Chapter Text

1.

Reinhard always needed control.

Whether as Reinhard von Lohengramm, the supreme leader of the Empire, or Reinhard von Müsel, the ambitious youth fresh out of military school, Reinhard always sought—no, demanded—absolute control. To his enemies, the strategies of the "golden brat" seemed unpredictable, bizarre, and surprising. But only Reinhard himself knew that every move had been meticulously calculated. Every fleet, soldier, general—and even his enemies—were but chess pieces on the galactic battlefield Reinhard had been shaping since his youth.

And the object of his control included himself.

Even after becoming emperor, Reinhard maintained a strict, almost ascetic lifestyle. He despised the idea of becoming a degenerate tyrant like the emperors before him. There was no room for carelessness, even in moments of rest. Yes, Reinhard always needed control—because he was an omega.

If Reinhard's omega identity were exposed, everything would collapse. He would be shackled by prejudice and discrimination, and his ambitions would be buried instantly. To protect this secret, Reinhard rigorously controlled himself. He took inhibitors regularly on a strict schedule, carefully planning his campaigns to avoid any compromising situations. Truthfully, Reinhard did not feel much frustration about being an omega—he was far too busy to dwell on it. It was merely another variable to manage, another factor to calculate in his military strategies and his path to galactic conquest.

As with everything in Reinhard's brilliant career, things went smoothly during his ascent. Until the day he lost Kircheis…

From that fateful day, everything changed. Reinhard pressed on to fulfill a dream that increasingly felt meaningless. Aware that this pain was a weakness, he doubled down on controlling himself. Only occasionally, in moments of solitude, did he allow himself to feel the grief—before locking it away again.

But no matter how deeply he buried it, the pain never truly vanished.

On the day Kircheis died, the stars in the sky of Reinhard’s heart all fell, their light extinguished. Alone in the dark, he tried in vain to gather what had been lost.

***

The cracks began to show on a seemingly ordinary evening.

Hilda had taken a few days off to deal with a family matter—her father had a minor accident. That evening, only Reinhard and Oberstein were in the office. The Minister of Military Affairs had come late to discuss urgent matters. The night was quiet; all sounds had faded. Oberstein stood before a glowing screen, his face cold and expressionless, his voice as dry and mechanical as ever: “The reinforcements are ready to deploy. However, the supply line remains unsecured. I propose…”

Reinhard listened, trying to concentrate, but his breathing was hotter and faster than usual. A searing heat clawed inside him. Gripping the armrest of his chair tightly, he stared at the screen, willing his mind to cut through the fog clouding his thoughts. Oberstein continued his report, his monotone voice unchanging. But Reinhard could no longer hear him clearly.

As the heat intensified, Reinhard realized something was wrong. Something was slipping beyond his control. Along with the fever came a chill that crawled down his spine. Sweat beaded on his forehead and began to trickle down his flushed face…

Reinhard had experienced heat cycles before, when his inhibitor supply ran low. Now he recognized the sensation and remembered—he had been so busy he’d forgotten his medication.

His heat cycle had begun. And once an omega's heat started, inhibitors were useless.

His heart pounded like an alarm. How absurd—why now? He thought bitterly as his fevered mind grew hazy. His control had to be absolute, but now… He raised a trembling hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, intending to dismiss Oberstein. But then he realized the minister had already stopped speaking.

Oberstein was staring at him. His artificial eye narrowed, then sharpened like a blade. He had noticed something was wrong.

Reinhard's shoulders tensed. Though he tried to sit upright with dignity, he couldn’t stop the sweat streaming down his face. Beneath the façade, panic was rising. To be seen through by anyone was unacceptable. But Oberstein? Of all people, it had to be Oberstein?

Reinhard always sensed that Oberstein's loyalty was conditional. His loyalty wasn’t truly to Reinhard himself, but to an ideal Oberstein believed Reinhard could achieve. If Oberstein saw Reinhard’s weakness, there was a real chance he would abandon him and seek another leader—someone unburdened by the stigma of being an omega.

And worse… What if Oberstein intended to exploit this secret? The thought of becoming a pawn, manipulated and bound, turned Reinhard’s fear into anger.

His gaze dropped to the pistol at his side. He would not let anyone control him. But as his hand touched the cold metal, a wave of searing heat washed over him. His vision blurred, his muscles turned to jelly. Reinhard staggered, the world around him tilting as the fever consumed him.

He collapsed to the floor.

