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“ D ariux? Brother? ”

Moargan felt Cyprian tense up at those words. Brushing a hand through his raven strands, he knew his possession’s mind was racing. He could feel it in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Moargan inhaled deeply, unable to resist.

“You’re not my brother.” Cyprian eyed Aviel suspiciously, snorting when the other guy pouted his lips into a kiss. “Or is he?” The question came out as a hush, a private whisper, and Cyprian shook his head, yellow eyes wide with surprise and confusion. He discarded Moargan’s hand and stumbled to the door.

Vandor stepped in front of him, blocking his way out. “Please,” Cyprian’s voice had turned to a soft plea. “Just let me go.”

“Cyprian,” his father boomed. He still stood by the fire next to Zimeon. “I know this might be overwhelming but come and sit down. We haven’t finished our meeting yet.” He gestured to the couch. “Let me explain a few things. Dariux are people who received artificially designed injections to enhance special abilities.”

Cyprian slowly sank back onto the seat next to Moargan.

“It started as clinical experiments from social beliefs,” Milanov continued. “Helions see their leaders as immortals, as favorites of our beloved nature. Wise in spirit and generous in life. We have countless tales of the Imperials, of how they can fly, shoot fire from their eyes, create visions in their mind, create ice with the tips of their fingers, and much more. When we die, we are buried under the trees we were gifted by birth. It is believed that we dedicate our afterlife to breathing through those trees. That way, we continue looking after our people and provide them with enough air and energy to prosper.”

Moargan’s father paced in front of the fireplace. “We have lived like this for centuries. But when my great-great-grandparents came to reign, they wanted to give the people something in return. Something far more real than tales. It started with experiments. They wanted to create those heroes the people dreamt of, and so they started testing with artificial supplements.”

“On people?” Cyprian asked.

Milanov hesitated. “...Yes. Eventually.” The Imperial blinked. “You must have noticed how we can sense your heartbeat. How we revel in fear.”

Cyprian blushed at the words, and Moargan smirked as they visibly shared the same memory. “What else can you do?”

“We have night vision that allows us to see in the dark. We can cool our fingers to soothe wounds. Over generations, the Imperial family became the perfect type of predator to keep the balance between right and wrong, artificially insinuated. We became the typical hero figure, the way Helions dreamt of them. And although they were left in the dark as to how we had obtained those skills, they loved them. Loved us . You see, Helions need to admire and to fear, they need to be kept in line. We feed their respect but keep the true existence of the Dariux hidden.” Milanov gestured to Aviel.

“We became better and better in our experiments.” His eyes flashed. “After the success of the first generation of Dariux, my parents wanted more. More power, more abilities. The crazier, the better. Because of the political climate back then, they even wanted more elite. So, they started actively looking for newborns.” He gave Cyprian a sad smile. “You wouldn’t want to know how many people were ready to give up their baby for a good sum of money.”

Cyprian’s lips parted in shock. The horror of the truth only trickled slowly to his awareness, but every drop felt like acid. He turned to Aviel, who stood tall, black curls a lush mop on his handsome face, those golden eyes already on Cyprian. “You were adopted?” Cyprian stammered.

“He was,” Milanov replied instead. “You are. They all were.”

Cyprian’s tongue felt dry inside his mouth, and he swallowed thickly. “How many?”

“There were over fifty babies.” Milanov paused and turned to his right hand.

“There was an incident,” Zimeon revealed. “Something went wrong with the injections. In one night, we lost over half of the newborns. It was awful.”

The room fell silent.

Moargan felt his Royal Consort’s heart thud.

“What happened to the other babies?” Cyprian finally asked. “Those who survived?”

“They were sent off-planet,” Aviel said and smirked sadly. “And the great leaders sat back on their lazy chairs as they waited for us to come back.”

Cyprian narrowed his gaze, visibly trying his best to ignore the way the other guy was trying to provoke him. For anything remotely annoying, Aviel was your man. “What do you mean, for us to come back? ”

Aviel’s smirk widened, but he didn’t reply. Cyprian looked around for anyone who would answer him.

