George of Wrohan arrived seven minutes late.

Arik found that useful.

A man who arrived late to a private meeting with Agaron’s crown prince was either brave, stupid, or so accustomed to people pretending his discourtesy was strategy that he had begun believing the fiction himself.

George was the third kind.

Possibly the second as well.

The king entered the private reception room with the polished confidence of a man who had never been forced to earn the space he occupied. He was handsome in an uninteresting way, brown hair touched with silver at the temples, green eyes bright with the shallow alertness of someone who mistook appetite for intelligence. His suits and accessories were restrained by Wrohanese standards, which meant only three layers too expensive for good taste and a lot of embroidery and blocky gold jewelry.

Arik stood near the window.

Mezos remained at his left, silent, watchful, and already offended on principle. His face was neutral for a stranger and scoffing in three dead languages for those who knew him.

"Your Highness," George said, bowing. "I was pleased to hear you wished for a private audience."

"Your Majesty," Arik replied mildly.

He did not invite George to sit at once.

The delay was small, and George’s smile held, but his fingers shifted once around the head of his cane.

Arik let the silence stretch until the room became aware of it.

Then he gestured toward the chairs. "Please."

George sat.

Arik waited another breath before taking the opposite seat.

Mezos remained standing.

George noticed and misread it, of course. Men like George always believed standing guards meant the men hired for security were beneath him and not a risk walking around.

"I understand," George began, "that Agaron has taken an interest in Wrohan’s dominant omega houses."

"Have we?"

George brightened, mistaking the question for an invitation. "Naturally. Wrohan anticipated the possibility. We have several refined candidates from old bloodlines. Educated. Properly raised. Blonde, of course, if Your Highness prefers continuity with the arrangements already existing in Agaron."

Mezos did not move.

Arik only turned the rim of his untouched cup with one finger. "I couldn’t resist satisfying my curiosity after your introduction from the last gala."

"Ah, yes. Those three are the best Wrohan can offer."

"Are they?" Arik asked.

George’s smile widened, the expression of a man who believed he had found a door already open. "Old blood. Excellent manners. No scandal of consequence. All properly managed by their families. A dominant omega is a delicate political instrument, Your Highness. One does not simply send forward anyone with the correct classification."

"No," Arik said mildly. "One chooses carefully."

"Exactly."

Mezos’s face remained smooth, but Arik could feel the offense gathering beside him like a second climate system.

George leaned back, comfortable now. "Agaron’s court is old, powerful and with an impressive image to the civilians. It would require someone who understands restraint. Someone who can be seen beside you without creating unnecessary complications."

"How considerate."

"We try."

Arik almost laughed.

Instead, he lifted his cup, considered the tea, and set it down untouched. "And you personally approve of those three?"

"Entirely."

"Useful families?"

"Very."

"Manageable?"

George’s eyes sharpened with approval, as if Arik had finally used a language he respected. "Quite."

"That is important."

"In matters of court stability? Essential."

Arik let that settle, then shifted his gaze toward the window as if the next question had only just occurred to him. "There was another name I expected to see in the dominant omega registry."

George’s smile did not fall, but his eyes became more wary.

"A name?"

"Liam Canmore."

The change was almost beautiful. The warmth of his expression thinned at once, leaving behind something flatter, older, and much uglier than caution.

"Liam," George said.

"Felix’s grandson, if I understood the records correctly. One of the finest ones, if we take the bloodline into consideration."

"Felix’s grandson, if I understood the records correctly. One of the finest ones, if we take the bloodline into consideration."

Mezos’s gaze dropped at once to the untouched tea.

A tactical retreat.

Not because he feared George, but because his face had begun doing dangerous things.

George, unfortunately, did not notice.

"Yes," the king said slowly. "Well. In blood, perhaps. But blood is not everything."

"No?" Arik asked, with the mild curiosity of a man inviting an idiot to continue walking across thin ice.

"Certainly not. Breeding must be accompanied by discipline. Presentation. Social use."

"Ah. Of course." Arik leaned back slightly. "A dominant omega is best when properly shelved. My father, Empress Gabriel, is a prime example of that."

Mezos’s soul left his body.

George, who had clearly never met Gabriel Lyon and had absorbed his entire understanding of the Empress of Agaron from portraits, official ceremony footage, and several dangerously flattering diplomatic reels, nodded with revolting confidence.

"Exactly," George said, pleased to have found common ground with a prince who was currently feeding him rope. "Empress Gabriel is an excellent example. Beautiful. Elegant. Perfectly presented. A stabilizing presence beside Emperor Damian."

Mezos lowered his gaze to the tea service.

The tea service, through no fault of its own, became the funniest object in the room.

Arik’s expression remained mild. "Stabilizing."

"Yes. The empire projects a very refined image through him."

"It does."

"An omega of that stature understands restraint, dignity, and symbolism. He does not run around attaching himself to machinery and municipal complaints."

Mezos’s hand moved to his mouth as politely as possible given the situation.

Arik glanced at him. "Chief Mezos?"

Mezos’s voice came out dangerously even. "Your Highness."

"Are you unwell?"

"No, Your Highness. I am experiencing Wrohanese diplomacy."

"A difficult condition."

"Terminal, in some cases."

George smiled, utterly missing it. "Our diplomacy has always valued tradition."

"I can see that," Arik said.

His tone was so pleasant that Mezos had to look at the curtains, laughter blooming into his chest with every damn word from Arik.

George continued, reassured by his own stupidity. "That is why Liam is unsuitable. He has none of that softness. None of that decorative restraint. He is all sharp edges and machinery. If one placed him beside a prince, he would argue with the lighting before the first toast."

Arik’s mouth curved. "Would he?"

"Immediately."

"How unfortunate."

"Deeply," George said. "He lacks the serenity one expects from an omega of rank."

Mezos made a sound.

It might have been a cough.

It was not a cough.

Arik looked at him again. "Water?"

"No, Your Highness."

"Tea?"

"I fear I might choke."

George’s face softened with false concern. "The blend may be too strong."

Mezos shut his eyes for half a second.

Arik said, "Yes. That must be it."

George turned back to him, still convinced he was succeeding. "Your father, by contrast, is clearly aware of his role. One sees it in every formal recording. The posture. The restraint. The way he stands beside Emperor Damian without attempting to dominate the room."

Mezos’s shoulders trembled once.

Arik’s eyes brightened.

"Remarkable," he said softly. "That is what you saw?"

George looked proud. "Naturally. Image is statecraft."

"It is."

"And Empress Gabriel understands image. Liam does not. Liam treats every room as if it were a workshop in need of correction."

"What a strange habit," Arik murmured. "Correcting broken systems."

George waved a hand. "Exactly. It is tiresome in a domestic setting."

"I imagine so."

"An omega must know when to be seen and when to be silent."

Mezos turned fully toward the window.

It was that or laugh directly in the king’s face.

Arik, meanwhile, looked delighted in the most understated, lethal way possible.

"You believe Empress Gabriel is silent."