His golden hair clung to his damp forehead, and his breaths came in heavy, ragged gasps. He tried to rise, but his strength failed him. The monitors behind him continued their low hum. Oberstein's cold gaze bore into him, and Reinhard felt exposed—a vulnerability that could be exploited. And the man holding that secret showed no warmth or mercy.

A sharp pain surged through him, and Reinhard doubled over, an involuntary cry escaping his lips.

It was impossible to think clearly. Even breathing was a struggle as the overwhelming heat coursed through his body. He had controlled it before… Regular inhibitors dulled the pain to a manageable ache, but now—this was beyond anything he had experienced, even on the battlefield. Years of suppression had pushed his body to rebellion, forcing him to confront the consequences of his denial.

Through the haze, Reinhard vaguely saw Oberstein approaching. The minister knelt beside him, his cold, mechanical gaze fixed on the sight of the Supreme Commander writhing on the floor, stripped of all dignity, strength, and the mask of invulnerability he had worn for so long. Oberstein's expression held no sympathy, no anger, no disdain—only observation.

After a long moment, Oberstein spoke, his voice cutting through Reinhard’s foggy mind. “How long have you been using inhibitors, Your Majesty?”

His tone was as emotionless as if he were conducting a routine medical examination. But Reinhard felt a chill run through him.

The man had deduced it. That Reinhard was an omega. That he had been hiding—deceiving everyone—with the use of inhibitors.

Grinding his teeth, Reinhard forced out a response: “Eight… eight years.”

For a brief moment, Oberstein’s narrow eyes tightened, though his expression remained icy. “Eight years?” he repeated. When Reinhard nodded, Oberstein fell silent for a moment before saying, “Your Majesty, using inhibitors for that long… is extremely dangerous. Any doctor with a conscience would have warned you of the risks. Has no one ever told you?”

Reinhard suddenly wanted to laugh. A doctor? He was hiding his very identity from the entire Empire, and Oberstein expected him to consult a non-existent doctor? He wanted to retort, to mock the absurdity. But another wave of pain wracked his body, overwhelming him. He felt his control slipping further, his mind growing faint—he was about to pass out.

But when Oberstein rose and reached for the communication device, panic surged in Reinhard.

“Stop!” Reinhard shouted. He reached out and grabbed Oberstein’s ankle, his fingers clutching the cold leather of the boot. “Don’t… don’t call anyone.” The words came out in a strangled whisper, almost a plea—a tone Reinhard had never allowed himself to use with anyone. But the thought of anyone else discovering his secret… filled him with a terror he couldn’t bear.

Oberstein looked down, his artificial eyes betraying no emotion. He remained silent, as if weighing his options. Then he crouched down again and, without a word, helped Reinhard to his feet, guiding him toward the sofa in the room.

***

When Oberstein let go, Reinhard nearly collapsed onto the sofa. The fever caused his breathing to quicken, his body trembling uncontrollably. The heat was now unbearable, as though his blood were boiling. Every sense in his body had become unnaturally sharp, to the point of pain, as if a constant current of electricity were stimulating every nerve. Oberstein had loosened his collar, but even that failed to help him breathe more easily. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked in sweat, making him look as if he had just been pulled out of a river.

Oberstein knelt beside the sofa, placing two fingers on Reinhard's wrist. His cold, detached gaze studied Reinhard’s trembling body as if it were just another problem to analyze. Finally, Oberstein spoke quietly.

“I’ve encountered something similar during a past mission.”

Reinhard squinted, trying to muster some clarity to hear him properly.

“In the territory of a rebellious noble, my unit once discovered omegas being used as test subjects in an illegal laboratory. The noble enjoyed experimenting with ways to extend or suppress omega heat cycles. For those omegas, recovery was… unlikely.”

Reinhard bit his lip hard. He vaguely recalled reading about this in a military report during his background investigation of Oberstein and knew it to be true. Oberstein’s flat, emotionless voice continued: “If this persists, Your Majesty, your body could sustain permanent damage. While I understand your orders, refusing to summon a physician at this moment is irresponsible.”

Reinhard’s heart pounded as humiliation mingled with the fever’s torment. Bitterly, he knew Oberstein was right—that years of suppressing his nature had taken their toll on his body. But he could not endure anyone seeing him like this, discovering the truth about him. Right now, he could barely face Oberstein’s gaze.

When Oberstein once again reached for the communication device, Reinhard reached out, grabbing his wrist. Desperation lent him strength. He forced himself to look up, meeting Oberstein’s calculating gaze, even as the fever blazed through his body.

“You’re… an alpha, aren’t you?”

