Prince Aerion knew how to break a man's wrist in under five seconds.
It wasn't a brag, or even a threat—just something he knew the way other people knew how to tie a tie. He'd learned it between bruised ribs and bloodied knuckles, on cold dojo floors where the only thing colder had been the stares of his instructors. Being an Omega was supposed to make him soft. Submissive. Safe. But growing up behind palace walls where whispers replaced affection, and expectations replaced love, had taught him early: no one was going to protect him. So he learned to protect himself.
But today, he wasn't breaking bones. He was breaking spreadsheets.
Fluorescent lights buzzed quietly above him in the east wing's forgotten office—far from the crystal chandeliers and curated grandeur of the public palace. Here, among the hum of his triple monitors, half-drunk coffee, and a growing pile of economic forecasts, Aerion could almost breathe.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, eyes scanning data from an upcoming trade summit. He traced shifting currencies like battlefronts. Patterns meant power. Power meant independence. Independence meant maybe—maybe—he wouldn't always be just a footnote in someone else's legacy.
His official role in the summit? None. Maybe a photo op if the royal PR team needed to humanize the monarchy. He'd be cleaned up, wheeled out, and pointed toward a camera. Smile. Wave. Fade.
A sharp knock jolted him mid-thought.
Aerion blinked. No one knocked here. No one even knew he worked here—by design. For a second, he stayed still, instinct kicking in. He slid open the desk drawer and let his fingers brush the smooth handle of his weighted training knife. A comfort more than a weapon.
"Come in," he said, voice calm, though a ripple of unease curled in his stomach.
The door opened. Not a servant. Not a guard.
Advisor Min-jun.
His perfectly pressed suit was off by a button, and a sheen of sweat clung to his temples. Aerion tilted his head. Min-jun rarely looked anything other than polished, smug, and vaguely disappointed in Aerion's existence. Today, he looked... shaken.
"Prince Aerion," Min-jun said, carefully, like the title tasted foreign on his tongue.
That alone made Aerion sit up straighter.
"To what do I owe the honor?" he asked dryly. "Did someone finally figure out I exist?"
Min-jun didn't bite. "The King requests your immediate presence."
Aerion's brows lifted. "The King?" A beat. "Are you sure he didn't mistake me for one of those decorative peacocks? I hear we both serve about the same function."
The advisor's jaw twitched. "This isn't a joke. It's... urgent. And confidential."
Urgent. Confidential.
Aerion's amusement drained. Min-jun wasn't panicked easily. And he never used that voice unless something had gone seriously wrong.
He pushed his chair back and stood slowly. He wasn't tall by Alpha standards, but lean muscle and quiet control gave him an edge most people didn't see coming. Min-jun took a small step back anyway.
Aerion ran a hand through his tousled black hair, sighed, and muttered, "I have a call with New York in an hour."
"Cancel it," Min-jun said tightly. "This takes precedence."
That did it. Aerion's spine stiffened.
No one in the palace ever needed him. Not really. And now they did?
Something was wrong.
He grabbed his phone, locked his computer, and followed the advisor into the corridor—his sanctuary fading behind him with every step. The halls were silent, cold. All carved marble and shallow echoes. The same halls that raised him, ignored him, and quietly hoped he'd stay tucked away forever.
As they turned a corner, Aerion glanced sideways. "You're sweating."
Min-jun didn't answer.
And that's when Aerion knew: this wasn't just another PR stunt, or a forced dinner with a minor noble's Beta heir.
Whatever waited for him behind those royal doors—it wasn't ordinary.
It might not even be survivable.
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What this version adds:
Emotional realism: Instead of just toughness, we see why Aerion is tough—what it cost him.
Dry, guarded humor: Aerion's sarcasm now feels like a defense mechanism.
Power imbalance: Subtle cues that despite his power, he's always been dismissed, until now.
Mystery and tension: The final lines hint at a serious shift—one that's personal.