instinctively coming up to rest on Norawit’s solid chest. To anyone watching—and the few remaining servants were definitely watching—they looked like a couple sharing a tender, private moment, the beautiful Omega leaning into his Alpha’s strength.
“We will deal with the legalities later,” Norawit murmured against his ear. “All you need to do right now is convince my father that we are madly in love and that we eloped.”
“But I’ve never even been in—” Fourth cut himself off. Love? He’d dissected it in literature and deconstructed it in films, but the real thing was as foreign to him as this world’s plumbing. But he was a genius. He could research, adapt, and perform. “Fine. But you owe me. A lot.”
The Emperor cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the suddenly silent hall. Only the four of them remained: the Emperor on his dragon throne, the Empress standing beside him with a smile that didn’t reach her cold eyes, and the two of them, locked in their fabricated intimacy.
“Explain yourself, Norawit,” the Emperor commanded, his voice devoid of warmth.
Norawit released Fourth and gave a formal, deep bow. “Father. This is my consort, Nattawat Jirochtikul, son of Duke Jirochtikul.”
“Consort?” the Emperor echoed, his gaze sweeping over Fourth’s crane-embroidered robes and expensive hairpins. “You are not married.”
“We eloped,” Norawit stated, the lie delivered with breathtaking calm. “And have already consummated the union.”
Fourth felt a hot flush creep up his neck. He focused on keeping his expression one of demure devotion, hoping the sheer force of his embarrassment would be mistaken for blushing bride shyness.
The Empress’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Isn’t Nattawat meant to be one of the new concubines entering the harem? I distinctly recall the Duke’s name on the register.”
“You must be mistaken, Imperial Mother,” Norawit replied without missing a beat. His voice was respectful, but his stance was unyielding. “Perhaps you are thinking of the Duke’s other Omega child. Nattawat and I have been in love for some time now.”
“Is that so?” the Empress purred, her skepticism a tangible force. “How, precisely, did you meet?”
Fourth’s mind, trained for rapid-fire debate, seized the first plausible scenario that didn’t involve him complaining about harem politics in a moonlit garden. He stepped forward slightly, bowing his head.
“I saved him, Your Imperial Majesty,” Fourth said, his voice clear and steady.
A beat of stunned silence.
“You?” the Empress asked, a delicate, mocking laugh in her voice. “You saved the Crown Prince? The man who has wielded a sword since he could walk and led troops at twelve years old?”
Fourth drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height, letting a flicker of steel enter his doe-like eyes. “Imperial Empress, I may not look it, but I am skilled in the arts of fighting. I can wield a sword or defend myself with my hands alone.” It was the truth, and he poured every ounce of his modern confidence into the statement. “My maternal grandfather was a general. I learned from him.” It was a deft twist of the truth; Nattawat’s paternal grandfather had indeed been the renowned General, and Fourth saw no need to clarify the exact lineage.
The Empress’s smile was venomously sweet. “Is that so? Then I hope to see a demonstration of your skills very soon, Crown Consort.”
The title hung in the air, both a challenge and a confirmation of his new, terrifying status.
Fourth bowed again, perfectly. “I will do my best to please you, Imperial Empress. Norawit promised me a sword. We are going to the blacksmith today, but he did promise to take me to the training grounds first.” He let a hint of eager excitement color his tone, playing the part of a spirited young consort eager to practice his craft.
The Emperor, who had been silently observing the exchange, finally spoke, his eyes lingering on Fourth with a new, calculating interest. “See that you do. A consort who can protect my son is a valuable asset. You are dismissed.”
As they bowed and turned to leave, Fourth felt the Empress’s gaze burning into his back. He had survived the first interrogation. But as he walked beside Norawit, the title "Crown Consort" ringing in his ears, he knew the real battle—navigating the deadly waters of the imperial court without actually being married to the devastatingly handsome prince he was now contractually obligated to pretend to adore—had only just begun. And his salary, he decided, was still not high enough.
The moment the heavy doors to Norawit’s private chambers closed, sealing them off from the rest of the palace, Fourth whirled around. The demure, devoted consort persona evaporated, replaced by the indignant, pragmatic law student.
“The whole point, Norawit—the entire point—was to avoid the palace at all costs!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. The motion made the fine silk of his formal sleeves flutter. “Now I’m at the very heart of it! I’m the number one target on the Empress’s hit list. I am positive she hates me. I could feel her mentally composing my obituary back there!”
