Archive of Our Own

Fourth still remembered his mother in vivid detail.

It was not the hazy, fading recollection of a childhood photograph, but a living, breathing presence that occupied the quiet spaces of his cottage and the softer corners of his mind. His mother was a beautiful omega man with golden amber eyes the colour of sunrise—the very same eyes that stared back at Fourth from any reflective surface. His mother had long, thick, silky hair that was as long as Fourth’s was now, a waterfall of dark silk that his father had demanded remain loose so that others might see the wealth of what he possessed.

His mother had loved him. Fourth never doubted that. It was the one absolute truth in a life constructed of lies and half-truths. His mother used to brush his hair, 100 strokes every night, the rhythm of the bristles a soothing counterpoint to the howling wind outside their drafty manor or the muffled sound of his father’s drunken laughter from downstairs. As he brushed, he would whisper stories into his hair, tales of ancestors who could call the rain, who could mend a broken bone with a whisper, who could speak to the spirits in the trees.

“This is where our power lies, little one,” he would murmur, his breath warm against his scalp. “In every strand. It carries our lineage, our history, our stories. Never let them cut it. Never let them take your story from you.”

Fourth never understood it until later on. Just like he understood many other things.

He never understood why his beautiful mother, with sunrise in his eyes and magic in his fingertips, would end up with a man like his father. A man whose presence was a blight on the landscape, whose voice was a hammer, and whose hands were instruments of pain, never of creation. He didn't understand why his mother was hanging on to the rope that was slowly suffocating him, why he never just let go.

He understood later on that it was never his mother's choice. That their bonding, their mating, was never consensual on his mother's side. It was a hunt, not a courtship. The feral beast that was his father had found his mother in a weakened state—exhausted from a long journey, perhaps, or grieving the loss of his own protector—and had bitten him, sinking his alpha fangs into yielding flesh and searing a bond into existence that was more prison than partnership. He took him, like he was property, a stray dog to be collared.

And in a way, he was. Because in this place, in this kingdom, in this world, omegas were never truly viewed as their own persons. They were vessels. They were caregivers. They were rewards. An omega was lucky to find an alpha who would respect them and love them as a person, who would see the bond as a partnership rather than a deed of ownership.

But not everyone was lucky. And Fourth understood that later on.

In this world, Alphas were the top of the hierarchy. They were the protectors, the providers, the pillars upon which society rested. They were viewed as saviours by omegas, as the necessary anchor to their drifting souls. The stories, the songs, the very laws of the land reinforced this. An omega without an alpha was incomplete, adrift, in danger.

But Fourth knew better. His mother’s silent suffering had been his real education, the curriculum written in the language of bruises and unshed tears.

He had watched his mother tend the orchids in the glass conservatory, his fingers gentle on the delicate petals, coaxing beauty from a world that offered him none. He had watched him fix broken gables on their rundown manor, climbing rickety ladders with a hammer in his hand because his father declared such labour beneath him. He watched him endure the emotional torture, the cutting remarks about a meal being too cold, a room not being clean enough, his very existence being a burden. All of this, he endured, while his father sat on the top of his high table at the head of the dining room, eating and drinking, never once lifting a finger to help.

He watched his mother fetch water not from the well in the yard, but from rocky mountain springs an hour's walk away, because his father insisted the water from the spring was sweeter, purer, more befitting his station. He would watch him walk back down again, shoulders aching, to feel his father’s words and their sharp stings for taking too long.

He saw the capillaries in his mother's eyes bursting from the strain of silent weeping, the delicate red lines spreading like cracks in porcelain. He saw the calloused skin on his hands cracking until they bled, hands that should have been holding a grimoire, not scrubbing floors. He watched his mother haunted by the silence in their bed chamber, the way he would flinch at a sudden touch, the way his eyes would go distant and vacant whenever his father entered a room.

He watched apologies flow from his mother's tongue—"I'm sorry the meat is burnt, I'm sorry I tracked in mud, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"—but never from his father’s. His father’s tongue was too busy lapping at the wine flowing from a cup and, in his more cruel moments, stabbing his mother with his fork at the dinner table for some imagined slight, a sharp jab to the hand to remind him of his place.

Fourth learned early that his father was not a simple brute. He was a smart man who weaponised a thousand small cruelties. He feigned incompetence, claiming he couldn't possibly understand why the roof leaked or why the accounts didn't balance, forcing his mother to manage the entire estate while he took the credit. It was false incompetence, a lazy king’s dominance disguised as helplessness. It was a cage built of expectations, and his mother was the songbird trapped within.

Fourth knew that his mother's worst fear was for Fourth to become an omega. He would catch his mother staring at him sometimes, a deep, abiding terror in his sunrise eyes. Because if Fourth presented as an omega, he would be expected to do what his father taught him, what the world demanded of him. He would be expected to endure the emotional torture from the head of some other alpha’s high table and meet the same cruel fate. His mother would rather have seen him dead.

So when Fourth presented as an omega, slick with sweat and burning with fever on his sixteenth birthday, his mother didn't hesitate. He tried to run.

He packed a small bag, took Fourth by the hand, and tried to slip out into the night. They didn't get past the front gate.

His father was waiting. He had always been waiting.

Fourth had watched helplessly, crying, begging, as his father beat his mother. He was a ragdoll in the alpha’s grip, his beautiful long hair yanked, his sunrise eyes swelling shut. Fourth screamed until his throat was raw, clawing at his father's legs, but he was just a newly presented omega, weak and terrified.

And then something inside him had snapped.

It wasn't a choice. It wasn't bravery. It was pure, primal instinct. A roaring filled his ears, the air around him turned furnace-hot, and a lance of pure, white-hot flame erupted from his very core. It struck his father square in the chest.

His father's eyes had widened in shock before the life left them, and in that final, gasping moment, he had pointed a trembling finger at Fourth. "Witch," he had choked out, the word a curse and an accusation. "You... witch."

But the fire had come too late. It had saved Fourth, but it couldn't save his mother. He was already gone, his beautiful, broken body lying still on the cold ground.

Fourth couldn't save his mother.

Now, years later, living alone in his small cottage in the heart of the forest, Fourth understood. That's why he chose isolation. That's why the sight of another person sent a spike of terror through his heart. That's why the forest, with all its wild dangers, felt safer than any village, any town, any city.

He understood that Alphas were not their saviours. The word itself was a lie, a gilded cage. All day, every day, omegas were expected to be mothers, maids, nymphs then virgins, nurses then servants. Just appendages that lived to attend Alphas so that they never had to lift a finger. They were expected to be 24/7 baby machines, their bodies and their futures sacrificed so Alphas could live out their picket fence dreams of a perfect, obedient family.

Fourth understood, looking back at the brutal, ugly reality of his parents' marriage, that between his mother and father, it was never love. It couldn't have been. Because it was not an act of love if someone made you do it. It was not love if it was extracted through force, through fear, through the slow, grinding erosion of a person's soul. For someone who claimed to be his mother's saviour, who had presented himself to the world as a generous alpha who had taken in a wandering omega, his father sure made him do too much labour. Sure made him bleed too much. Sure made him cry too many tears.

Fourth had made a promise to his mother, whispered over his cooling body as he held his hand in the dark. He promised that he would not be like him. He would not be a victim. He would not be property. He would be safe and free.

And he was, in a way. Even if he lived in isolation among the wildlife, speaking only to the birds and the deer, taking comfort in the whisper of the wind and the solid, steady presence of the ancient trees. It was better than being an alpha's kept thing. It was better than being forced into a bond he didn't want, forced to do labour until his hands bled, forced to bear children he would love but would fear for, children who would grow up in a world that saw them as little more than a means to an end and would, in all likelihood, meet the same cruel fate as his mother.

Here, in the silence of the forest, he was no one's appendage. He was no one's mother, no one's maid, no one's nurse. He was just Fourth. A witch. A healer. A ghost with sunrise eyes and a story woven into his hair.

And that, he had decided long ago, was enough. It had to be enough. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

The wind outside his cottage whispered through the cracks in the window frame, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Fourth ran his fingers through his long hair, feeling the familiar weight of it, the stories it contained. His mother's stories. His own.

One hundred strokes. Every night. He still did it. It was the one ritual he had kept.

 

---

The cottage sat in a clearing where the old forest bowed to make room for magic.

Over the years, Fourth had learned to perfect his craft. The early days had been clumsy—a summoned rain that flooded his herb garden, a healing that left a rabbit with a permanently twitching ear, a fire that had nearly taken half the shed. But the earth was patient with its children, and Fourth was a devoted student.

Now, the garden was a riot of green and colour. Moonflowers climbed the cottage walls, opening their pale faces only at night. Belladonna and wolfsbane grew in shaded corners, respected and feared. A patch of chamomile and lavender spilled near the doorstep, their scents mingling with the woodsmoke that curled from the chimney. He healed what came to him—a fox with a broken leg, an owl with a damaged wing, a young deer sick with fever. They came to him now, the animals, as if word had spread through the forest on invisible threads. They would gather around his cottage in the evenings, a congregation of fur and feather, and Fourth would sing to them.

He sang old songs, wordless melodies that his mother had hummed while working. The animals would settle, eyes half-closing, and the forest itself seemed to lean in to listen.

He learned that the earth provided. All he had to do was ask with respect, receive with gratitude, and never, ever take more than he needed. The forest was not a resource to be plundered; it was a relative, ancient and wise, and Fourth treated it as such.

---

He was his mother's son.

He was the one who ran barefoot through the forest, cursing sharp stones when they bit into his soles, laughing when he found a patch of cool moss to soothe them. His feet had grown tough, the skin calloused and thick, but he still swore at the stones. It was a tradition now, a small rebellion against a world that wanted him soft and contained.

He was the one who would not cut his hair. It fell past his waist now, a dark river shot through with threads of gold when the sun caught it just right. He brushed it every night, one hundred strokes, and he felt his mother's presence in every pass of the bristles. The hair held his story, his lineage, his power. Let the alphas of the world crop their hair short like soldiers, like cattle. Fourth's hair was a flag, a declaration, a weapon.

He was the one who would not lower his voice. He spoke to the trees as equals, to the wind as a friend, to the moon as a lover. When he sang, he sang loudly, his voice carrying through the glen, heathen songs that celebrated the earth and the sky and the mysterious spaces in between. No one was there to tell him to be quiet, to be demure, to be small. And if they were, he would not listen.

---

He looked for omens in everything.

In the colours of stones—a flash of red meant blood or passion, a vein of white meant a spirit was near, a stone worn smooth by water meant a journey was coming. He collected them, lining them on his windowsill, reading them like others might read books.

In the faces of cats. The forest cats were not his pets, but they visited. A cat washing its face on his doorstep meant a visitor would arrive within three days. A cat staring into the forest with its fur raised meant danger was approaching. A cat who curled in his lap and purred meant the ancestors were pleased.

In the falling of feathers. A hawk feather meant protection. An owl feather meant wisdom, but also death, so he handled them carefully. A songbird feather meant joy was coming, and he would tuck it behind his ear and dance.

In the dancing of fire. The flames in his hearth spoke a language of their own. A steady, blue-tinged fire meant peace. A crackling, sparking fire meant conflict. A fire that suddenly flared green—that happened only once, on the night his mother died, and he had not seen it since.

In the curve of old bones. He had found a skeleton once, deep in the forest, too old to be recent, too broken to be animal. Human, perhaps, or something like human. He had buried the bones with respect, marking the grave with stones, and that night he had dreamed of a woman with antlers who thanked him and told him secrets of the forest he had never known.

He was his mother's son. A savage. The world had many names for what he was. It did not matter. He answered only to the wind and the moon and the blood in his veins.

---

He was the one who sang heathen songs by the light of the moon.

On nights when the moon was full and fat and hanging low in the sky, Fourth would take himself to the largest clearing in the forest. He would build no fire—the moonlight was enough, silver and cold and ancient. He would stand in the center of the clearing, his hair loose and wild around him, his bare feet rooted in the grass, and he would sing.

The songs had no words, not anymore. They were sounds that came from somewhere deep in his chest, sounds that felt older than language, older than thought. They were the sounds of wind through canyons, of water over stones, of the earth turning in its endless sleep.