The question slipped from Reinhard’s lips. His voice was hoarse, and instead of the firm authority he usually wielded, there was a note of desperation that made him loathe himself. But there was no other choice. No other path. His pride was a small price to pay to prevent anyone else from discovering this vulnerability, to keep his dreams—and Kircheis’ dream —from collapsing.

“If so… then sleep with me.”

Oberstein’s eyes sharpened, though his expression remained unnervingly calm. Reinhard could see the calculations flicker across Oberstein’s artificial gaze. Finally, Oberstein spoke.

“That would indeed provide temporary relief. But are you certain, Your Majesty? Such an act could have consequences…”

Reinhard forced himself to nod, his grip tightening on Oberstein’s wrist.

“Hurry… I cannot… let anyone else know.”

For a moment, Oberstein remained silent, his gaze lingering on Reinhard’s hand clutching his wrist. Then, without further objection, he leaned down and reached for Reinhard.

***

That night, Oberstein slept with Reinhard in the adjoining rest chamber, a room the emperor occasionally used for brief breaks between meetings.

Oberstein’s touch held no passion or emotion; it was purely functional, a means to an end. For Reinhard, his first time brought little pleasure. His body and mind were consumed by the fiery fever of his heat. Pain seared through him, leaving him barely aware of what Oberstein was doing. He was lost in his own torment, a part of his fevered mind wondering bitterly: How could anyone enjoy this? How could previous emperors indulge in such acts to the point of abandoning everything else?

Yet despite the pain, despite Reinhard’s inability to find satisfaction, his body continued to demand relief. And though it hurt him, Oberstein’s calculated actions gradually soothed the frenzied instincts that had spiraled out of control, easing the fever bit by bit.

Reinhard’s trembling fingers clutched the locket around his neck in desperation.

Inside the locket was a small lock of Kircheis’s hair. A secret keepsake of the friend who had been by his side since childhood, a source of loyalty, warmth, and understanding in his life. Now, in this moment of helplessness, Reinhard felt the bitter irony of holding Kircheis’s memory close while seeking solace from someone like Oberstein.

Every movement, every touch, felt hollow. But it was what Reinhard had demanded, what he had no choice but to accept. And it worked. The fever began to subside, and Reinhard finally managed to draw a full breath.

As the heat was reduced, a new kind of pain replaced it—a gnawing guilt that tore at Reinhard’s heart. In the final moments, as his body found brief relief, a wave of anguish washed over him. It was the pain of loss, a grief he suppressed even more fiercely than his omega nature.

“Kircheis…” The name escaped his lips in a broken sob, ripped from the depths of his soul. Reinhard’s vision blurred, and his grip on the locket tightened painfully.

In that moment, Reinhard felt as though he had betrayed Kircheis, tarnishing the friendship they had shared.

Reinhard’s body finally gave out, exhaustion dragging him into unconsciousness. His breathing slowed, the fever that had tormented him now a faint echo. His body lay limp, draped in the aftermath of what had transpired. His fingers remained wrapped around the locket at his neck.

Oberstein observed silently, his expression unchanged. He leaned down and placed two fingers on Reinhard’s wrist, confirming that his pulse had stabilized. The fever and its dangerous symptoms had subsided. Reinhard was no longer in immediate danger.

Oberstein retreated to the adjoining bathroom. When he returned, now composed and tidy, he carried a towel soaked in warm water. Carefully, he began to wipe away the traces of Reinhard’s ordeal. Once finished, he gently placed Reinhard on the bed and pulled the blanket over him.

He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Reinhard’s pale face. It was as though he were studying an anomaly that did not fit into his carefully constructed plans. Then, as quietly as a shadow, Oberstein turned and left the room.

Chapter Text

2.

When Reinhard opened his eyes the next morning, an empty, hollow ache enveloped his chest.

At the same time, the weight of what had transpired threatened to crush his mind. Now that the fever had subsided, Reinhard realized he had lost something that could never be recovered. He had crossed a boundary with Oberstein—of all people, it had to be him.

Lying there, staring at the ceiling without blinking, Reinhard allowed himself, for the first time, to admit a truth he had concealed even from himself.

Reinhard had always loved Kircheis.

The name echoed in Reinhard's mind. Now he understood it, painfully clear, like a freshly torn wound. And now, it was far too late.

Kircheis had died a bloody death, and Reinhard couldn’t entirely blame their enemies. Nor could he wholly blame Oberstein, though the man's cold pragmatism had played some role in the tragedy. Reinhard had to acknowledge that Kircheis’s death was largely the result of his own childish anger and immaturity.