Norawit, unperturbed, began unfastening the intricate clasps of his own heavy court robes. “She doesn’t hate you,” he corrected calmly, shrugging off the outer layer to reveal a simpler, dark tunic beneath. He moved to a chest and retrieved a set of practical leather arm guards. “She fears you. You are young, sharp-witted, and beautiful. You threaten her position and her influence over my father.”
“Not what I was trying to do!” Fourth insisted, pacing the length of the luxurious rug. “I was just trying to get a nice, quiet job! Maybe one with dental and a solid retirement plan. Not this… this vipers’ nest! This is a death sentence with better interior design!”
“You will be under my protection,” Norawit said, his voice steady as he finished fastening his own arm guards. He then approached Fourth, his hands moving to the elaborate fastenings of Fourth’s own ornate over-robe. The gesture was so natural, so domestic, that Fourth barely registered it for a moment.
“Oh, that is sweet and all, very chivalrous,” Fourth said, allowing Norawit to help him out of the heavy garment, “but as the Crown Prince, you are already a prime target for every sibling and cousin vying for your position. Which means, by the transitive property of palace politics, I am now also a target for all of them! I’ve multiplied my enemies!”
Finally free of the cumbersome robes, Fourth was left in his soft, white inner tunic. He felt immediately lighter, both physically and mentally. Norawit picked up a set of simpler, dark blue robes—still clearly expensive and elegantly cut, but designed for movement.
“And you will protect me,” Norawit stated, as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. He held the new robes open for Fourth to slip into.
Fourth stared at him, momentarily speechless by the man’s audacity. He slid his arms into the sleeves, the fabric cool and smooth against his skin. “I… what?”
“We will protect each other,” Norawit amended, his voice dropping slightly as he deftly fastened the sash around Fourth’s waist, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long. He then took the leather arm guards and began clasping them onto Fourth’s right forearm, the leather a stark, practical contrast against the fine silk.
Fourth’s brain, momentarily short-circuited by the proximity and the casual intimacy, rebooted into its favorite mode: negotiation. “I guess I can protect you,” he said, tilting his chin up. “For a good price. Speaking of which, how much are you actually paying me? We agreed on double, but double of what? What was the original salary for a ‘personal attendant’?”
Norawit finished with the arm guard and looked down at him, a soft, unreadable expression in his eyes. He reached out and gently tucked a stray lock of Fourth’s hair behind his ear, his knuckles brushing against Fourth’s cheekbone. The touch was electric.
“Fourth,” he said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “Everything in my treasury is yours. You are my consort.”
Fourth blinked. The words didn’t quite compute. “Wait, what?”
A small, genuine smile played on Norawit’s lips. “My money is your money. My treasures are your treasures. If you need or want anything—jewels, silks, a fleet of ships, a private library—you simply ask the royal accountant. He will give you whatever amount you require.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The sheer, unimaginable wealth of the Crown Prince’s estate… was now, theoretically, his to access. The math was too vast to calculate.
“Holy moly,” Fourth breathed, his eyes wide with a new, avaricious light. “I’m rich. Like, ‘burn money for fun’ rich. ‘Buy an island’ rich.”
“Precisely,” Norawit said, his amusement evident.
Fourth took a deep, steadying breath. He looked at Norawit—at his handsome, confident face, at the powerful build, at the man who had just offered him the keys to a kingdom’s treasury. The risks were astronomical. The enemies were legion. The situation was utterly ridiculous.
But the compensation package was… unparalleled.
“Okay,” Fourth said, a slow, determined grin spreading across his face. “I guess if I’m going to risk my life and my sanity, I might as well do it while being obscenely, fabulously rich. Fine. I’ll continue being your consort. And I promise not to run away.”
Norawit’s eyebrow arched, a knowing glint in his eye. “You were already planning on running away again, weren’t you? After you’d secured an initial payout.”
Fourth’s grin turned impish, utterly unrepentant. “You know me too well.”
Fourth’s understanding of royal protocol was, to put it generously, abstract. As a 21st-century prodigy, his knowledge of ancient civilizations was limited to what was necessary to critique historical inaccuracies in movies. The intricate, stifling rules of how a Crown Consort should comport themselves were a complete mystery to him. So, he defaulted to his natural state: boundless, curious energy.
As they walked to the training grounds, the promise of swords and sparring made him practically vibrate with excitement. Finally free of the restrictive formal robes and in clothes that allowed for movement, he was like a kite caught in a gale. He didn't walk with Norawit so much as he orbited him, a satellite of chattering enthusiasm.
