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The Guad's Claim

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The Crack in the Mask

Prophecy whispers:

“When the blood of a crowned Alpha stirs without bond,

and the moon bleeds red without cause,

the Enigma shall awaken the womb of the unyielding.

And kingdoms shall kneel before the child born of no order.”

— Fragment from the Forbidden Prophecies.

The air was sharp with morning steel. Caelum stood in the center of the sparring ring, his shirt stripped away, skin glistening under the pale sun. The palace guards lined the edge in silence—none dared step into the circle. Not when their king was already bleeding.

Not from defeat, but restraint.

He swung again. The sword in his hand cracked against Aric’s blade, a shower of sparks exploding between them. Aric didn’t even flinch. The Enigma’s expression was maddeningly neutral, almost bored.

“I see you’re trying to kill me this morning,” Aric said, dodging the next blow with feline grace.

“I’m trying to spar,” Caelum snapped, though his breath was already shallow. “Maybe if you acted like a guard and less like a damned shadow—”

“I thought you preferred me in the shadows, my king.” A smirk tugged at Aric’s lips. “Less inconvenient.”

Caelum stopped mid-motion. His jaw clenched. That smirk did things to him—confusing things.

“You’re provoking me.”

“I don’t have to. You’re already off balance.” Aric stepped closer. “You’ve been twitching all morning. Overheated. You sure you’re not coming down with something?”

Caelum’s hand tightened on the hilt. His scent had been fluctuating all morning—stronger than usual. More primal. The guards noticed. Even the Beta ones had started shifting nervously near him.

He didn’t have time for a rut. And this didn’t feel like one anyway.

Ruts were savage. Angry. This? This was heat, tension, pressure—coiling low in his stomach, dragging his focus to—

No.

It was him. Aric. The scentless, bondless anomaly at his side. Ever since they’d met, something had been wrong in Caelum’s instincts.

He couldn’t read him. Couldn’t track him. Couldn’t ignore him.

And now, he couldn’t stop wanting.

“You’re unusually cocky today,” Caelum muttered, sheathing his sword with more force than necessary. “Maybe I should have you reassigned. You seem eager to test your luck.”

Aric raised an eyebrow. “You’d miss me within the hour.”

The king turned sharply. “You think I need your company that badly?”

“No,” Aric said, stepping into his space—far too close. “But your scent says otherwise.”

Caelum froze. For one sharp, raw second, his body responded with betrayal—a spike of heat under his skin, a dangerous flare in his scent glands.

He pushed past him. “I have council matters.”

Aric didn’t follow, but his voice carried behind him:

“If it gets worse, you should tell the priestess. Or me. Wouldn’t want the throne room to flood.”

Caelum stopped walking.

He didn’t turn around.

He just muttered, “Arrogant bastard,” and stalked off, unaware of the subtle tremor in his fingers—or the way the world tilted slightly around him with every step.

The council meeting was a blur.

Words passed around Caelum like water through a broken dam—territorial disputes, border skirmishes, economic shifts. None of it held.

He was burning.

Not from anger or exertion. But something deep, biological. His inner instincts, so long trained and sharpened, were unraveling. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t think. His skin itched under his robes. His breath came shallow and rapid. And worse—every time he closed his eyes, he saw Aric.

His mouth. His voice. His infuriating smirk.

What the hell was happening to him?

“Your Majesty?”

Caelum blinked.

All eyes were on him.

“…We were awaiting your judgment on the tribute terms,” said Lord Taeron. “You seemed… distracted.”

“I’m done here,” Caelum said sharply, standing too fast. The world tilted again. “Council is dismissed.”

His personal guards hesitated, unsure whether to follow, but he didn’t wait. He stormed out of the throne hall and took the side passage—the one that led to the Temple Wing.

⸻

The inner sanctum of the High Temple was dark and cool, the air thick with incense and centuries of whispered secrets. Oracle Lys stood beneath a dome of violet glass, her eyes closed, her hands dipped into a basin of moon water.

“I need a truth,” Caelum said.

Lys didn’t flinch. “And what truth burns your mouth, my king?”

He stepped closer, pacing. “I’ve been… off. I feel strange. Wrong.”

“Strange how?”

“I’m not in rut,” he snapped. “And yet—my body thinks I am. My scent glands are out of control. My heat cycles are shifting. I—”

He stopped, breathing hard.

Lys tilted her head. “And what triggered this?”

He hesitated.

Lys opened her eyes slowly. They were almost silver.

“You can lie to your guards, Caelum. Not to me.”

Caelum exhaled. “Aric.”

“Ah,” Lys said, like she had expected that answer. “The one who walks without a name. No scent. No ties. The guard who should not be.”

“You knew.”

“I guessed,” she said. “Only an Enigma can stir a crowned Alpha into chaos.”

His heart thundered. “That’s not possible. Enigmas don’t exist.”

“They shouldn’t,” Lys whispered. “And yet… here you are. And your body knows what your mind denies.”

Caelum stared at her. “What’s happening to me?”

“You are not simply entering rut, Caelum,” Lys said. “You are being re-written. Something ancient is waking in your blood. Something that does not obey our laws.”

“Am I dying?”

“No,” she said with quiet certainty. “You are becoming.”

He turned away. “Then stop it. Give me a draught. Kill the heat.”

“I could suppress it for a day. But it would return. Stronger. Wilder. Wanting.”

“Then what do I do?”

Lys touched the water basin again, and a shimmer spread across its surface. “Stay close to the Enigma. Watch him. Or better yet…” She smiled faintly.

“Let him watch you.”

⸻

Caelum left the temple without a word. The halls felt smaller now. Hotter. His pulse wouldn’t calm. His instincts screamed.

By the time he reached his chamber, the scent on his own skin made him recoil.

And in the far corner of the room, lounging against the open window like he owned the kingdom, was Aric.

The guard looked up lazily. “You missed lunch, Your Majesty. I brought fruit.”