Yet Reinhard’s stomach twisted at the thought of losing such a crucial part of himself to Oberstein—a man who, in some ways, was complicit in Kircheis’s death. It felt like a betrayal of Kircheis’s memory. What had happened last night was a stain Reinhard could never erase.

Slowly sitting up, Reinhard took a deep breath. He had too much to deal with to dwell on this. For Kircheis’s sake, Reinhard would rise again, stronger, colder, erasing every weakness Oberstein or anyone else might exploit.

And the biggest question was: what should Reinhard do about Oberstein? Oberstein had seen him in a moment of weakness. He had even helped Reinhard, but Reinhard wasn’t naive enough to believe it was out of compassion or care. For Oberstein, it must have been a temporary solution to a problem. Perhaps Oberstein still believed Reinhard could fulfill the ideals he had attached to him? Or had last night become a card Oberstein would play before seeking another leader? Was he still here? Or had he taken the opportunity while Reinhard was unconscious to disappear elsewhere?

Reinhard’s gaze grew colder as he sat alone in the quiet morning light, fingers absently toying with the locket around his neck.

Then, suddenly, the sound of the door opening startled him. Reinhard’s hand instinctively moved toward the nearby weapons compartment. Oberstein entered, his military uniform and perpetually bored expression as unchanged as ever, as if he had just stepped into a strategic meeting.

With the same dispassionate face, Oberstein handed Reinhard a small box. “Your Majesty, please take this before eating.”

“What is it?” Reinhard asked, staring at the man before him.

“Contraceptives. I didn’t mark you, and male omegas have low fertility. But it’s better to be cautious.” Pausing briefly, Oberstein added, “This type of medication has minimal hormonal side effects and is safe to use.”

For a moment, Reinhard’s mind went blank. His thoughts evaporated completely. Then, feeling his cheeks heat up, Reinhard shouted, “Get out!”

***

That day, it seemed as though nothing had changed.

Oberstein and Reinhard attended the same morning meeting. Reinhard watched Oberstein throughout, searching for any sign of change—an expression, a shift in tone, anything that might reveal Oberstein’s current intentions. But there was nothing. Oberstein remained as focused, disturbingly efficient, and emotionally distant as always, entirely unshaken by the event that had left Reinhard deeply unsettled. It was as if the night before had been erased, leaving no trace in Oberstein’s memory.

As Reinhard’s frustration grew to an almost unbearable itch and he began considering ways to have Oberstein detained immediately after the meeting, the minister approached him, requesting a private audience. Reinhard felt both anxious and oddly relieved. At last, the “snake” was making its move. Whatever Oberstein had planned, Reinhard was determined to confront and counter it.

But what happened next was not what he expected.

Oberstein merely placed a report on the desk, turning it so Reinhard could read the clear, concise text. “I prepared this report for you last night,” he said. “It’s a comprehensive analysis of the effects of long-term inhibitor use in omegas.”

Last night? While I was unconscious?

Reinhard looked down, his unease turning to confusion as he read the title: Physiological Effects of Prolonged Omega Suppression. The report contained dozens of pages of meticulously cited medical analysis detailing the damage caused by excessive use of inhibitors. Reinhard’s eyes scanned phrases like “hormonal degradation,” “organ damage,” and “significant risk of early mortality.”

Oberstein’s monotonous voice continued, “If you persist in using inhibitors, the data indicates your lifespan will be significantly shortened. My estimate is that, barring other complications, you might not live past the age of twenty-five. And if another heat of similar intensity occurs without appropriate treatment, the risk of organ failure and death is very high.”

He paused, giving Reinhard time to absorb the words. His expression remained detached, as if they were merely discussing logistics for a campaign.

“Therefore,” Oberstein continued, “I recommend you first undergo a thorough medical examination—we need precise data on how the inhibitors have affected your body. If you agree, I can arrange a discreet meeting with a trustworthy physician. Additionally, based on the research I’ve reviewed, I strongly advise you to cease using inhibitors immediately if you have any intention of living past that age.”

Reinhard’s mind spun. He didn’t know whether to remain suspicious or not. He tried to find a trap in Oberstein’s words, but the man appeared to be delivering a straightforward, pragmatic recommendation, consistent with his character. Oberstein’s dull gaze remained unwavering, as if waiting for Reinhard to approve a new strategic plan.

And then Reinhard laughed.