Milanov held up a hand. “No more explanations for now. I see the pain in your eyes and didn’t want to leave you empty-handed, but I can’t say more. We will all need to trust the process. But I can tell you this—I can feel it. I have trust. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t give you my son and Imperial Prince of our beautiful planet. Now, I don’t have to tell you that this entire project is classified, so keep it within the family.”

“I understand.” Cyprian looked completely lost. “And are there…do you know where my biological parents live?” He accepted the glass Moargan handed him. He took a drink, then another one, until he had polished it entirely.

The question was once more left unanswered, this time interrupted by a short knock on the door. Two guards came walking in, carrying palm imprinting equipment.

Moargan’s heart sped up, blood pumping south. He’d seen the device many times before, the proof of their superiority showcased in his father’s office. Never had he imagined he’d get to use it one day.

Milanov stood up. “I’m grateful for this moment. I’m grateful for you Cyprian. Now, let’s get to the better part of tonight’s meeting.” Helianth followed him, taking over the tools before his father approached him and Cyprian.

“I never thought I’d see this day,” his younger brother grinned. “Moargan the bad boy.” He looked at Cyprian and his smile widened. “Good luck living with this one.” He held out the material in front of their hands.

“The claiming,” Milanov murmured. “Though we will have an official ceremony later, tonight will be a formality for our family. Good luck, Cyprian.”

“A ceremony?” Cyprian’s voice trembled, and Moargan inhaled the invisible scent of fear.

“This won’t hurt. I’m going to tie our wrists. Put up your palm like this.” Moargan pressed them together, using the lace to wrap their joints together. “That’s it. Now, just hold it right there.”

Cyprian gawked as the lace started to curl around their wrists on its own accord. “What the—” He tried to yank his hand back when the material kept on rolling over their wrists, tighter and tighter.

Moargan clicked his tongue. “Don’t move your hand. Your palm needs to be engraved, aeon . With mine.”

“I—I don’t want that,” Cyprian stammered, but he kept his palm tight against his.

“Yes, you do. Ready?” Their hands started warming.

“No.” Cyprian’s yellow gaze burned in him unsteadily.

“It will be over soon. I’ve given you something to soothe the pain.”

“You d-drugged me? Again?”

Someone snickered.

Moargan sighed. “You still haven’t learned much of Helion customs, have you, lover? We use a little opium for every happy moment of the day.” The machine made a buzzing sound and Moargan watched as Cyprian’s gaze became glassy.

His family was celebrating. Someone handed him a glass of wine, and Moargen drank the entire glass, eyes fixed on Cyprian, before slamming it to the wall, where it broke into a thousand pieces. He smiled wickedly. “You alright there, little aeon ?”

“Y-yes.” Cyprian’s long, dark lashes fluttered and his lips parted, mouth going slack.

“We’re nearly there.” A few minutes later, the material started to cool down.

“Done.” Helianth carefully removed the machine and the lace that was strung around their wrists. “Cyprian may feel a little wobbly. You might want to carry him to the car.”

He had no problem with that. Grabbing hold of Cyprian’s leather-clad ass, he lifted him, their chests flush together. “Alright, people. Enjoy the party without us. We will continue our own private version back home.”

Cyprian blinked absentmindedly but didn’t speak, mind foggy from the opium.

“Come on, lover. We’re going home.”

Barely half an hour later, Moargan dragged a sleeping Cyprian back to their bedroom. He laid him down on his back, removing his clothes piece by piece. His little aeon really looked nice in leather. He’d make him wear a similar outfit for when they head out to the arena for Helianth’s Aureate.

Tomorrow his Royal Consort’s skin wouldn’t feel so raw anymore. Rest was the best thing to do for now, and he gingerly pulled the satin sheets over his sleeping frame.

His Cyprian.

Because his mysterious Dariux belonged to him, and to him only.

Brushing Cyprian’s raven hair to the side, Moargan dropped a fingertip on the pale skin of his forehead, admiring the black eyebrows and thick, curvy lashes. They fluttered vividly. Cyprian must be having a dream.

“You’d better dream of me, beautiful,” Moargan whispered against Cyprian’s smooth temple. “And of all the bad things I’ll do to you tomorrow.”

Because tomorrow was Helianth’s Aureate.