And as he sang, he watched the stars.

He had renamed them, the stars. The constellations that the kingdom's scholars had mapped and named after their kings and heroes—Fourth had given them new names. That cluster there, the one they called the Warrior's Shield? Fourth called it the Running Hare, because it looked like a hare to him, bounding across the sky. That bright one, the North Star, the one sailors used to find their way? Fourth called it Mother's Eye, because it was the one star that never moved, that watched over him always, just as his mother had.

And sometimes, when the songs were particularly powerful, when his voice rose and fell in just the right rhythm, Fourth would look up at those renamed stars and dream.

He dreamed he could reach them.

He dreamed of flying, not on wings, but on the power of his voice, on the magic that hummed in his blood. He dreamed of sweeping through the cosmos on a broom—a ridiculous image, he knew, but the old stories said that witches could fly, and who was he to dismiss the old stories?—and touching the stars with his fingertips, leaving trails of light behind him.

He dreamed of finding new planets, new worlds, places where omegas were not property and alphas were not tyrants. Places where he could be just Fourth, not Fourth the Savage, not Fourth the Witch, not Fourth the Orphan. Just Fourth.

The dreams never lasted. Dawn always came, and with it the return to the ordinary magic of the forest. But for those few hours under the moon, singing his heathen songs and renaming the stars, Fourth was free in a way that nothing in this world could touch.

---

As he honed his craft, as the years in the forest piled one upon another like leaves in autumn, Fourth began to understand something deeper.

He learned that his ancestors were all brought forth out of darkness into this world, through blood and through pain. Every single one of them. The line of witches from which he descended was not a line of privilege or comfort. It was a line of survivors, of those who had been hunted and hated and burned, and who had somehow, impossibly, endured.

The blood in his veins was not just blood. It was memory.

And deep in his bones, in the marrow where the oldest magic lived, the old songs were waking.

He would feel it sometimes, in the middle of a healing, when his hands glowed with golden light and the patient beneath them sighed in relief. A song would rise in his chest, unbidden, a song he had never learned but somehow knew. It would pour out of him, and the healing would be stronger, faster, more complete than anything he could do with will alone.

He would feel it in the garden, when he sang to his plants and they grew taller, stronger, more vibrant than any natural plant had a right to be. The song was there again, thrumming in his bones, and the plants would sway in response, reaching for him like children reaching for a mother.

He would feel it in the storms, when the sky darkened and the wind rose and Fourth would stand outside, arms spread, and sing. The thunder would answer, rolling across the sky in harmonies he had chosen. The rain would fall in rhythms he had set. The lightning would dance to melodies only he could hear.

His ancestors sang with voices of thunder and rain. And now, so did he.

---

They had been called many names, his ancestors.

Savages. The word had been meant to diminish, to other, to mark them as less than human. Fourth wore it like a crown.

Witches. The word had been meant to terrify, to conjure images of evil and corruption. Fourth wore it like a cloak.

Sorcerers. The word had been meant to isolate, to separate them from the community of "normal" folk. Fourth wore it like a second skin.

And Fourth himself—Fourth was now one with them. He stood in a line that stretched back centuries, a chain of survivors and magic-bearers, each one passing something down to the next. His mother had passed it to him. And one day, if the ancestors willed it, he would pass it to someone else.

But for now, he was simply Fourth.

The one who ran barefoot, cursing sharp stones.

The one who would not cut his hair, nor lower his voice.

The one who sang to the moon and renamed the stars and dreamed of flying.

The one who had killed his father and buried his mother and chosen the forest over the world of men.

He was his mother's son. A savage.

And he was, for the first time in his life, beginning to understand that this was not a curse.

It was a gift.

---

The evening was settling over the forest like a blanket, soft and grey and cool. Fourth sat on his doorstep, a half-woven basket in his lap, watching the fireflies begin their nightly dance. A fox lay at his feet, its injured leg long since healed, visiting out of friendship now rather than need. An owl watched from a low-hanging branch, its great golden eyes unblinking.

Fourth's fingers worked the reeds automatically, weaving them in and out, creating something useful from something wild. His mother had taught him that, too. Everything the earth gives us, we can use. Everything we use, we must give back.

The basket was taking shape, a simple thing, but sturdy. He would fill it with herbs tomorrow, maybe take them to the edge of the forest and leave them for the village folk who sometimes left offerings in return. It was the only contact he allowed himself with the outside world—anonymous, safe, distant.

The fox yawned, showing sharp teeth, then curled more tightly at his feet.

The owl hooted softly.

And Fourth, sitting on his doorstep with fireflies in his hair and moonlight on his face, began to sing.

It was a small song, quiet and private, meant for no ears but his own and perhaps the forest's. It was a song about survival, about loss, about the fierce and terrible love that bound a mother to a son even beyond death. It was a song about running barefoot and cursing sharp stones, about refusing to cut your hair or lower your voice, about being a savage in a world that wanted you tame.

It was a song about being Fourth.

And as he sang, the fireflies danced brighter, the fox slept deeper, the owl watched closer, and the forest itself seemed to breathe in time with his melody.

He was his mother's son.

He was a savage.

And he was, for this moment, perfectly, impossibly, free.

---

The forest was singing.

Fourth moved through the dappled sunlight like a creature born of it, his bare feet finding the softest patches of earth by instinct, his fingers reaching for leaves and stems with the precision of long practice. The birds above him carried on their endless conversations, and Fourth hummed along with them, a wordless harmony that seemed to please his feathered companions. A robin hopped from branch to branch, keeping pace with him, tilting its head as if listening.

His basket was half-filled already—yarrow for fevers, comfrey for wounds, a handful of early mushrooms that he would dry and trade. He would sort them later, some for his own use, others to leave at the forest's edge where the village folk knew to look. It was a silent arrangement, one that required no words, no explanations, no dangerous proximity to humans.

The arrangement suited him perfectly.

He was reaching for a cluster of chamomile when the wind changed.

Fourth froze, his hand hovering inches from the flowers. The wind carried something unfamiliar. Something wrong. Something that did not belong in his forest.

Blood.

His senses sharpened, the way they did when a predator was near. He listened past the birdsong, past the rustle of leaves, past the gentle murmur of the stream in the distance. And then he heard it—a soft, broken sound. A whimper. A gasp.

Someone was hurt.

Fourth's first instinct was to retreat. To melt back into the trees, to become invisible, to let the forest swallow him whole. He had chosen isolation for a reason. He had chosen the wildlife over human civilization for a reason. Humans meant danger. Humans meant alphas and expectations and the slow, grinding loss of self that had killed his mother.

But the wind shifted again, and this time it brought something else.

A scent.

It was sweet and floral, like night-blooming jasmine mixed with honey. It was soft and warm and undeniably, unmistakably omega.

Fourth's feet were moving before his mind caught up.

He found him in a small clearing, half-hidden by ferns, crumpled on the forest floor like a fallen flower. A young man, beautiful even in his broken state, with delicate features and skin too pale against the green of the moss. His robes were fine—silk, embroidered, the kind of fabric Fourth had only seen in his mother's old stories. Jewellery glinted at his ears and throat, gold and gemstones that spoke of wealth and status.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was the wound at his side, the blood seeping through the expensive fabric, the fever flush already rising on his cheeks.

Fourth hesitated. The voice of caution screamed in his mind. Leave him. He is not your responsibility. Humans bring nothing but pain.

But the scent of omega, sweet and floral and vulnerable, pulled at something deep in Fourth's chest. Something that remembered his mother's hands, his mother's suffering, his mother's desperate attempt to run. Something that knew, with absolute certainty, that no omega deserved to die alone in the woods.

He adjusted his basket, slinging it over his shoulder, and bent to lift the young man into his arms.

The stranger was lighter than he expected, fragile in a way that made Fourth's jaw tighten with protective anger. Who had let an omega travel through these woods unprotected? Who had let him fall? The questions burned, but there was no time for them now. The fever was rising. Fourth could feel it through the silk, through the skin, through the shallow, rapid breaths.

He carried him home.

---

The cottage welcomed them with its usual quiet warmth. Fourth laid the young man on his bed—the bed his mother had once slept in, the bed that was too big for one person but that Fourth had never shared with anyone—and set to work.

First, the stove. He lit it with a snap of his fingers, the fire catching instantly, obedient to his will. Water went into a pot, then onto the flame. While it heated, Fourth gathered his supplies—clean cloths, his sharpest knife, the jars of dried herbs that lined his shelves, the small mortar and pestle his mother had used before him.

The young man's robes were a problem. Fine silk, embroidered with threads of gold, layers upon layers of fabric that spoke of wealth and ceremony. But they were also soaked with blood, and they were in the way.

"I'm sorry," Fourth murmured, more to the unconscious stranger than to himself. "I'll be respectful. I promise."

He worked quickly, carefully, his fingers sure and gentle. The outer robes came off first, then the inner layers, until the young man lay in only his innermost garments, a thin shift of white silk that did little to hide the wound at his ribs.

Fourth's breath caught.

It was a knife wound, deep and angry, the edges already red with the first signs of infection. Not a killing blow—whoever had done this had meant to wound, not to kill. But infection was its own kind of death, and if Fourth hadn't found him when he did...

But I did find him. And I will not let him die.

He cleaned the wound first, using boiled water and a gentle touch. The young man whimpered in his unconsciousness, a sound that made Fourth's chest ache. He applied a poultice of yarrow and comfrey, herbs he had dried himself, herbs infused with the magic that ran in his veins. He could feel the healing working, the slow knit of flesh beneath his fingers, but human healing was different from animal healing.

Animals were simple. They knew their bodies, trusted the process, let the magic flow through them without resistance. But humans... humans had souls. Humans had stubborn spirits, shaped by years of living and feeling and fighting. They resisted the magic, sometimes without even knowing it. Healing a human was like coaxing a wild bird to eat from your hand—delicate work, requiring patience and trust and time.

Fourth had time. He would give this stranger all the time he needed.

He cleaned the rest of the young man as best he could, wiping away the dirt and sweat and blood with a soft cloth, careful to maintain dignity, careful to respect. When he was done, he dressed the wound properly, wrapped it in clean bandages, and prepared a medicine—feverfew and willow bark, ground fine and steeped in hot water, with a whisper of his magic added to ease the body's fight.

He lifted the young man's head gently, supporting it with one hand while the other brought the cup to his lips. "Drink," he murmured. "Please drink."

The young man's lips parted. The medicine trickled in. A swallow. Another. And then his head lolled back, and his breathing deepened into something more peaceful.

Fourth let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The worst was over. Now, they waited.

---

He let the man sleep.

The afternoon passed in its usual rhythm, though Fourth found himself glancing toward the bed more often than he should. The stranger's face was peaceful now, the lines of pain smoothed away by sleep and medicine. He was beautiful, Fourth realized. Not in the way of the forest creatures, with their wild grace and unselfconscious beauty, but in a softer way. A human way. His features were delicate, almost like porcelain, and his skin, even pale with fever, had the kind of glow that spoke of good food and soft beds and never having to run barefoot cursing sharp stones.

A rich man's son, then. Or maybe something more. The robes, the jewellery, the soft hands... this was no village omega. This was someone important.

Fourth pushed the thought away. It didn't matter who he was. What mattered was that he healed. What mattered was that Fourth kept his promise to his mother, the promise that he would use his gifts for good, that he would not let the darkness in his past poison the light in his hands.

He cleaned his cottage, moving quietly so as not to disturb his patient. He sorted the herbs from his basket, laying some out to dry, storing others in jars, setting aside a few to leave at the forest's edge tomorrow. He cooked a simple meal—root vegetables and wild greens, with a bit of dried meat from the last hunt—and ate it standing at his small table, one eye always on the bed.

By late afternoon, the young man still slept, his breathing steady, his fever slowly receding. Fourth called softly, and the fox appeared at his window, slipping through the gap he always used.

"Watch him," Fourth said, and the fox flicked an ear in acknowledgment, curling up on the floor by the bed, golden eyes fixed on the stranger with the intensity of a true guardian.

Fourth took his laundry and went to the river.