"—so it needs to be balanced, obviously, but not too heavy. I prefer a lighter blade for speed, something like an epee but with a bit more heft for slashing if necessary. The hilt has to be wrapped just right, no cheap leather that gives you blisters after an hour—"
Norawit, for his part, did not scold him. He didn't even try to make him walk in a dignified, straight line. He simply watched Fourth's chaotic path with an indulgent expression, his gaze fond. His only interventions were a gentle hand on Fourth's shoulder to steer him away from a stone pillar, or a subtle nudge to prevent him from backtracking directly into a potted bonsai. The servants they passed didn't even blink; they simply flowed out of the vibrant Crown Consort's path like water around a lively rock.
"Careful," Norawit murmured, his hand snapping out to steady Fourth's waist as his consort's heel caught on an uneven flagstone.
"I am being careful," Fourth protested, though a faint pink dusted his cheeks at the sudden, firm contact.
"Not nearly enough," Norawit replied, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping away. "If you don't walk in a straight line, I will be forced to carry you the rest of the way. It would be safer."
Fourth’s eyes widened, the pink on his cheeks deepening. "Don't threaten me with a good time," he retorted, a boldness in his tone that was entirely new.
Norawit raised a single, slow eyebrow. The gesture was a silent essay on royal prerogative, intimate possession, and the very real, very appealing possibility of following through on that threat.
"Don't you dare carry me," Fourth said quickly, reading the message loud and clear. "What will people think? Fine. I'll walk in a boring, stupid, straight line." He fell into step beside Norawit, though his energy still hummed through the space between them.
When they arrived at the training grounds, the scent of sand, leather, and metal filled the air. Norawit went to speak with the weapons master, giving instructions for the creation of Fourth's custom sword. Fourth, meanwhile, bee-lined for the racks of practice weapons, his fingers itching to hold a blade.
Norawit was only distracted for a few minutes, discussing the specifics of the steel alloy. When he turned back to check on his consort, his blood ran cold for a split second before being replaced by sheer, unadulterated awe.
Fourth stood in the center of a newly formed circle of stunned guards and trainees. Under his foot, pinned to the hard-packed sand, was one of the royal guards—a man twice Fourth's width and covered in muscle. In Fourth's hand was a practice sword, its blunted edge pressed firmly against the guard's exposed throat. The entire scene was one of lethal, effortless control.
"Yield," Fourth commanded, his voice not a shout, but a cool, carrying tone that brooked no argument. The authority in it was innate, the voice of a champion used to victory.
"I yield!" the guard grunted, his face a mixture of shock and respect.
Fourth immediately released the pressure, stepping back and offering a hand to help the massive man to his feet. "Your stance is too wide," Fourth said, his critique automatic and precise. "It makes you stable for a frontal assault, but it sacrifices all mobility for a flanking move. A smaller, faster opponent can get inside your guard before you can reset." He demonstrated the vulnerable opening with a flick of his wrist.
The guard, now standing, bowed deeply. "My thanks for the lesson, Your Highness."
It was then that Fourth noticed the utter silence. And then he saw Norawit watching him, his expression a complex tapestry of shock, pride, and something intensely possessive.
The Weapons Master, a grizzled old veteran with a scar across his cheek, was the first to speak, his voice gruff with admiration. "The Consort speaks the truth. I haven't seen footwork that clean since the late General Jirochtikul himself." He bowed to Fourth. "Your grandfather would be proud, Your Highness."
The use of the title finally jolted Fourth back to reality. He wasn't just showing off his skills; he was performing as the Crown Consort. He looked at Norawit, suddenly unsure if he had overstepped.
Norawit closed the distance between them, the crowd parting for him. He didn't say a word. He simply took the practice sword from Fourth's hand, his fingers brushing against Fourth's, and handed it to a nearby attendant. Then, his eyes locked on Fourth's, he reached out and very deliberately straightened the collar of Fourth's training robes, a slow, intimate gesture of ownership and care that was witnessed by every single person on the field.
"The Empress wished for a demonstration," Norawit said, his voice low but carrying perfectly in the quiet. "I believe she will be getting one sooner than she anticipated." A slow, proud smile finally broke through his composed mask. "It seems my consort is full of surprises."
The Flower Banquet was a symphony of delicate scents and refined arts. Noble Omegas, adorned in pastel silks, performed ethereal dances, their sleeves floating like petals on a breeze. The gentle, melancholic notes of the zither and the soft recitation of poetry filled the air. Fourth, for his part, was thoroughly enjoying the show and the impressive spread of snacks, completely at ease in his role as the Crown Prince's plus-one.