---

The river was cold and clear, running swift over smooth stones. Fourth waded in up to his waist, gasping at the initial shock, then relaxing into the familiar sensation. He washed his hair first, working through the long strands with careful fingers, rinsing away the dust and sweat of the day. The river carried it all away, downstream, gone.

He scrubbed his clothes against the flat washing stones, beating the dirt out of them the way his mother had taught him. It was mindless work, soothing work, and it gave his thoughts space to wander.

The stranger. The omega. Who was he? Where had he come from? How had he ended up alone and wounded in Fourth's forest?

The questions circled like birds, never settling, never finding answers. Fourth let them circle. Answers would come, or they wouldn't. Either way, the stranger would heal, and then he would leave, and Fourth's life would return to its quiet solitude.

That was how it had to be. That was how it must be.

He finished his washing, wrung out his clothes, and carried them home.

---

The fox was still on guard when Fourth returned, his golden eyes tracking Fourth's movements as he hung the wet clothes on lines strung between trees. The stranger hadn't moved, hadn't stirred. Good. Sleep was the best medicine now.

Fourth built a fire outside, the way he did most nights when the weather was fine. He cooked his dinner over the flames—more of the same simple fare—and ate in comfortable silence, the fox curled at his feet, the forest settling into its evening rhythms around him.

When dinner was done, he brought out his brush.

It was an old thing, carved from oak, worn smooth by years of use. His mother's brush, once. Now it was Fourth's, and he used it every night, one hundred strokes, just as she had taught him.

He sat cross-legged by the fire, the brush in his hand, and began to work through his hair. The strands caught the firelight, glowing with hidden warmth, and Fourth let himself sink into the rhythm. One stroke. Two. Three. The motion was meditation, was prayer, was connection to everything that had come before him.

And as he brushed, he sang.

The song had no words, no name, no beginning and no end. It was just sound, just feeling, just the expression of a soul that had learned to speak in melodies instead of language. It was a heathen song, a witch's song, a song that the forest knew and loved and answered in its own way.

The fire danced to his voice, flames leaping and swaying in time. The wind picked up, just slightly, carrying his song deeper into the trees. The fox at his feet sighed contentedly and closed its eyes.

Fourth sang, and brushed, and was at peace.

---

Phuwin woke to music.

For a long moment, he didn't open his eyes. He just lay there, floating in that strange space between sleep and waking, letting the sound wash over him. It was beautiful, this song—unlike anything he had ever heard. It had no words, but it spoke anyway. It spoke of forests and moonlight and a loneliness so deep it had become its own kind of companionship.

He opened his eyes.

He was in a cottage. Small, warm, lit by the soft glow of a banked fire in a small stove. The bed beneath him was made of straw, but it was soft, covered in layers of blankets that smelled faintly of herbs. Around him, the room was filled with handmade things—two chairs and a table, roughly but lovingly crafted; shelves lined with jars and trinkets; drying herbs hanging from the rafters; a small collection of stones on the windowsill, catching the last of the evening light.

Where was he? The last thing he remembered—

The carriage. The bandits. The alpha who had grabbed him, the knife that had sliced into his side, the desperate run into the forest. His attendant's face, pale with fear, urging him to go. The trees swallowing him whole.

And then... nothing.

Phuwin sat up with a start, his hand flying to his side. Bandages. Clean bandages, wrapped carefully around his ribs. Beneath them, the wound was sore but no longer burning with infection. Someone had tended him. Someone had saved him.

The song continued, drifting in through the open door.

Slowly, carefully, Phuwin swung his legs off the bed. His head swam for a moment, but he steadied himself against the wall and waited for the dizziness to pass. Then, moving as quietly as he could, he followed the sound.

The door opened onto a clearing. A fire burned in a stone ring, casting warm light across the grass. And beside that fire, sitting cross-legged with his back half-turned, was the most beautiful person Phuwin had ever seen.

He was young, perhaps Phuwin's own age, with skin that glowed golden in the firelight. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful, his lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile as he sang. And his hair—his hair was a river of darkness, a waterfall of silk that fell past his waist and pooled on the ground around him. He was brushing it, long slow strokes that caught the light and made it shimmer.

At his feet, a fox lay curled, its eyes closed, its fur rising and falling with each peaceful breath.

Phuwin's breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming. Surely this creature—this ethereal, otherworldly being—could not be human. He must be a spirit of the forest, a deity of the wild places, something ancient and magical and not meant for mortal eyes.

And then the eyes opened.

Golden amber, the colour of sunrise, the colour of honey caught in light. They met Phuwin's, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then the young man smiled, and the world tilted back into focus.

"You are awake." He rose gracefully, his long hair falling around him like a cloak. "How are you feeling?"

The voice was soft, warm, exactly as Phuwin had imagined it would be. It matched the song. It matched the face. It matched everything.

"You saved me?" Phuwin heard himself ask. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, rough from sleep and wonder.

The young man's smile widened slightly. "Well, someone had to." He tilted his head, a gesture that reminded Phuwin of a bird. "My name is Fourth. You must be hungry. I'll heat up your food."

"Phuwin," Phuwin said quickly, before the other could move away. "My name is Phuwin."

Fourth paused. Their eyes met again, and something passed between them—something Phuwin couldn't name but felt in his chest like a small, warm glow.

"Nice to meet you, Phuwin." Fourth's smile softened. "I washed your clothes. They're dried, and I put them away with your jewellery. You'll find everything safe."

Phuwin blinked, overwhelmed by the simple kindness. "Thank you. I—"

"Sit by the fire." Fourth gestured to the spot he had just vacated. "Don't worry about the fox. He's friendly. He's here to protect us, not hurt us." He looked down at the curled animal with obvious affection. "He's my friend."

As if understanding the conversation, the fox opened one golden eye, regarded Phuwin with apparent indifference, and closed it again.

Phuwin found himself smiling. It was the first time he had smiled since before the attack. It felt strange on his face, but not unwelcome.

He moved to the fire and sat where Fourth had indicated, the warmth soothing against his still-aching body. Fourth busied himself at the cottage door, emerging moments later with a bowl of something that smelled delicious—herbs and vegetables and maybe a bit of meat, all simmered together into a hearty stew.

"Eat slowly," Fourth advised, handing him the bowl. "Your body has been through a lot. It needs time."

Phuwin took the bowl, his fingers brushing against Fourth's for the briefest moment. The touch sent a small shiver through him, though whether from the cool evening air or something else, he couldn't say.

"Thank you," he said again, because the words felt inadequate but necessary. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't found me."

Fourth settled onto the ground across from him, the fox immediately shifting to rest its head on his knee. "You would have died," he said simply. There was no cruelty in the words, just fact. "The wound was infected. Another day, maybe two, and it would have been too late."

Phuwin swallowed, looking down at his bowl. "The bandits. They attacked our carriage. My attendant—she told me to run. I don't know what happened to her. To the guards. To anyone."

"Then eat," Fourth said gently. "Regain your strength. Tomorrow, you can tell me everything. Tonight, just rest."

Phuwin looked up at him, at this strange, beautiful creature who had saved his life and asked for nothing in return. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you help me? You don't know me. I could be anyone."

Fourth's golden eyes held his for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of things unsaid.

"You're an omega," he said simply. "And you were hurt. That was enough."

Something in Phuwin's chest tightened. In the world he came from, omegas were expected to help each other, yes, but also to compete, to scheme, to position themselves for the best possible match. Kindness was a currency, traded for favours and futures. But this—this was different. This was kindness for its own sake. This was the simple, profound generosity of someone who had nothing to gain and gave anyway.

"Thank you," Phuwin whispered, and this time the words meant more.

Fourth nodded, accepting the thanks without ceremony. He reached down and stroked the fox's fur, his long hair spilling around him like water, and for a while they sat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling between them, the forest settling into night around them.

And Phuwin, eating his first real meal in what felt like forever, found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—being lost in this forest was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

---

 

Fourth learned that Phuwin was from the capital.

They sat across from each other as the morning sun filtered through the trees, a simple breakfast of berries and nuts between them. Phuwin had eaten slowly, carefully, his eyes constantly straying to the forest around them as if expecting more bandits to emerge at any moment. But as the hours passed and nothing threatened, he began to relax. And as he relaxed, he began to talk.

"My family," he said, "they live in the capital. We're—" He paused, as if weighing how much to reveal. "We're Titichoenraks."

He said the name as if expecting Fourth to recognize it. As if the syllables should carry weight, should spark some flicker of recognition, should make Fourth's eyes widen with awe or fear or respect.

Fourth just blinked at him.

"Titichoenrak," he repeated, but the name meant nothing. It was just sounds, just letters, just another piece of a world he had deliberately abandoned. "Is that meant to mean something to me?"

Phuwin stared at him for a long moment, clearly nonplussed. "It's... it's the royal family. I'm a Titichoenrak. Prince Phuwin Tangsakyuen Titichoenrak."

Fourth's expression didn't change. "Oh."

"Oh?" Phuwin's voice rose slightly. "That's all? Just 'oh'? I'm a prince. A prince."

"You're an omega who was bleeding in my forest," Fourth said mildly. "The name on your birth scroll doesn't change that."

Phuwin opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. No sound came out. He looked rather like a fish that had been unexpectedly removed from water.

Fourth hid a smile behind his cup of tea. It was, he realized, rather satisfying to watch someone struggle with the concept that not everyone cared about their status. In the world he had left behind, names like Titichoenrak would have sent people scrambling to bow and scrape. Here, in his small cottage, it was just another word.

But then Phuwin's expression shifted. The confusion faded, replaced by something more urgent. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

"Fourth, you have to take me back."

Fourth's tea stopped halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"To the capital. My family—they'll be frantic. My brother, my—" He hesitated, a strange expression flickering across his face. "My husband. They'll be searching for me. I need to get back."

Fourth set his cup down carefully. "No."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said no." Fourth's voice was calm, but final. "I don't venture outside the forest. I haven't left these woods in years. I won't start now."

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Phuwin. Truly. But the forest is my home. It's where I belong."

Phuwin's eyes widened, desperation creeping into his voice. "Please. My family—they'll reward you. Silver, gold, anything you want. You'll never want for anything again."

Fourth shook his head slowly. "I have no need for silver or gold. The forest provides everything I require. Food, shelter, medicine—it's all here. What would I do with gold in a place where it has no value?"

"Then something else. Anything. Name it, and it's yours."

"I don't want anything, Phuwin." Fourth's voice was gentle but unwavering. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

Phuwin's face crumpled. For a moment, he looked impossibly young, impossibly vulnerable—a child lost in a world too big and too cruel for him. "I'm begging you, Fourth. Please."

"I can't."

"If I try to go to the capital by myself, I will die." Phuwin's voice cracked. "I won't make it. I don't know the way. I don't know how to survive out there. The bandits—they'll find me again, and next time there won't be anyone to save me."

And then, before Fourth could respond, Phuwin slid off his seat and dropped to his knees.

Fourth's eyes went wide. "What are you—"

Phuwin bowed forward, his forehead touching the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. The kowtow was deep, formal, the kind of obeisance reserved for elders and monks and those of highest status.

"Please, Fourth." His voice was muffled against the earth. "Please take me home."

Fourth stared at him, frozen. In his world—his mother's world, the world of witches and forest spirits and wild magic—such gestures carried weight. To receive a kowtow was to accept a burden, a responsibility, a connection that could not be easily undone. It was said that three kowtows could decrease a person's lifespan, could transfer merit and luck and fate from one soul to another.

Phuwin didn't know that. Phuwin was just desperate. But the gesture meant something anyway.

Fourth looked away, his jaw tight. Phuwin was right. He wouldn't make it alone. With his soft hands and his princely bearing and his complete lack of survival instincts, he wouldn't last a day beyond the forest's edge. The bandits would find him. The wild animals would find him. The cold and hunger and sheer uncaring wilderness would find him, and they would swallow him whole.

And Fourth would have to live with that.

He thought of his mother. Of the promise he had made over her cooling body. I will be safe. I will be free. But also, unspoken but present always: I will use my gifts for good. I will not let the darkness win.

Letting Phuwin die alone in the forest—that would be the darkness winning.

"Fine."

Phuwin's head snapped up, hope blazing in his eyes.

"Fine, I'll take you." Fourth held up a hand before Phuwin could speak. "But please, for the love of everything sacred, don't kowtow to me anymore. You'll decrease my lifespan and take my merit, and I have very little of either to spare."

Phuwin's face broke into a smile so bright it was almost painful to look at. "Thank you. Thank you, Fourth. I—"

"Don't thank me yet." Fourth rose, brushing off his simple clothes. "Thank me when we reach the capital. If we reach the capital. The road is long and dangerous, and I haven't left this forest in years. I can't promise we'll make it."

"We will," Phuwin said with absolute certainty. "I know we will."

Fourth wished he shared that confidence.

---

Packing took the rest of the morning.

Fourth moved through his cottage with practiced efficiency, gathering supplies with the calm precision of someone who had learned to survive with very little. Dried fruits and meats went into a leather satchel. Herbs and medicines—yarrow for wounds, feverfew for fevers, willow bark for pain—were wrapped carefully in oiled cloth. A spare set of clothes for himself, and for Phuwin, he pulled out the simplest garments he owned: rough-spun tunics and trousers that would draw no attention, that would let the prince blend in rather than stand out.

He also retrieved the shoes he never wore.

They were simple leather boots, sturdy and worn, made by his mother years ago for a life that had never materialized. Fourth had always preferred to go barefoot, to feel the earth beneath his feet, to connect with the soil and stone and growing things. But the world outside the forest was not kind to bare feet. There would be roads of packed dirt and sharp gravel, maybe even stone streets in the capital. He would need protection.

He laced them on and tried not to think about how heavy they felt.

"You're giving me your cloak?"

Fourth looked up to find Phuwin holding the bearskin cloak, his expression a mixture of surprise and something that might have been wonder. It was Fourth's only cloak, the one his mother had made from a bear she had healed and who had, in gratitude, given its pelt when it died of old age. It was warm and soft and carried the faint echo of the bear's gentle spirit.

"You'll need it," Fourth said simply. "It gets cold at night, and you're not used to sleeping under the stars."

"But what about you?"

"I'll manage. I've slept in worse conditions." He turned back to his packing, missing the look Phuwin gave him—soft, wondering, as if Fourth were some kind of puzzle he was only beginning to solve.

Phuwin's own packing was... less efficient. The prince clearly had never packed for himself in his life. He stared at his fine robes and jeweled ornaments as if they were foreign objects, unsure how to fold them, where to place them, what to do with any of it. Fourth watched for a moment, then sighed and crossed to help.

"Like this," he said, demonstrating how to fold the silk carefully to avoid wrinkles. "And these smaller items go in the bottom of the bag, so they're not crushed."

"I'm sorry," Phuwin murmured, cheeks flushing. "I've never—servants always did this for me."

"I know." Fourth's voice held no judgment, just fact. "It's all right. You'll learn."

Something flickered in Phuwin's eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or perhaps just the dawning realization that this journey would change more than just his location.

When everything was packed and ready, Fourth turned to the fox.

"Foxy will come with us," he said, stroking the animal's russet fur. The fox leaned into his touch, golden eyes half-closed with contentment. "But he can't leave the forest. At the edge, he'll have to turn back."

"And then we'll be alone?" Phuwin asked, a tremor in his voice.

"No." Fourth met his eyes steadily. "Then I'll protect you."

Phuwin's brow furrowed. "You know how to fight?"

"No." Fourth's answer was honest, simple. "But I'll protect you anyway. Just listen to me, all right? If we come across danger and I tell you to do something, you do it. Don't question, don't hesitate, just do it. Can you promise me that?"

Phuwin nodded, his expression solemn. "I promise."

Fourth held his gaze for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception, any hint that this sheltered prince might prove difficult. He found none. Just earnestness, and fear, and a core of something stronger than either.

"All right." Fourth turned to his cottage, the small home that had been his sanctuary for years. He ran his hand along the doorframe, whispered a word of protection to the spirits that guarded it, and closed the door. "Let's go."

---

The first day of travel was uneventful.

They followed the river, its steady flow a guide toward the forest's edge. The birds helped, swooping ahead and circling back to confirm the path, and Fourth sent silent thanks to his feathered friends with every confirmation. Phuwin walked beside him, quiet and watchful, his eyes drinking in the forest with the wonder of someone seeing it for the first time.

He tired easily. Fourth noticed the way his steps began to drag after only a few hours, the way his breathing grew labored, the way he tried to hide his exhaustion behind a brave face. Without comment, Fourth called for a rest, settling them on a patch of soft moss near the riverbank. He handed Phuwin dried meat and a handful of berries and watched as the prince ate with the enthusiasm of someone who had never known hunger.

"Thank you," Phuwin said between bites. "I'm sorry I'm so slow."

"You're not slow. You're just not used to this kind of travel." Fourth leaned back against a tree, keeping his senses alert. "The capital—what's it like?"

Phuwin's face lit up. "It's beautiful. The palace is made of white stone, and it catches the sun so it glows like a jewel. There are gardens everywhere—rose gardens, herb gardens, even a maze of hedges that my brother and I used to play in when we were children." His expression softened with memory. "And the markets... oh, Fourth, the markets. Spices from across the sea, silks in every color imaginable, food from a hundred different lands. You would love it."

"I doubt that."

"You might be surprised." Phuwin studied him with curious eyes. "You've really never left this forest?"

"I left once." Fourth's voice was flat. "I came here."

Something in his tone must have warned Phuwin away from further questions, because the prince simply nodded and turned his attention back to his food. They rested in silence, the river murmuring beside them, the birds singing overhead, the fox curled at Fourth's feet.

When they resumed walking, Phuwin lasted another two hours before Fourth called another rest. And then another. The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon when Fourth finally stopped for the night, choosing a clearing protected by a ring of ancient oaks.

He set about building a fire, his movements automatic, his mind already cataloging the tasks ahead. Food. Water. Watch schedules—though he doubted he would sleep much. Protection wards around the perimeter. A plan for tomorrow.

And then he felt it.

The shift in the atmosphere was subtle at first, like the pressure change before a storm. But Fourth had spent years honing his senses, learning to read the language of the world around him. This was not a storm coming.

This was predators.

His hands stilled over the kindling. His head lifted, eyes scanning the deepening shadows. The fox was already on its feet, fur bristling, a low growl rumbling in its chest.

"Fourth?" Phuwin's voice was small, scared. "What is it?"

Fourth didn't answer immediately. He reached out with his senses, tasting the air, counting the presences he could feel. Four of them. Alphas. Moving with the confidence of those who knew they were stronger than most. Their intentions were clear in every wave of pheromones they emitted—cruelty, greed, the anticipation of an easy kill and a profitable capture.

They reminded him of his father.

"Foxy." Fourth's voice was calm, controlled. "Take him out of here. Hide him."

The fox whined, reluctant to leave his side.

"Go. Now."

The fox moved, pressing against Phuwin's legs, herding him toward the trees.

"Fourth? Fourth, what's going on?" Phuwin's voice rose with panic. "What are you doing? Come with us!"

Fourth met his eyes. In the fading light, his golden irises seemed to glow. "Trust me." His voice was quiet, but it carried. "Just trust me, all right? Go where Foxy leads you. Hide. Close your eyes and don't make a sound. I will find you."

"But—"

"Go."

Phuwin's mouth closed. He nodded once, sharply, and then he was gone, swallowed by the trees with the fox as his guide.

Fourth turned back to the fire, or where the fire would have been. He let the kindling fall from his hands. He rose to his feet, turned to face the direction from which the predators were coming, and waited.

They emerged from the trees like wolves from a story—four of them, big and rough and radiating the particular cruelty of those who had learned that might made right. Their eyes fell on Fourth, and their faces split into grins that held no warmth.

"Well, well, well." The leader stepped forward, a scarred brute with dead eyes. "What do we have here? An omega. All alone in the woods."

"A pretty one too." Another alpha circled to the side, his gaze crawling over Fourth like something filthy. "We can get a lot of money for this one. The pleasure houses pay top silver for beauties like this."

"And if we get bored with selling him, we keep him." A third alpha laughed, a rough, ugly sound. "Could be fun."

Fourth said nothing. He reached up and slowly, deliberately, unbound his hair.

The long strands fell around him like a waterfall, catching the last light of the setting sun, gleaming with hidden fire. His eyes, already golden, began to glow.

The alphas laughed.

"Oh, is he going to give us a show?" one of them jeered. "Dance for us, little omega. Maybe we'll be gentle."

"I will give you a count of three." Fourth's voice was quiet, but it cut through their laughter like a blade. "Leave now, and I will let you live."

For a moment, there was silence. Then the alphas burst into renewed laughter, louder and crueler than before.

"Did you hear that? He's threatening us!" The leader stepped closer, close enough that Fourth could smell the ale on his breath, the blood on his hands. "What are you going to do, little one? Cry? Beg? Spread your—"

"One."

The air thickened.

The alpha's mouth kept moving, but no sound came out. His eyes widened as he realized he couldn't breathe. The other alphas clutched at their throats, panic replacing cruelty in an instant.

"What—what's happening?" one of them gasped.

"Two."

They couldn't move. Fourth could feel them fighting against his control, their alpha instincts roaring in protest, their bodies straining against invisible bonds. But they were nothing compared to him. Nothing compared to the power that ran in his blood, the power of ancestors who had sung with voices of thunder and rain.

"Stop! Please!" one of them begged, his bravado crumbling into terror.

"I warned you." Fourth's voice was still quiet, still calm, but now it carried the weight of absolute authority. "I told you not to mistake my threats for bluffs."

"Witch!" one of them screamed. "Witch! Witch!"

The word was meant to wound, to terrify, to other. Fourth wore it like armor.

"Three."

He had complete control now. Their bodies were his puppets, their wills crushed beneath his. He could feel their hearts racing, their lungs burning, their terror flooding the air with the sour stench of fear.

"Get in the water."

They moved against their will, their legs carrying them toward the river even as they screamed and fought and begged.

"Please! I have a son!" one of them wept. "My wife is waiting at home! Please, mercy!"

"We'll kill you!" others threatened, their defiance crumbling even as they spoke. "We'll find you and kill you, you bitch!"

"Please! Forgive us! We didn't know!"

Fourth watched them wade into the cold water, their bodies trembling, their voices a chorus of pleas and threats and desperate, useless bargaining.

"No."

The water rose to their waists. Their chests. Their chins.

"Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves."

The water closed over their heads.

Fourth held them there, his power pinning them beneath the surface, his mind cold and focused. He felt their struggles fade. Felt their hearts stop. Felt the moment when they became nothing but bodies, nothing but empty vessels, nothing but the memory of cruelty that would never hurt anyone again.

Only then did he let go.

The river flowed on, uncaring. The bodies drifted, caught by the current, carried away into the darkness.

Fourth sank to his knees.

The power receded, leaving him hollow and shaking. His hair clung to his damp face, his breath came in ragged gasps, and every muscle in his body screamed with exhaustion. He had done this before. He had killed before. It never got easier. It never would.

But he didn't regret it.

Just as he didn't regret killing his father.

Ruthlessness was mercy upon themselves. Upon Phuwin, who would have suffered unspeakably at their hands. Upon the next omega who might have crossed their path. Upon the world, which was better off without their poison in it.

He knelt there for a long time, listening to the river, feeling the forest settle around him once more. Gradually, the shaking stopped. Gradually, his breathing steadied. Gradually, he found his feet.

He turned and walked back toward where he had sent Phuwin and the fox.

They were exactly where he had left them—hidden in a hollow beneath a fallen log, the fox curled protectively around the trembling prince. When Fourth called softly, the fox emerged first, trotting to his side and pressing against his leg. Then Phuwin crawled out, his face pale, his eyes wide.

"Fourth." His voice was barely a whisper. "What happened? I felt—I felt something. The air, it changed, and then—" He stopped, staring at Fourth. "Your eyes. They're still..."

Fourth blinked, and the last of the glow faded. "It's over. They're gone."

"Gone?" Phuwin's voice rose. "Gone where? What did you do?"

"I protected you." Fourth's voice was tired, but steady. "Just like I promised."