It was in this idyllic setting that the Empress struck, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "The performances have been so inspiring. Perhaps we could be graced to see what talents our new Crown Consort possesses? A dance, perhaps? Or a musical instrument?"
Fourth blinked, swallowing a delicious honey-glazed pastry. All eyes turned to him. He wiped his fingers delicately on a napkin, his mind racing.
"Oh," he began, offering a polite, apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Your Highness. I'm afraid my talents lie elsewhere."
The Empress's smile was a razor blade. "Oh? Like what?"
A lesser man would have faltered. Fourth, however, looked directly at Norawit, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Norawit will know about those," he said, winking shamelessly.
The resulting cacophony of choked coughs and the frantic rustling of fans as nobles averted their eyes was immensely satisfying. Norawit, to his credit, merely took a slow sip of his wine, his own lips curving in a faint, proud smile.
Fourth continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "But as I have stated, I could perform poetry, but that's boring—for me, nothing against those who enjoy poetry, of course. I could sing, but no one wants to hear that, and I can't play an instrument to save my life. I'm good at arithmetic and literature, but I don't know how to make that into a performance." He paused, his brow furrowing in genuine thought. "Oh! If there's a chance for a change of clothes, I could demonstrate how to take down a person in less than a minute? Or, I don't know, fight someone?"
Gasps rippled through the hall. This was unheard of. Vulgar! Scandalous!
Norawit set his cup down, his voice calm and authoritative, cutting through the shock. "Fourth is an excellent swordsman. He is the descendant of General Jirochtikul, who secured the Northern and Eastern borders for our empire."
The Empress saw her opening. "If that is the case," she purred, "then my son, the Seventh Prince, would be honored to spar with the Crown Consort. A friendly demonstration."
All eyes shifted to the Seventh Prince, a tall, smug Alpha who shared the Empress's cold eyes. He stood, puffing out his chest.
Fourth tilted his head, assessing him with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a mildly interesting specimen. "You?" he asked, his tone not mocking, but genuinely inquisitive. "Are you sure?"
The Seventh Prince's face flushed. "Is the Crown Consort looking down on this Prince?"
"I wouldn't dare," Fourth said smoothly, his attention already turning to Norawit. "Norawit, please help me with the arm guards. I fear these wide sleeves are terribly impractical when wielding a sword."
A hush fell as the Crown Prince himself stood. "As you wish," he replied, his voice warm.
As Norawit knelt before him, fastening the leather guards onto Fourth's forearms with a tender precision that spoke of intimacy, Fourth leaned down.
"Should I go easy on him? Give him face? Or should I obliterate him?" Fourth whispered, his voice for Norawit alone.
Norawit's fingers stilled for a moment on the buckle. He looked up, and the look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated fire. "Show him no mercy."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Fourth's face. "With pleasure."
Changed into simple, dark training clothes, Fourth faced the Seventh Prince in a cleared space in the garden. The prince held his sword with the arrogance of someone who had won many practice bouts but had never known true battle.
The fight began. The Seventh Prince lunged, a powerful, straightforward attack meant to overwhelm. Fourth didn't parry. He simply wasn't there anymore. He flowed to the side, his movement so fluid it was like water evading stone.
The prince grunted, swinging again. Again, Fourth moved, not with brute force, but with impossible economy of motion. He was a ghost, a whisper of dark fabric and cool intent.
"This is a fight, Consort! Stop running!" the Seventh Prince snarled, his frustration mounting.
"As you wish," Fourth said.
He didn't attack with the sword. As the prince charged for a third time, Fourth dropped into a low sweep, his leg hooking behind the prince's ankle. As the prince stumbled, off-balance, Fourth's hilt slammed into the back of his sword hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. In the same continuous motion, Fourth spun, his own practice sword coming to rest lightly against the prince's throat, mirroring his earlier victory over the guard.
The entire exchange had taken less than twenty seconds.
The garden was utterly silent, save for the Seventh Prince's heavy, humiliated panting.
"Yield," Fourth said, his voice soft but absolute.
The prince could only nod, his face a mask of purple rage and shame.
Fourth stepped back, sheathing the practice sword as if it were a real one. He bowed, perfectly polite. "Thank you for the spar, Seventh Prince. It was most enlightening."