Phuwin stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his gaze traveled down Fourth's body, taking in the disheveled hair, the exhausted posture, the way he leaned slightly against the fox for support. Something shifted in his expression—fear fading into something more complex, more wondering.

"You killed them," he said softly. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"How? You said you couldn't fight."

"I can't." Fourth met his eyes. "I don't need to. I'm a witch, Phuwin. My mother was a witch. Her mother before her. The power to heal... and the power to kill. They're the same thing, in the end. Just different applications."

Phuwin was silent for a long moment. The forest held its breath around them.

Then, slowly, carefully, Phuwin reached out and took Fourth's hand.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For protecting me."

Fourth looked down at their joined hands, then up at Phuwin's face. There was no fear there. No revulsion. Just gratitude, and something else—something warm and wondering that Fourth didn't quite know how to name.

"You're not afraid of me?" he asked.

Phuwin shook his head. "Should I be?"

"My own father called me a monster."

"Your father was wrong." Phuwin's grip tightened. "You saved my life. You saved me from those men. That's not what monsters do."

Fourth's throat tightened. He looked away, blinking rapidly, unwilling to examine the feeling that rose in his chest. "We should rest. We have a long way to go tomorrow."

Phuwin nodded, releasing his hand. But as they settled for the night—Phuwin wrapped in the bearskin cloak, Fourth with his back against a tree and the fox curled at his side—Fourth felt the weight of those words settle over him like a second cloak.

That's not what monsters do.

He closed his eyes and, for the first time in years, allowed himself to wonder if maybe, just maybe, his mother's son was not the savage the world had named him.

Maybe he was something else entirely.

Something that had yet to be named.

---

 

Fourth hardly slept.

The night had been long and dark, filled with the memory of water closing over desperate faces. He had sat with his back against a tree, the fox warm at his side, and watched the stars crawl across the sky. Every rustle of leaves, every distant hoot of an owl, every shift of the wind had set his senses on edge. The power he had expended left him hollow, aching, but sleep wouldn't come. It never did after he killed.

So when the first pale light of dawn began to filter through the trees, Fourth was already moving.

He built a fire with quiet efficiency, his hands steady despite the exhaustion pulling at his bones. He set water to boil, laid out dried meat and berries, prepared tea the way his mother had taught him—carefully, mindfully, with gratitude for the plants that gave their leaves. The motions were automatic, soothing, a ritual that connected him to something older than his fear.

Across the small clearing, Phuwin slept on.

Fourth's gaze drifted to him, and something in his chest softened despite himself. The prince looked so young in sleep, his features relaxed, his breathing deep and even. He had trusted Fourth completely last night. Had hidden when told to hide. Had run when told to run. Had taken Fourth's hand afterward and looked at him without fear.

Foolish little prince, Fourth thought, but there was no bite to it. Just wonder, and a strange, aching tenderness he didn't quite know what to do with.

Phuwin didn't know what Fourth was capable of. Didn't know the darkness that lived in his blood, the violence that slept beneath his skin. He saw only the healer, the protector, the one who sang to the forest and befriended foxes. He didn't see the monster who had held four men underwater until their struggles ceased.

But maybe—maybe that was the point.

Fourth thought about mercy as the tea steeped. About kindness. About the difference between being nice and being kind.

Nice people were the worst kind of people, he had decided long ago. The worst kind of good, because they weren't even great. They reeked of false righteousness, of moral superiority purchased cheaply because it cost them nothing. They would fight, but they wouldn't kill. They would capture, but they would let the bad guys go. They called it mercy, called it hope, called it giving people a second chance.

But mercy had a price. It was the final crack to break the ice. It was the villain who returned, stronger and angrier, to kill again. It was the abused child who grew into an abuser because no one stopped the cycle. It was Fourth's father, alive and drunk and beating his mother, because no one had ever shown him ruthlessness.

Fourth had learned the hard way that the line between naivety and hopelessness was almost invisible. The world was dark. Cruel. Unforgiving. And in that world, ruthlessness was mercy. Mercy upon the innocent who would suffer if the guilty were allowed to live. Mercy upon the self, who would carry the weight of knowing they could have stopped it and didn't.

So he closed his heart. He did what needed to be done. And he told himself that kindness—true kindness—was not about being nice. It was about protection. About safety. About making sure that no one else would ever have to suffer as his mother had suffered.

I am kind, he thought, watching Phuwin sleep. Not nice. But kind.

The tea was ready. The food was laid out. The fire crackled softly in the morning stillness.

Phuwin stirred, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, lost—then his gaze found Fourth, and his face relaxed into a sleepy smile.

"Good morning," he murmured.

"Morning." Fourth's voice was gentle despite himself. "I made you tea. Have some breakfast. We head out early."

Phuwin sat up slowly, accepting the cup Fourth handed him. The warmth seeped into his palms, and he sighed with contentment. "Thank you."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the forest waking around them. Birds began to sing. Squirrels chattered in the branches. Somewhere in the distance, a stream babbled its eternal song.

Then Phuwin spoke. "Fourth. Last night—"

"Eat." Fourth cut him off, not unkindly. "The journey is long. Foxy has already left. It will only be us from now on."

Phuwin's mouth closed. He nodded, accepting the deflection, and focused on his breakfast. But his eyes kept drifting to Fourth, studying him with a quiet intensity that made Fourth's skin prickle.

They finished eating, doused the fire, and began to walk.

---

The forest thinned as they moved, the ancient trees giving way to younger growth, then to scrubland, then to the first signs of human habitation. They passed the first village in the mid-morning—a small collection of huts with smoke rising from cookfires, farmers working in fields, children chasing each other with sticks. Fourth pulled his hood up, shadows hiding his face, and Phuwin followed his lead.

No one bothered them. No one even looked twice. They were just two travelers, dusty and tired, passing through on their way to somewhere else.

The second village was larger, busier. Market stalls lined the main road, vendors calling out their wares. The scents of roasting meat and fresh bread made Fourth's stomach growl, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Every moment in open spaces like this was a moment of vulnerability, a moment when an alpha could appear from anywhere and—

He forced the thought away. Focused on the path ahead. On Phuwin, who was keeping up better now, his steps more certain, his breathing steadier. The prince was learning. Adapting. Growing stronger with every mile.

It was late afternoon when they stopped to rest, settling in a small grove of trees just past the second village. Phuwin sat gratefully on a fallen log, while Fourth checked their supplies and refilled their water skins from a nearby stream.

As he worked, a question rose in his mind. One he had been curious about since Phuwin first mentioned his life in the capital.

"What's your husband like?"

Phuwin looked up, surprise flickering across his features. Then he smiled—a soft, private smile that made something twist in Fourth's chest.

"Pond." He said the name like it was precious. "He's... kind. He doesn't seem like it, because he's a warrior. He's rough around the edges, rough with his words. But he cares."

Fourth said nothing, just listened, letting Phuwin's voice wash over him.

"Our marriage was arranged," Phuwin continued. "My parents wanted the military linked to the crown. I was so scared, Fourth. On our wedding night, I sat in our chambers, shaking, expecting—" He stopped, swallowing. "You know what omegas expect on their wedding nights."

Fourth knew. Oh, he knew.

"But Pond..." Phuwin's smile returned, warmer now. "He didn't touch me. He didn't rush me. He brought me food, asked if I was hungry, if I needed anything. And then he took a blanket and slept on the floor. The floor, Fourth. A general, sleeping on the floor so I could have the bed to myself."

"That's... unusual," Fourth said carefully.

"He's unusual. He waited. For weeks, he waited. Gave me time to get to know him, to trust him, to want him. And when I finally did—" Phuwin's cheeks flushed pink. "He was so gentle. So careful. He kept asking if I was okay, if it hurt, if I wanted to stop. I didn't even know alphas could be like that."

"So you like him?"

"I do." Phuwin's voice was soft but certain. "We bonded. Not just the mating bond—we bonded, truly. He's my person, Fourth. The one I want to wake up to every morning."

Fourth looked away, something aching in his chest. He had never known that kind of love. Had only seen its opposite, its shadow, its cruel mockery. His mother and father—that wasn't love. That was ownership, dressed up in pretty words and enforced by teeth.

"I noticed," he said quietly. "The way you talk about him. The way your scent changes. You smell happy. Content. Safe."

Phuwin studied him for a long moment. Then, gently, he said, "Not all alphas are bad, Fourth."

Fourth's jaw tightened. "I don't doubt that. But they love you. One is your mate, the other is your brother. You don't know how they are with omegas they don't love."

"Fourth—"

"I'll refill our waters." Fourth stood abruptly, grabbing the water skins. "You take rest."

He didn't wait for a response. He walked quickly toward the stream, his heart pounding, his thoughts a tangle of thorns. Phuwin meant well. Phuwin was kind—truly kind, not just nice—and he wanted Fourth to believe that the world wasn't as dark as Fourth had experienced it.

But Phuwin didn't know. Couldn't know. Had never lain awake at night listening to his mother's muffled sobs. Had never watched someone he loved be destroyed piece by piece. Had never felt the hot rush of power and horror as he ended a life.

Fourth knelt by the stream, plunging his hands into the cold water. The shock of it helped. Cleared his mind. He filled the water skins methodically, forcing his breathing to slow, his heart to calm.

Focus, he told himself. Just focus. Get him to the capital. Then go home. Alone. Safe. Free.

It was the only way.

---

They traveled until the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. The terrain had changed again—the forest long behind them, the villages fading into the distance. Ahead, Fourth could see the beginning of the plains that would eventually lead to the capital.

They stopped in a clearing, open enough to see danger coming from any direction. Fourth was scanning the perimeter, planning where to build the fire, when he felt it.

A shift.

Not like before—not the heavy, predatory presence of bandits. This was different. This was... dozens of them. Alphas, horses, the thunder of hooves on packed earth. Coming fast. Coming straight toward them.

"Stay behind me."

Fourth's voice was calm, but Phuwin heard the command in it and moved immediately, pressing close to Fourth's back. Fourth reached up and unbound his hair, letting it fall around him like a dark curtain. He could feel the magic rising, responding to his need, flowing through his veins like liquid fire. His eyes began to glow, golden amber brightening to something almost white.

"Close your eyes if you need to," he murmured. "When I tell you to run, run. Don't stop. Don't look back."

He drew power from the earth beneath his feet, from the air around him, from the last light of the dying sun. His hair lifted, stirring in a wind that touched nothing else, spreading behind him like an inky river. He was ready. He would protect Phuwin. Whatever it took.

The horses burst into view.

They crested a rise and thundered toward the clearing—a dozen at least, maybe more, each bearing an alpha in gleaming armor. At their head rode two figures: one young, sharp-featured, with the bearing of command; the other taller, broader, his face a mask of controlled urgency.

Fourth's power surged, ready to strike—

And Phuwin gasped.

"Wait! Fourth, wait!" Phuwin grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "That's—that's the royal guard. That's my brother!"

Before Fourth could react, before he could process the words, Phuwin was running. Running toward the oncoming horses, toward the alphas, toward certain danger.

"Phuwin!" Fourth's cry was lost in the thunder of hooves.

But the horses were slowing. The lead rider—the sharp-featured young alpha—was throwing himself from his stallion before the animal had fully stopped, his boots hitting the ground at a run.

"Phi!"

He caught Phuwin in his arms, lifting him off his feet, spinning him in a hug so tight it looked painful. Phuwin was laughing, crying, clinging to him with desperate hands.

"Brother! Brother, I'm here, I'm safe—"

The second rider arrived, the taller one, his face breaking from controlled urgency into something raw and vulnerable. He dismounted more carefully, but his strides were long, eating up the distance.

"Phuwin." His voice was deep, rough, cracking on the name. "Are you unharmed? Are you—"

Phuwin let go of the first alpha and threw himself at the second. The taller man—the general, Fourth's mind supplied, that must be Pond—froze for a heartbeat, as if uncertain what to do with the sudden affection. Then his arms came up, wrapping around Phuwin with infinite gentleness, his face pressing into the prince's hair.

"I'm fine," Phuwin said, his voice muffled against the general's chest. "I'm safe. I'm okay. Fourth saved me. Fourth—"

He turned, pulling away from Pond's embrace, and gestured toward where Fourth stood frozen at the edge of the clearing.

All eyes followed his gesture.

And Fourth's world stopped.

The young alpha—the crown prince, Phuwin's brother—looked up. His gaze found Fourth across the clearing. And in that moment, everything else fell away.

The world narrowed to two points: Fourth's eyes, and the alpha's.

Something slammed into Fourth's chest like a physical blow. A pull. A tug. A recognition deeper than thought, deeper than memory, deeper than anything he had ever known. It was as if some invisible thread, stretched taut across the distance between them, had suddenly snapped into place. As if a door he hadn't known existed had swung open, revealing a room he had always been meant to enter.

The alpha—Gemini, his name was Gemini, Fourth knew it suddenly, absolutely, as if he had always known it—stumbled slightly. His hand went to his chest. His eyes, dark and wide, never left Fourth's face.

Fourth saw the moment it hit him. Saw the recognition dawn. Saw the same pull, the same tug, the same impossible connection reflected in those dark eyes.

Oh.

The word was small, faint, lost in the roaring of blood in his ears.

Oh no.

This was his fated mate.

Fourth had heard of such things, of course. The old stories spoke of bonds woven by fate itself, connections so deep that no force in the world could sever them. Two souls, destined to find each other. Two hearts, meant to beat as one. Two lives, intertwined from the moment of their creation.

He had never believed in them. Had dismissed them as fairy tales, as pretty lies told to omegas to make them accept their lot. Don't worry, the stories said, your alpha is out there somewhere, chosen by fate itself, and he will love you as you deserve. It was a comforting fiction, nothing more.

But this—this was real.

Fourth could feel it in every fiber of his being. Could feel the alpha's presence like a second heartbeat, like a warmth spreading through his chest, like a voice calling his name in a language older than words. His magic, always responsive to his emotions, surged and swirled around him, making his hair lift and his eyes blaze brighter.

He saw Gemini's reaction—the widening of his eyes, the sharp intake of breath, the way his hand pressed harder against his chest as if to contain something trying to escape. The alpha took a step forward, then another, drawn by a force he couldn't control.

"Wait." The word came out of Fourth like a command, and Gemini stopped as if he had run into a wall. "Don't—don't come closer."

His voice was shaking. He could hear it, hated it, couldn't stop it. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to have a fated mate. He was supposed to be alone, safe, free. He was supposed to return to his forest after delivering Phuwin and never see another human again.

But fate—cruel, mocking fate—had other plans.

"Phi." Phuwin's voice cut through the tension, confused but not alarmed. "Phi, this is Fourth. He saved my life. He protected me. Fourth, this is my brother, Gemini. The crown prince."

Gemini's gaze never left Fourth's face. "Fourth." He said the name like it was sacred, like it was something he had been searching for his whole life without knowing it. "Your name is Fourth."

"Yes." Fourth's voice was barely a whisper. He should move. Should run. Should put as much distance between himself and this alpha as possible. But his feet wouldn't obey. The pull was too strong, the connection too new and overwhelming.

"You're—" Gemini stopped, swallowed, tried again. "Do you feel that? Do you feel...?"

Fourth closed his eyes. For one terrible, wonderful moment, he let himself feel it. The warmth. The rightness. The sense of coming home to a place he had never been.

Then he opened his eyes, and the glow in them hardened into something colder.

"I feel nothing," he lied. "I'm just a guide. I brought your brother back. My job is done."

He turned away, unable to look at Gemini's face, unable to see the hurt and confusion that he knew would be there. He gathered his pack, his supplies, the few belongings he had brought from his forest home.

"Fourth." Phuwin's voice was soft, worried. "What's wrong? What's happening?"

"Nothing." Fourth's voice was steady now, controlled. "I've fulfilled my promise. You're safe. You're with your family. I'm going home."

"No." The word came from Gemini, sharp and urgent. "You can't—you can't just leave. Not now. Not when—"

"When what, Your Highness?" Fourth turned to face him, and the title was a deliberate wall, a reminder of the distance between them. "When I've done what I said I would do? That's exactly when I leave."

Gemini's jaw tightened. He took a step forward, and Fourth felt the pull intensify, felt his resolve waver. "You know what I'm feeling. You have to. It's not something you can ignore."

"I can ignore anything I choose to ignore." Fourth's voice was cold, but his hands were trembling. "I don't know what you think you feel, Your Highness. But I feel nothing. I am nothing. Just a witch from the forest who happened to find your brother. Nothing more."

"Fourth—" Phuwin started, but Fourth cut him off.

"Take care of yourself, Phuwin." His voice softened, just slightly, just for a moment. "You're stronger than you know. Don't let them make you small."

And then he turned and walked away.

He didn't run. Running would show weakness, would show that he was affected. He walked steadily, calmly, each step taking him further from the clearing, further from the alpha whose presence still burned in his chest like a brand.

Behind him, he heard Gemini's voice, rough with emotion: "Wait. Please, wait."

But Fourth didn't wait. He couldn't wait. If he waited, if he turned around, if he looked into those dark eyes again—

He would never leave.

So he kept walking, his long hair streaming behind him, his heart a battlefield of warring emotions. The forest ahead promised safety, solitude, the simple life he had built for himself. The alpha behind him promised something else entirely—something terrifying and wonderful and absolutely impossible.

"I will not be like my mother.", he told himself fiercely. I will not be owned. "I will not be property. I will not trade one cage for another, no matter how gilded."

But even as he thought it, he felt the pull. Felt the bond stretching between them like an invisible thread, growing thinner with distance but never breaking. Felt Gemini's presence like a phantom limb, like a part of himself he had never known was missing.

Fated mates, the old stories called it. Destiny. Love beyond measure.

Fourth had never believed in fairy tales.

But as he walked away from the alpha who was meant to be his, he wondered if perhaps the cruelest fate of all was finding your happily ever after—and refusing to take it.

---

The thing with the magic that flowed through Fourth's very being was that it was not his to command—not truly. It was a loan, a gift, a responsibility passed down through generations of witches who had come before him. It was the very same magic that pulsed in the heart of the earth, that gave life to trees and made flowers bloom. It was the very same magic that had woven itself into the fabric of the universe at the moment of creation, threading through stars and stones and the spaces between breaths. It was the very same magic that dictated destiny and fate, that spun the threads of connection between souls meant to find each other across any distance.

And Fourth was only the vessel of the magic, not the magic itself.

He could no more outrun destiny than a river could outrun the sea. The pull was in his blood, in his bones, in the very essence of what made him Fourth. When he had walked away from the clearing, from the alpha with the dark eyes and the stunned expression, he had been fighting against forces older than time itself.

He didn't stand a chance.

The last thing he remembered was the forest blurring around him, the path home stretching endlessly ahead. His chest had begun to hurt—a deep, aching pain that started as a whisper and grew to a scream. Something was pulling at him, tugging at the very core of his being, demanding that he turn around, that he go back, that he stop running.

And then the world had gone dark.

---

He dreamed.

He dreamed of rivers, wide and deep and ancient, flowing through landscapes he had never seen but somehow knew. He dreamed of bare feet on cool earth, of the sting of sharp stones and the relief of soft moss. He dreamed of songbirds, thousands of them, their voices rising in a chorus that shook the heavens. He dreamed of flowers blooming in impossible colors, of fields that stretched to the horizon and beyond. He dreamed of songs—old songs, heathen songs, songs that his ancestors had sung around fires in the before-time, when the world was young and magic was as common as breath.

And he dreamed of fire.

Fire that burned but did not consume. Fire that danced and sang and spoke in tongues of flame. Fire that reached for him with golden fingers, that wrapped around him like an embrace, that whispered his name in a voice that sounded like—

He woke with a gasp.

The ceiling above him was not the rough-hewn beams of his cottage. It was painted white, with delicate gold leaf tracing patterns of clouds and stars. The bed beneath him was impossibly soft, layered with cushions and blankets that felt like clouds made solid. The night robe he wore whispered against his skin with every movement, fabric so fine it might have been woven from moonbeams.

For one terrible moment, Fourth simply stared, his mind struggling to catch up with his surroundings.

Then instinct took over.

He sat up abruptly, his eyes already beginning to glow, power surging through his veins in response to threat. He didn't know where he was, didn't know who had brought him here, didn't know what dangers lurked beyond this beautiful room. But he knew how to protect himself. He knew how to kill.

"Fourth!"

The voice was familiar. Fourth's gaze snapped toward it, and found Phuwin rising from a chair near the window, his face breaking into a relieved smile.

"You're awake! Oh, thank the ancestors, you're awake—"

"Where am I?" Fourth's voice was sharp, his eyes still glowing, his body still poised for violence.

Phuwin's smile faded slightly, replaced by gentle concern. "You're at the Royal Palace. In my chambers. You're safe, Fourth. No one will hurt you here."

The Royal Palace. Fourth's mind reeled. He remembered walking away from the clearing, remembered the pain in his chest, remembered darkness swallowing him whole. How long had he been unconscious? How had he gotten here?

"I need to go." He swung his legs off the bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that followed. "Where are my things? My pack, my clothes—"

"Fourth, wait." Phuwin moved toward him, hands outstretched in a calming gesture. "Please, just wait. You've been unconscious for three days. Let me call the royal healer to check on you—"

"They're of no use to me." It wasn't arrogance, just fact. The royal healers knew herbs and poultices and the limited magic that came from years of study. Fourth's power was older, deeper, woven into his very blood. No palace-trained healer could help him.

"Please." Phuwin's voice was soft but firm. "Just... just wait. Let me make you tea first. Please, Fourth. As a friend."

The word caught Fourth off guard. Friend. When was the last time anyone had called him that? When was the last time he had allowed anyone close enough to earn that title?

He nodded slowly, and the glow in his eyes began to fade.

Phuwin's smile returned, warmer now. He crossed to the door and spoke quietly to someone on the other side—servants, Fourth realized, though he hadn't heard them approach. Within minutes, a tray was brought in: delicate porcelain cups, a steaming pot of tea, an array of pastries and fruits arranged like a painting.

Fourth accepted the cup Phuwin handed him, letting the warmth seep into his palms. The tea was good—not as good as his own, but good. The pastries were almost too beautiful to eat, but his stomach growled insistently, and he found himself reaching for one despite himself.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the tension slowly easing from Fourth's shoulders. Phuwin watched him with patient eyes, waiting.

Finally, Phuwin spoke.

"Gemini—my brother. He thinks you're his fated mate."

Fourth's hand stilled, the pastry halfway to his mouth.

"The mages confirmed it," Phuwin continued softly. "They performed the ritual. The bond is real. You're his fated mate, Fourth."

Fourth set the pastry down. His appetite had vanished. "The mages don't know true magic. They study old texts and perform ceremonies they don't understand. They can't confirm anything."

"Fourth." Phuwin's voice was gentle but insistent. "Please. Be honest with me. As my friend."

Fourth looked at him—at this prince who had every reason to fear him, to use him, to discard him now that he was no longer needed. But Phuwin's eyes held only concern, only warmth, only the simple desire for truth.

"My brother," Phuwin continued, "is in rut. He has been for the past three days. You triggered it, Fourth. The moment you appeared, the moment your eyes met, his rut began. He's locked in his chambers, barely coherent, and all he does is call for you."

Fourth's chest tightened. A rut triggered by a fated mate was no small thing. It was agony, obsession, a primal need that overrode everything else. He had heard stories of alphas who died in ruts triggered by mates they couldn't reach, their bodies burning out from the inside.

"My place is not here." Fourth's voice was quiet but steady. "My place is in the forest. With Foxy. With the trees and the streams and the animals who don't want anything from me."

"Fourth, that's not an answer."

"It doesn't matter, Phuwin." Fourth looked away. "Sorry. Your Highness."

He heard Phuwin's sharp intake of breath. When he spoke again, the prince's voice was thick with hurt. "Don't call me that. Don't you dare call me that. I am your friend, Fourth. You saved my life, you protected me, you walked with me and talked with me and showed me kindness I didn't deserve. You will address me as your friend, or not at all."

Fourth's throat tightened. "Phuwin..."

"It matters to me." Phuwin leaned forward, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "You matter to me. So please. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you're running."