He then walked directly back to Norawit, ignoring the stunned silence of the entire court. Norawit was waiting for him, a towel and a cup of water in hand, his expression one of fierce, blazing pride that he made no attempt to hide.
As Fourth took the water, their fingers brushed.
The Empress's face was pale, her smile frozen into a grimace. She had intended to humiliate the upstart consort. Instead, Fourth had not only revealed a terrifying, unconventional skill set but had also publicly and utterly dismantled her own son, proving that the Crown Prince's chosen consort was not just a pretty face, but a formidable, strategic asset.
And as Norawit leaned in to murmur, "You were magnificent," into Fourth's ear, the entire court witnessed one undeniable truth: the Crown Prince and his consort were an unbreakable team. The game had changed, and Fourth had just rewritten the rules with the point of a sword.
The aftermath of the Flower Banquet was a whirlwind. Whispers of the Crown Consort’s shocking, dominant victory over the Seventh Prince spread through the palace like wildfire, quickly morphing into legends of his unearthly skill. Fourth had achieved his goal—no one would ever see him as a passive, pretty object again. But the attention had a sharper, more dangerous edge. He had made a powerful enemy in the Empress, and he had caught the heavy, calculating gaze of the Emperor.
So, when the summons came for Norawit to lead the imperial forces against the barbarian tribes threatening the Northern border, Fourth knew it was no coincidence. It was a "test" of the Crown Prince's capabilities, orchestrated by the Empress, a convenient way to remove him from the capital and into harm's way.
As Norawit stood in their shared chambers, maps and reports strewn across the table, Fourth was already in motion. He moved with a quiet, determined efficiency, packing travel rolls with practical clothing, medical supplies, and, most importantly, Norawit’s favorite tea.
"I am going with you," Fourth stated. It wasn't a question or a request. It was a fact.
Norawit looked up from a tactical map, his expression grim. "It's war, Fourth." The two words were meant to be a wall, a final argument.
"Precisely," Fourth retorted, not even pausing as he rolled a cloak tightly. "You need me there to protect you. You think the battlefield is the only danger? You can easily get poisoned by a rival general or stabbed in the back by a soldier whose loyalty was bought. I can't take that chance." His voice was steady, but a sliver of fear for Norawit’s safety sharpened every word.
"It's too dangerous," Norawit repeated, his voice softer now, laced with a worry he couldn't conceal.
"Precisely why I need to go with you," Fourth shot back, finally stopping his packing to face him. His eyes, usually alight with mischief or intellectual curiosity, were deadly serious. "Norawit, you told me as your consort, we are a team. 'I protect you. You protect me. We protect each other.' Those were your words. I am going with you up north."
"Fourth," Norawit said, a plea woven into the single syllable. He crossed the room, stopping before him.
"Norawit," Fourth countered, his jaw set with a stubbornness that could move mountains.
A frustrated, fond sigh escaped Norawit’s lips. "You are so stubborn."
"And yet you chose me as your consort," Fourth retorted, a hint of his usual fire returning. "You picked this particular brand of stubbornness."
Norawit reached out, his calloused fingers gently cupping Fourth’s cheek. The simple touch sent a familiar jolt through Fourth, one that was becoming less surprising and more like a fundamental truth. "I don't want you to get hurt," Norawit admitted, his voice raw, laying his fear bare.
The admission disarmed Fourth completely. His own defensive posture softened. He leaned into the touch, his own hand coming up to cover Norawit’s. "And I don't want you to get hurt," he whispered, the words heartfelt and true.
In the quiet intimacy of their chamber, with the specter of war looming, the space between them vanished. Norawit leaned in, his eyes searching Fourth’s for any hesitation. Finding none, he closed the final distance and pressed his lips to Fourth’s.
It was not a kiss of passion, but of promise. It was sweet, delicate, and achingly sincere—a silent vow sealed in the face of uncertainty. It was the first kiss they had ever shared, and it tasted of fear, and courage, and a burgeoning love neither had dared to name.
When they parted, Fourth’s breath was shaky. He rested his forehead against Norawit’s, their eyes closed.
"Then take me with you," Fourth whispered against his lips, a final, soft entreaty.
Norawit kissed him again, this kiss firmer, filled with a resigned, grateful acceptance. "Okay," he breathed, the word a surrender to the inevitable truth that had taken root in his heart.
They were a team. Where he went, Fourth would follow. And where Fourth was, Norawit would be protected. The battlefield was just another palace courtyard, and the barbarians were just another set of scheming nobles. They would face it all together.Of course. Here is the continuation of the story, building on the scene you've described.
The crisp, thin air of the Northern frontier was a world away from the perfumed halls of the palace. Fourth had traded his flowing silks for sturdy, layered warrior’s robes of wool and leather, his delicate features often hidden beneath a fur-lined hood. Steel arm guards, practical and unadorned, replaced the mother-of-pearl hairpins, and at his hip rested the custom-made sword Norawit had commissioned for him—a blade that felt more like home than any opulent chamber ever had.
For the first week, he adhered to the unspoken rules of a non-combatant consort. He organized the medicine tents, his sharp mind categorizing supplies and assisting the healers with a steady hand. In the kitchens, he took charge of Norawit’s meals, tasting every dish and brewing every cup of tea himself. The memory of palace poison was a ghost that followed him even here, in the vast, open wilds.
The campaign was progressing. Norawit’s strategies were as sharp as his sword, and morale was high. But a serpent of betrayal had slithered into their ranks.
It was the glint of furtive eyes and a hushed conversation overheard near the latrines that set Fourth’s instincts screaming. A trap. For Norawit. Tonight.
Panic was a cold wave, but it crashed against the granite of his resolve. There was no time for deliberation, no time to rally loyal troops. Logic dictated he find a general, report the treason. But his heart, a heart he was only just beginning to acknowledge, dictated a faster, more direct path.
He secured his sword, slung a quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and took up a bow. His archery was passable—a relic of a brief, bored phase in his former life—but it would have to do. He slipped into the growing dusk, a shadow moving against the tide of impending disaster.
He found them at a narrow pass, just as the traitorous soldier had described. Norawit and his most trusted men were surrounded, their formation broken, their numbers dwindling. Norawit fought like a demon, but a deep gash on his sword arm was slowing him, painting his armor crimson.
Fourth didn't scream. He didn't announce his presence with a battle cry. He became death from the shadows. From his vantage point on a rocky outcrop, he nocked, drew, and released. Six arrows found their marks in six enemy soldiers before they even understood where the threat was coming from. The confusion he sowed was his opening.
Then, he showed himself.
He stepped into the clearing, his figure silhouetted by the dying light. His sword was in his hand, its point aimed at the heart of the enemy commander.
"If you think of taking my husband," Fourth said, his voice cutting through the clangor of steel with chilling clarity, "then you will have to go through me."
A stunned silence fell over the skirmish.
"Fourth!" Norawit’s voice was a mix of terror and fury. "What are you doing here?"
"I told you, Norawit," Fourth replied, his gaze never leaving the enemies before him. "I am here to protect you."
A wave of rough laughter erupted from the surrounding traitors. A single Omega, delicate as a porcelain doll, threatening them? Norawit’s own soldiers looked at him with panic, their priority fracturing between defending their prince and protecting their consort.
Fourth took command. He didn't request; he declared. "Soldiers of the Crown! Protect the Crown Prince with your lives! No matter what happens, he comes out alive. Understood?"
The authority in his tone was absolute, brooking no argument. It was the voice of a general, of a leader. "Yes, Your Highness!" they roared in unison, their resolve solidified.
And so, Fourth fought. He didn't seek glory; he became a shield. He moved with a fencer's precision and an MMA fighter's ruthlessness, his lighter blade a whirlwind of controlled motion. He positioned himself at Norawit’s back, covering his blind spot, intercepting blows aimed at the prince’s injured side.
Norawit, even wounded, was a force of nature. But now, with Fourth guarding his flank, he was unstoppable. They moved in a deadly, seamless harmony. When Norawit swung wide, Fourth ducked under his arm to parry a thrust. When Fourth spun to disarm an opponent, Norawit was there to finish the man with a crushing blow. It was not a brawl; it was a brutal, beautiful dance they had never practiced, their instincts perfectly aligned.
Together, with the renewed fury of their soldiers, they turned the tide. The traitors fell, one by one, until the last few threw down their weapons in surrender.
As the adrenaline faded, Norawit staggered, his strength finally wavering. Fourth was at his side in an instant, supporting his weight, his hands stained with his husband’s blood.
"You foolish, brilliant, impossible man," Norawit breathed, his forehead resting against Fourth's.
"You're welcome," Fourth replied, his voice trembling with the aftermath of fear and exertion.
The victory at the pass broke the back of the barbarian resistance and exposed the nest of traitors within their own ranks. The campaign ended swiftly after that. They had secured the North.