Fourth was silent for a long moment. The tea cooled in his hands. The pastries sat untouched. Somewhere in the palace, a clock chimed the hour, its sound muffled by thick walls and heavy curtains.

"Phuwin," he finally said, "I am a witch."

"I know."

"You might accept that. You might be kind enough, good enough, to look past it. But your world—" He gestured vaguely at the opulent room around them. "This world doesn't accept people like me. They burn witches, Phuwin. They hunt them and kill them and call it justice."

"Not in this kingdom. Not under my brother's rule."

"Your brother doesn't rule yet. And even if he did—" Fourth's voice cracked. "I kill, Phuwin. I kill with no hesitation. No guilt. No remorse. When those bandits attacked us, I held them underwater until they drowned. I felt them die. I felt them die, and I didn't stop. I didn't want to stop. I am a monster."

Phuwin reached across the space between them and took Fourth's hand.

"Is the Cyclops struck with guilt when he kills?" he asked softly. "Is he up in the middle of the night, haunted by the lives he's taken? Or does he end his enemies to avenge his friend, and then sleep knowing he has done him right?"

Fourth stared at him, unable to speak.

"When a god comes down and makes a fleet drown," Phuwin continued, his voice gaining strength, "is he scared that he's doing something wrong? Or does he keep us in check so we must respect him, so that no one dares to anger him again?"

Fourth's eyes were burning. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

"Does a soldier use a wooden horse to kill sleeping Trojans because he is vile?" Phuwin's grip on his hand tightened. "Or does he throw away his remorse and save more lives with guile? Does he weigh the cost and decide that some deaths are necessary to prevent more?"

"Phuwin—"

"Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves." Phuwin's voice was barely a whisper now, but it filled the room. "And deep down, I know this well. You know this well. You lost your best friend, your mother, the only family you had. You watched her suffer, and you couldn't save her. And then you did what you had to do to survive."

Fourth's vision blurred. A single tear escaped, trailing down his cheek.

"So if you must become a monster," Phuwin said, "if you must drop infants from a wall in an instant so that you can save more lives than you take—then do it. If you must kill to protect the weak and the blameless, then become the monster. I will deal with the blow. I will stand beside you and help you carry the weight."

"Phuwin, I—"

"Become the monster like none they've known." Phuwin's eyes were wet now too, but his voice was steady, fierce, absolute. "Just don't go. Please. Don't leave. Not like this. Not when you've finally found a place where you might belong. Not when my brother is dying in his chambers because the fates chose you for him and you won't even give him a chance."

Fourth couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but sit there, tears streaming down his face, while Phuwin's words echoed in his chest.

No one had ever—no one had ever—

His mother had loved him, yes. Had protected him, had taught him, had given him everything she could. But she had also been broken, beaten down, too worn by years of suffering to offer the kind of fierce, defiant love that Phuwin was offering now. She had done her best, and Fourth would always love her for it. But she had never looked at him—at the killer, at the monster, at the witch who had ended his own father's life—and said become the monster, I will deal with the blow.

"You're crying," Phuwin observed softly. There was no judgment in his voice, only wonder.

Fourth laughed—a broken, watery sound. "So are you."

"I'm allowed. I'm a prince. Princes can cry."

"Is that in the royal handbook?"

"Chapter seven." Phuwin smiled through his tears. "Right after 'how to receive kowtows without decreasing your lifespan.'"

Fourth laughed again, and somehow the tears kept falling, and somehow Phuwin was still holding his hand, and somehow the world hadn't ended.

They sat like that for a long time.

---

When the tears finally stopped, when Fourth's breathing had steadied and his eyes had faded back to their normal gold, Phuwin poured fresh tea and pressed a pastry into his hand.

"Eat," he commanded. "You've been unconscious for three days. You need strength."

Fourth ate. The pastry was light and sweet, filled with some kind of cream that melted on his tongue. It was nothing like the simple food he was used to, but it was good. Different, but good.

"Tell me about him," he said quietly.

Phuwin's eyebrows rose. "Gemini?"

"Your brother. Tell me about him."

Phuwin considered for a moment, then smiled—a soft, fond smile that spoke of years of shared history. "He's annoying. He's my little brother, so it's his job to be annoying. When we were children, he used to follow me everywhere, copying everything I did. I would climb a tree, and he would climb the same tree. I would read a book, and he would demand I read it aloud so he could listen. I would cry, and he would cry too, even if he didn't know why."

Fourth found himself smiling despite everything.

"He's clever," Phuwin continued. "Too clever for his own good, sometimes. He sees patterns where others see chaos, solutions where others see problems. Father used to say he would make a great king because he could think ten steps ahead of everyone else." His smile softened. "But he's also kind. He doesn't show it easily—he has this... this mask he wears, this serious prince facade. But underneath, he cares. Deeply. Too deeply, maybe."

"What do you mean?"

Phuwin was quiet for a moment. "When our mother died, he was twelve. I was thirteen. We were both devastated, but Gemini—he didn't cry. Didn't show any emotion at all. He just... became harder. More focused. More determined. It took me years to realize that he was so busy taking care of everyone else that he never let himself grieve." He looked at Fourth. "He's still like that. He carries everything alone. Doesn't let anyone in."

"And you think I could... what? Change that?"

"I think," Phuwin said carefully, "that fated mates are called fated for a reason. I think the universe doesn't make mistakes. And I think—" He smiled. "I think my brother needs someone who won't let him carry everything alone. Someone strong enough to share the weight."

Fourth looked down at his tea. The leaves had settled at the bottom, forming patterns he could read if he chose. Patterns that spoke of crossroads, of choices, of paths diverging and converging.

"I don't know how to be that," he admitted quietly. "I've been alone for so long. I've closed my heart to everyone. I don't know if I can open it again."

"You don't have to know." Phuwin's voice was gentle. "You just have to try. One step at a time. One day at a time. That's all any of us can do."

Fourth was silent, thinking. The pull was still there—that impossible, undeniable connection to the alpha in the chambers somewhere in this palace. It had faded during his unconsciousness, but now that he was awake, it was returning, stronger than ever. A thread tugging at his chest, drawing him toward something he both feared and longed for.

"If I stay," he said slowly, "if I even try to do this... I need you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Don't let me lose myself." He met Phuwin's eyes. "Don't let me become what they'll call me. A witch. A monster. A thing to be feared and used. If I start to... to forget who I am, to become what they expect—pull me back. Remind me of the forest. Of Foxy. Of the person I was before all of this."

Phuwin reached out and took his hand again. "I promise." His grip was warm, steady, absolute. "I promise, Fourth. I will always remind you."

Fourth nodded slowly. The tears threatened again, but he held them back. He had cried enough for one day.

"Now," Phuwin said, releasing his hand and sitting back with a businesslike air, "the practical matters. You need proper clothes. You need to eat more than one pastry. And you need to meet my brother, preferably before his rut burns a hole through his chambers."

Fourth's stomach flipped. "Now?"

"Sooner than now, ideally. The servants say he's been clawing at the walls." Phuwin's tone was light, but his eyes were serious. "He needs you, Fourth. Not just as an omega, not just to end his rut. He needs you. The person who saved me, who walked with me, who taught me that strength doesn't always look like swords and armor."

Fourth took a deep breath. Then another. The pull in his chest was almost unbearable now, a constant reminder of the alpha waiting for him.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll try."

Phuwin's smile could have lit the entire palace. "That's all I ask."

---

An hour later, Fourth stood before a massive door, flanked by guards who looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. He was dressed in clothes provided by Phuwin—simple but fine, dark fabrics that complemented his coloring, a style that somehow made him look both foreign and utterly at home. His hair hung loose around him, a waterfall of darkness that drew stares from everyone who passed.

Behind the door, he could hear movement. Pacing. Low growls that raised the hair on his arms.

"He won't hurt you," Phuwin said softly from beside him. "Even in rut, even like this—he won't hurt you. I know my brother."

Fourth wasn't afraid of being hurt. He was afraid of something far worse.

He was afraid of wanting to stay.

"Wait for me," he said to Phuwin. "If I'm not out in an hour—"

"You'll be fine. I'll be right here."

Fourth nodded. He reached for the door handle, felt the cool metal beneath his palm, and pushed.

The room beyond was dark, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The air was thick with the scent of alpha—pine and smoke and something else, something that made Fourth's knees weak. The pull in his chest became a roar, a demand, a song he couldn't ignore.

And in the center of the room, surrounded by torn bedding and overturned furniture, Gemini looked up.

His eyes were wild, dark, ringed with red. His hair was disheveled, his clothes torn, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He looked like a man possessed, like a creature of myth and nightmare, like everything Fourth had ever feared in an alpha.

But when he saw Fourth, something shifted.

The wildness didn't disappear, but it... softened. Focused. The growl in his chest became something else, something almost like a whimper. He took a step forward, then stopped, as if afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid that this vision before him might vanish.

"Fourth." His voice was wrecked, barely human. "You came back."

Fourth's heart clenched. He stepped into the room, letting the door close behind him.

"I didn't choose to," he admitted. "The magic brought me. Fate brought me. Destiny or whatever you want to call it."

Gemini's eyes never left his face. "Does it matter? You're here."

"I'm here." Fourth took another step forward. The pull was almost unbearable now, a physical force drawing him closer. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if I can be what you need. I don't know anything except—"

"Except?"

Fourth closed the distance between them. He was close enough now to feel the heat radiating from Gemini's body, to see the tremor in his muscles, to smell the desperate need in his scent.

"Except that I couldn't outrun you," he whispered. "And I'm tired of running."

Gemini's control broke.

He surged forward, but not in the way Fourth had expected. Not with violence, not with demand, not with the rough claiming he had braced himself for. Instead, Gemini wrapped his arms around Fourth and buried his face in his hair, and shook. Great, wracking tremors that spoke of days of agony, of nights of desperate longing, of a soul pushed to its breaking point and beyond.

"I thought you were gone," he gasped against Fourth's neck. "I thought you left and I would never—I couldn't—I would have died. I would have died."

Fourth stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the sensation of being held. Then, slowly, carefully, he raised his arms and wrapped them around Gemini in return.

"I'm here," he said softly. "I'm here."

The alpha's arms tightened. His breathing was ragged, his body still trembling, but gradually, gradually, he began to calm. The pheromones in the air shifted, becoming less desperate, more... something else. Something that made Fourth's cheeks warm and his heart race.

"Fourth." Gemini pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were still dark, still hungry, but there was something else there too. Wonder. Awe. The dawning realization of something impossibly precious. "You're really here. You're really—"

"I'm really here." Fourth met his gaze steadily. "I don't know what happens next. I don't know if this will work. But I'm here. For now. For as long as I can be."

Gemini's hand came up, trembling, to cup Fourth's cheek. His thumb traced the curve of Fourth's cheekbone with impossible gentleness.

"That's all I ask," he whispered. "That's all I'll ever ask."

And when he leaned in, when his lips finally met Fourth's, the magic in Fourth's veins sang.

It sang of rivers and bare feet and songbirds and blooming flowers. It sang of ancient songs and dancing fire and stars renamed by a lonely boy in the forest. It sang of destiny and fate and the impossible, wonderful truth that some things were worth running toward.

Fourth kissed him back, and for the first time in years, he let himself hope.

---

 

The days that followed blurred together like watercolors in rain.

Fourth existed in a haze of sensation—the warmth of Gemini's body against his, the rasp of the alpha's voice in his ear, the overwhelming rightness of being held. The rut consumed them both, a fire that burned away thought and reason, leaving only instinct and need and the desperate, driving urge to be closer, always closer.

But beneath the haze, beneath the heat, something else was happening.

Threads of magic, invisible but undeniable, were weaving themselves between them. Fourth could feel them forming with every touch, every kiss, every whispered word. They were delicate at first, easily broken, but with each passing hour they grew stronger, more numerous, until Fourth felt wrapped in a cocoon of light that had nothing to do with the sun outside the curtained windows.

And then, on the third day, Gemini bit him.

Fourth had known it was coming. Had felt the alpha's need building, the primal urge to claim, to mark, to make permanent. He had braced himself for pain, for violation, for the moment when pleasure would curdle into something darker.