But as they stood on the conquered land, watching the imperial banners rise, something fundamental had shifted. Fourth was no longer just the Crown Consort who could wield a sword. He was the warrior who had fought back-to-back with the Crown Prince, the strategist who had uncovered a plot, the commander who had rallied troops in the heat of battle.
And Norawit looked at him not as a partner in a convenient deception, but as his equal in every sense of the word. The kiss in their chambers had been a promise. The battle in the pass was its fulfillment. They were bound now, not by contract or costume, but by blood, steel, and a love forged in the fires of war.
The return to the capital was not a mere procession; it was a triumph. The news of the Northern victory, and the legendary role the Crown Consort had played in it, had flown ahead of them on the wings of soldiers' tales. The streets were choked with civilians, their cheers a roaring ocean of sound. They didn't just throw flowers for the Crown Prince; they threw them for Fourth, for the Omega who had traded silk for steel and fought for their empire. He was no longer a mysterious beauty from the harem; he was their warrior consort.
This public adoration was a weapon the Empress had not anticipated. Her scheme to have them die ignobly in the North had backfired, transforming them into beloved heroes. In a final, desperate move, she had played her last card during their absence: turning Fourth’s own family against him.
At the grand victory banquet, amidst the celebration, the Emperor addressed the court, his tone neutral. "It has come to our attention that during the campaign in the North, Duke Jirochtikul has publicly severed all familial ties with our Crown Consort, Nattawat, citing defection and seduction of the Crown Prince."
A ripple of tension went through the hall. The Empress hid a smirk behind her delicate porcelain cup. This was the moment she hoped would break him, to leave him isolated and stripped of noble backing.
Fourth, standing beside Norawit, simply took a slow sip of his wine. He had expected something like this. He felt Norawit’s hand subtly find his under the table, a solid, grounding pressure. He was ready to defend himself, to dismantle the accusation with cold, legal precision.
But he never got the chance.
A chair scraped back. Commander Pakin, a bear of a man with a face carved by northern winds, stood. His voice, accustomed to barking orders over the din of battle, boomed in the hall.
"If Duke Jirochtikul is so blind to the honor and courage of his own son," Pakin declared, his gaze sweeping over the stunned nobility, "then he is a fool. If he has severed ties with His Highness, then I, Commander Pakin, with the full authority of my lineage, will gladly take the Crown Consort as my own kin!"
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the rustle of another man rising.
"And I," announced General Kittiphop, the brilliant strategist Fourth affectionately called P'Satang, "declare that the Kittiphop family recognizes and claims His Highness, the Crown Consort, as our blood."
Then, a third voice, calm but carrying the weight of immense wealth. Phuwin, the young head of the Tangsakyuen family, stood. "The Tangsakyuen family will also recognize the Crown Consort as kin. Our house and our resources are his."
A lieutenant, then a captain, then a chorus of officers who had fought beside him in the north began to rise, their voices layering over one another in a powerful, unified vow.
"The Kittisawasd family pledges the same!"
"And the house of Jaidee!"
"We,the soldiers of the Northern Army, pledge our lives to the Crown Prince and Consort!"
It was no longer just a few nobles. It was a wave, a tsunami of support from the military, from the new money, from the very backbone of the empire's power. They were not just pledging to Fourth; they were pledging to the union, to Norawit and Fourth as an indivisible source of the empire's future strength.
The Empress, her face pale with a fury she could no longer conceal, shot to her feet. "What is this?" she hissed, her voice cutting through the din. "Is this a rebellion?"
Phuwin turned to her, his expression polite but his eyes like chips of ice. "Your Highness, this is not a rebellion. Our loyalty is, and has always been, to the Crown and the Empire. The Crown Prince and the Crown Consort have spilled their own blood to prove where their loyalties lie. We are merely stating where ours lie in return."
The message was clear. The old alliances of blood and ancient name were being superseded by a new compact of proven loyalty and shared sacrifice. Fourth, the disowned son, now had a family larger and more powerful than the one he was born into. He had an army at his back and the wealth of the nation's most powerful rising families in his corner.
Norawit finally stood, his presence commanding immediate silence. He looked at the assembled crowd, his gaze lingering on each man who had stood for his consort. Then he looked at Fourth, his eyes filled with a love and pride that needed no words.
He turned to his father, the Emperor. "It seems, Father, that the Duke Jirochtikul's loss is the empire's profound gain."
The Emperor, a practical man above all else, looked at the united front of his most successful military commanders and his richest subjects, all bound in loyalty to his son and his chosen consort. He saw the future of his dynasty, and it was strong.
"The empire," the Emperor declared, his voice final, "recognizes and celebrates the bonds forged in loyalty and bloodshed. The circle around our Crown Prince is unbroken. Indeed, it has never been stronger."
The banquet hall erupted in cheers. Fourth, surrounded by his new, chosen family, looked at Norawit and knew, with every fiber of his being, that he was home. He had started this journey running from a fate written in a book, and ended it by writing his own legacy, not with ink, but with steel and the unshakeable loyalty he had earned.
Five years later, the lazy genius who once found the world boring was now one of its most active architects.
The royal library, once a place of quiet dust and ancient scrolls, had become the operational headquarters for the Crown Consort’s most ambitious projects. Scrolls of law and engineering blueprints shared table space with half-finished cups of tea and the occasional stolen pork bun. Fourth, his hair tied up in a practical but elegant knot, paced between desks, a living conduit of frenetic energy.
“The new irrigation code for the southern provinces is solid, P’Phuwin,” Fourth declared, pointing to a clause on a lengthy document. “But clause 7-B is a logistical nightmare. It assumes every village has a certified water-master. We need a tiered system with local apprenticeships, or it’ll just create a new bureaucratic caste.”
Phuwin, now the Minister of Commerce and Fourth’s steadfast ally, simply nodded, making a note. “I’ll have it revised by tomorrow.”
Across the room, Norawit watched from a comfortable armchair, a faint smile on his lips. This was his consort in his element: a force of nature in scholar’s robes, dismantling inefficiency and building a better, more logical empire. The soldiers’ loyalty had won them the power, but it was Fourth’s brilliant, untamed mind that was truly reshaping the kingdom.
Their return had been the final turning point. The Empress, faced with the united front of the military and the rising noble families, found her influence evaporating. She was now relegated to a quiet, ceremonial role in a distant summer palace, her schemes rendered powerless against the overwhelming popularity and competence of the Crown Prince and his consort.
Fourth’s disownment was the best thing that ever happened to him. Freed from the shackles of his birth family’s name, he had built a new one, bound not by blood, but by choice and shared purpose. Commander Pakin proudly called him “son,” and the Kittiphop family estates were as much his home as the palace.
A little whirlwind of energy, no more than four years old, came tearing into the library, clutching a wooden practice sword.
“Papa! Papa! Look! Uncle Win taught me a new stance!” the little boy, Prince Anon, declared, his small face a perfect blend of Norawit’s strong jaw and Fourth’s expressive eyes.
Fourth stopped his pacing and knelt, his serious demeanor melting into pure affection. “Let me see, my little general.”
Anon performed a clumsy but enthusiastic lunge. Norawit rose and came to stand behind Fourth, his hands resting on his consort’s shoulders as they watched their son.
“His form is better than the Seventh Prince’s was,” Fourth murmured, a hint of his old mischief in his voice.
Norawit chuckled, the sound a warm rumble. “Let’s not start another war at the dinner table, my love.”
Later that evening, after Anon had been put to bed with a story of clever lawyers and brave knights, Fourth and Norawit walked through their private gardens. The moon, much like the one under which they’d first met, cast a silvery glow.
“You know,” Fourth said, leaning his head against Norawit’s shoulder, “I was re-reading that ridiculous novel the other day. ‘The Emperor’s Unfavoured Concubine.’”
Norawit tightened his arm around him. “And?”
“It’s still terrible. The prose is clunky, the politics are infantile, and the main character is infuriatingly passive.” He looked up at Norawit, his eyes soft in the moonlight. “But I suppose I owe it a debt of gratitude. If it hadn’t been so appallingly written, I wouldn’t have been so angry. I wouldn’t have wished for a character with a shred of initiative, and I certainly wouldn’t have ended up here.”
“Here?” Norawit prompted, his voice gentle.
“Here,” Fourth confirmed, turning to face him. “With a husband I adore, a son who is my entire heart, a family I chose, and an empire I get to fix. I spent my first life critiquing other people’s stories.” He reached up and cupped Norawit’s cheek. “Now, I get to write my own. And it’s a much, much better one.”
Norawit captured his lips in a kiss that was no longer a promise, but a fulfillment. It was a kiss that spoke of shared battles, quiet gardens, legal reforms, and a future they were building together, day by day.
The lazy genius was gone, replaced by a man who had found the one endeavor worth all his effort: a life of purpose, love, and his own, brilliantly authored happy ending.
.