But when Gemini's fangs sank into the soft skin where his neck met his shoulder, there was no pain.

There was only light.

It exploded behind Fourth's eyes—golden and warm and impossibly bright—and with it came a flood of sensation that wasn't his own. Gemini's emotions, raw and overwhelming, poured into him through the bond. Love. Terror. Hope. Desperation. Awe. And beneath it all, a deep, abiding tenderness that took Fourth's breath away.

Mine, the bite seemed to say. Mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Mine to love for all my days.

Fourth's body arched, a cry escaping his lips that was part pleasure, part wonder, part something he couldn't name. His own magic rose to meet the claim, wrapping around the bond and making it permanent, making it theirs.

When it was over, they lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless and trembling. Gemini's arms were wrapped around him, holding him as if he were something precious, something fragile, something worth protecting.

"I'm sorry," Gemini whispered against his skin. "I should have asked. I should have—"

"Don't." Fourth's voice was hoarse. "Don't apologize. I wanted it. I wanted you."

Gemini's arms tightened. His breath was warm against Fourth's neck, right where the mark was already beginning to heal. "You're mine now. Bonded. I won't let anyone hurt you. I won't let anything take you from me."

Fourth closed his eyes and let himself believe it.

---

It wasn't like with his mother.

That thought echoed in Fourth's mind as he lay in Gemini's arms, watching the shadows of late afternoon creep across the ceiling. His mother's bonding had been theft—a bite forced upon her in a moment of weakness, a claim that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with ownership. She had worn her mark like a shackle, a constant reminder of the life stolen from her.

Fourth's mark was different.

It tingled with warmth, with the constant awareness of Gemini's presence at the edge of his consciousness. He could feel the alpha's emotions through the bond—contentment now, and exhaustion, and a deep, satisfied peace. He could sense when Gemini's breathing changed, when his heart rate shifted, when he drifted closer to sleep. It was like having a second heartbeat, a second soul, intertwined with his own.

He hadn't known it could be like this.

He hadn't known bonding could feel like coming home.

Gemini is safe, he thought, and the realization was both terrifying and wonderful. He's safe. He's mine. I'm his. It wasn't taken. I gave it. I chose this.

But even as the thought formed, another followed close behind.

What have I done?

---

Fear was something Fourth couldn't get rid of.

It lived in his bones, in his blood, in the deepest parts of him that still remembered his mother's broken body and his father's accusing eyes. It whispered to him in the quiet moments, reminding him of everything he had to lose, everything that could go wrong, everything that made his current happiness a fragile thing that could shatter at any moment.

On the fourth day, when Gemini finally slept deeply enough that the bond showed only peaceful dreams, Fourth slipped out of bed.

His body ached in ways both familiar and new, but he ignored the discomfort. He moved quietly through the chambers, gathering his belongings—his pack, his clothes, the brush his mother had given him, the small pouch of herbs he always carried. His fingers trembled as he worked, but his mind was clear.

He needed to leave.

People would find out. They would discover what he was—a witch, a savage, a creature of the forest who didn't belong in their gilded world. They would call him monster, sorcerer, abomination. They would demand that Gemini renounce him, or worse, they would use him as leverage against the crown.

And Gemini—kind, gentle, impossible Gemini—would try to protect him. Would sacrifice everything for him. Would throw away his kingdom, his future, his very life, for a bond that Fourth had no right to claim.

"I can't let that happen."

The thought was cold, practical, born of years of surviving in a world that wanted him dead. He had been a fool to hope. He had been a fool to stay. The forest was his home. The animals were his family. He didn't belong here, in this palace of stone and gold, among people who would never understand him.

He dressed quickly, pulling on the simple clothes he had arrived in rather than the fine garments Phuwin had provided. He left the borrowed robes folded neatly on a chair, a silent apology to the prince who had been so kind. He slung his pack over his shoulder and moved to the door.

The guards outside Gemini's chambers were asleep—not naturally, but with a little help from a sleeping herb Fourth had sprinkled near their post. He slipped past them and into the corridor beyond.

The palace was quiet at this hour, the servants abed, the nobles gone to their own chambers. Fourth moved like a shadow through the halls, his bare feet making no sound on the cold stone. He had explored enough during his brief waking hours to know the way to the royal gardens, and from there, to the outer walls.

The gardens were beautiful even in darkness—moonlight silver on fountains, shadows pooling beneath ancient trees, the scent of night-blooming flowers heavy in the air. Fourth barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the wall ahead, on the freedom it represented, on the forest that waited somewhere beyond.

He was halfway across the garden when a voice stopped him cold.

"You're running away."

Fourth's heart seized. He turned, and there, emerging from the shadow of a great oak, was Gemini.

The alpha was dressed in only loose trousers, his chest bare, his feet also bare on the dew-damp grass. His dark hair was disheveled, his eyes bright with something that looked like pain. He must have followed Fourth from the chambers, must have sensed through the bond that something was wrong.

Fourth's foot caught on a root. He stumbled, nearly fell, but Gemini was there in an instant, strong arms catching him, steadying him. For one breathless moment, they were pressed together, and Fourth could feel the alpha's heart pounding against his own.

Then he scrambled away, putting distance between them, his back hitting the cold stone of the wall.

"Please forgive me, Your Grace." The words came out automatic, formal, a shield against the hurt in Gemini's eyes.

Gemini flinched as if struck. "Your Grace?" He took a step forward, then stopped, as if afraid of spooking Fourth further. "Look at me, Fourth."

Fourth couldn't.

He stared at the ground, at the dew-wet grass, at his own bare feet that had carried him through so much. He could feel Gemini's gaze on him, could feel the bond pulsing with the alpha's emotions—confusion, hurt, and beneath it all, a desperate, aching love.

"Can't even look me in the face," Gemini said softly. There was no anger in his voice, only pain. "You kissed me. You spent my rut with me. We bonded, Fourth. How can you stand there and call me 'Your Grace' like I'm a stranger?"

"It was my mistake." Fourth's voice was barely a whisper. "I should never have—I shouldn't have stayed. I stole your fate, Gemini. You were meant for someone better. Someone worthy of a crown prince. Not—not me."

Gemini shook his head slowly. "No. I stole your fate." He took another step forward, close enough now that Fourth could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. "You were free. Living in your forest, singing to your animals, at peace. And I—I pulled you into this. I triggered the bond. I marked you. I made you mine without ever asking if that's what you wanted."

"Gemini—"

"I know you don't feel the same." Gemini's voice cracked. "I know this bond—it's not fair to you. You're forced to love a man you don't even know, trapped in a palace you hate, surrounded by people who would fear you if they knew what you were." He swallowed hard. "But I burn for you, Fourth. I burn for you."

Fourth's breath caught. "You burn for me."

"I burn for you." Gemini's eyes were fierce now, blazing with intensity. "I burn for you every moment of every day. When I'm awake, you're all I think about. When I sleep, you're all I dream about. When you're near, I can barely breathe. When you're far, I feel like I'm dying."

"You don't even know me."

"I burn for you."

"I'm a savage." Fourth's voice was shaking. "The one who runs barefoot, cursing sharp stones. The one who won't cut his hair or lower his voice. The one who sings heathen songs to the moon and talks to foxes like they're people."

"I burn for you."

"I'm a witch." The words came faster now, tumbling over each other. "I killed my father. I killed those bandits. I've killed before and I'll kill again if I have to. I'm a monster, Gemini. A monster who doesn't belong in your perfect world."

"I burn for you." Gemini reached out, cupping Fourth's face in his hands with infinite gentleness. "I burn for you. Not for some ideal version of you. Not for who you could be if you changed. For you. Exactly as you are. Savage. Witch. Monster. All of it. Every part of you that you think makes you unworthy—I burn for those parts most of all."

Fourth's eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

"You ease my mornings," Gemini whispered. "You quiet my evenings. I don't know you—not yet, not fully—but since the moment I saw you, I've been thinking of you. Dreaming of you. It's you I cannot sacrifice. Not for the kingdom. Not for anything."

"Sacrifice?" Fourth's voice was small.

Gemini's thumb traced the curve of his cheekbone. "If you must leave. If you truly can't stay here, in this palace, in this world—then take me with you."

Fourth stared at him. "Gemini, you can't. You're the crown prince. The kingdom needs a ruler. Your people need you. You can't just—"

"It's you I cannot sacrifice." Gemini's voice was steady, absolute. "Look me in my eyes."

Fourth did.

He looked into those dark eyes, and what he saw there made his heart stutter. Love, yes. Desperation, yes. But also strength. Certainty. The absolute conviction of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and would let nothing stand in his way.

"I burn for you," Gemini said.

Fourth's walls crumbled.

"I burn for you too," he whispered, and the words felt like coming home. "I burn for you, Gemini. That's the terrifying part. I didn't want to. I tried not to. But I do. I burn for you."

"Say my name." Gemini's voice was rough with emotion.

"Gemini."

"Say I'm yours."

Not you're mine. Not a claim, not an ownership. A gift. An offering. Gemini wasn't asking Fourth to belong to him. He was offering himself, completely and unconditionally, into Fourth's keeping.

Fourth's tears spilled over.

"You're mine." His voice broke on the words. "You're mine, Gemini. All of you. Every part. I don't deserve it, but you're mine."

Gemini pulled him close, wrapping him in arms that trembled with the force of his emotion. "Promise me," he murmured into Fourth's hair. "Promise me we'll never be oceans apart. Promise me you'll never run from me again."

"I promise." Fourth's arms came up, wrapping around Gemini in return. "I promise, Gemini. No more running. No more oceans."

They stood like that for a long moment, holding each other in the moonlit garden, two souls finally accepting the bond that had tied them together from the beginning.

Then Gemini pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were wet, but he was smiling—a real smile, warm and wondering and full of light.

"I burn for you, Fourth." He said it like a vow, like a prayer, like the most important words in the world.

"You burn for me." Fourth smiled through his tears. "I know. I can feel it. Through the bond. You burn so bright, Gemini. It's like having the sun inside my chest."

"And you." Gemini's hand came up to touch the mark on Fourth's neck, gentle as a whisper. "You burn even brighter. Like stars. Like moonlight. Like everything beautiful and wild and free."

"I am yours, Fourth." Gemini's voice was steady, certain, absolute. "I've always been yours, even before I knew it. I was yours from the moment the fates first thought of you. I was yours before we met, before we spoke, before anything. I was always yours."

Fourth reached up and touched Gemini's face in return, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips.

"I am yours," he echoed. "I am yours, Gemini. And I'm done running."

The moon shone down on them, silver and patient and eternal. Somewhere in the garden, a nightingale began to sing. And two souls, finally united, finally accepting, finally home, kissed beneath the stars.

It was not a perfect beginning. There would be challenges ahead, dangers and doubts and enemies who would try to tear them apart. The kingdom would not accept a witch as its prince's consort easily. Fourth's past would not stay buried forever. The world was dark and cruel and full of people who would see their bond as a threat.

But for this moment—this single, perfect moment—none of that mattered.

What mattered was Gemini's arms around him, warm and strong and safe.

What mattered was the bond singing in his chest, golden and bright and right.

What mattered was that for the first time in his life, Fourth was exactly where he belonged.

"I love you," Gemini whispered against his lips. "I know it's too soon. I know we barely know each other. But I love you, Fourth. I've loved you since the moment I saw you in that clearing, glowing like a god, ready to destroy anyone who threatened your charge. I loved you then, and I'll love you until the stars burn out."

Fourth's heart swelled until he thought it might burst.

"I love you too," he whispered back. "I didn't want to. I tried so hard not to. But I love you, Gemini. I love you."

They held each other as the night deepened around them, as the moon climbed higher, as the stars wheeled slowly toward dawn. And when the first light began to creep over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, they were still there, still holding on, still home.

Somewhere in the palace, Phuwin woke with a smile, feeling through whatever mysterious connection siblings shared that everything had somehow, impossibly, worked out.

Somewhere in the forest, Foxy twitched in his sleep, dreaming of a master who would return—but not yet, not alone, and not unchanged.

And in the royal gardens, as the sun rose on a new day, two bonded mates began the long, difficult, beautiful work of building a future together.

It would not be easy.

But then, nothing worth having ever was.