The sharp, nearly manic sound echoed in the quiet office. The tension and doubts Reinhard had carried for days seemed to evaporate, leaving him feeling oddly weightless. A voice rang in his head: What does any of it matter in the end? Eight years of suppressing his nature, hiding his weaknesses, climbing the ladder of power to reach the highest position in the Empire—and for what? Kircheis was gone. The only person Reinhard trusted, the one who shared his dream, was no longer here. Why should Reinhard care how long he lived when there was no one left to share that life with?

“Twenty-five?” Reinhard said, a childish, defiant smile appearing on his lips. “That’s more than enough time to conquer the universe.” His words, though stubborn, rang hollow. His ambition still burned fiercely, but beyond that ambition, the rest of the world seemed to have disappeared. Why bother living long in such a world?

Oberstein remained silent, his face impassive, letting Reinhard’s laughter fade into the emptiness of the room. Finally, when the office returned to its eerie stillness, Oberstein spoke.

“If you are determined not to stop using inhibitors because of concerns over… your ability to rule as before, Your Majesty,” he said evenly, “then I propose an alternative solution.”

Reinhard raised an eyebrow, his childish defiance shifting to wary curiosity. “And what is that?”

Oberstein reached into the stack of documents on the desk, pulling out a thin folder and placing it before Reinhard. He opened it to reveal a neatly organized list of names. “You will need an alpha,” Oberstein said with clinical precision, “someone who can maintain your secret and provide a stable physiological connection. This would eliminate the need for inhibitors.”

It had been a long time since Reinhard was left speechless.

***

“Wolfgang Mittermeyer,” Oberstein began, pointing to the first file. “He has an admirable record, loyalty, and a discreet character. However, his traditionalist mindset might conflict with this arrangement…”

Reinhard merely nodded, still struggling to process the reality that Oberstein had planned so meticulously for this situation.

After concluding his analysis of Mittermeyer, Oberstein moved on to the next name without pause. “Oskar von Reuenthal. Highly intelligent, with excellent adaptability. His flexible approach could prove useful in handling unforeseen circumstances. However, his arrogance might lead to complications…”

And so it went, Oberstein systematically presenting the strengths and weaknesses of each candidate with the same meticulous detail he would use when discussing fleet command appointments. Reinhard stared at the list, equal parts impressed and unnerved by Oberstein’s cold efficiency. It was disturbingly in line with the man’s working style—calculating, logical, detached. For Oberstein, this was merely another operational decision. For Reinhard, it felt surreal, as if he were watching himself be dissected from a third-person perspective.

With chilling rationality, Oberstein had anticipated Reinhard’s reluctance to stop taking inhibitors and prepared a solution before Reinhard could even voice the issue.

But had Oberstein really prepared all of this in just one night? How many possibilities and variables had he considered without consulting Reinhard? This level of thoroughness was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling, leaving Reinhard’s thoughts reeling.

Finally, driven by an almost childish impulse, Reinhard interrupted, “What about you? Why don’t I see your name?”

The words escaped half as a joke, half as a challenge, delivered in the stubborn tone of someone barely past their youth. Reinhard wasn’t even sure what he was expecting—perhaps some flicker of emotion, some reaction from Oberstein.

Oberstein said nothing.

They stared at each other, a heavy, tense silence filling the room. In Reinhard’s mind, the teasing remark slowly shifted into a more practical—and dangerous—line of thought.

Oberstein, by all measures, was the perfect choice. He already knew Reinhard’s secret and had demonstrated his discretion. Choosing Oberstein would eliminate the need to involve anyone else, reducing the risk of exposure. Oberstein wouldn’t let emotions complicate matters; he would treat it purely as another task.

So long as Oberstein continued to see Reinhard as a worthy leader.

That realization sent a chill down Reinhard’s spine. He knew what the logical course of action was. But the thought of entrusting himself to Oberstein—of all people—left him deeply unsettled.

And after a pause, Oberstein analyzed himself with the same detached indifference he had applied to the others.

“Indeed, I possess the necessary discretion. I have no family or close friends, which reduces the risk of exposure,” Oberstein stated flatly. “However, I fall outside the appropriate age range for Your Majesty. Additionally, there is the matter of my eyes. While I don’t subscribe to the purist ideals of the previous dynasty regarding genetic ‘perfection,’ I would argue that I am not a suitable candidate for this role.”

Reinhard’s headache and irritation flared. He gritted his teeth instinctively—a visceral reaction to Oberstein’s calm, inhuman analysis of such a personal, intimate matter. Something within Reinhard snapped. The cold, detached tone Oberstein used to discuss something so deeply private was more than Reinhard could bear.

“Enough!” Reinhard shouted, his voice sharper and angrier than he intended. He glared at Oberstein, his pride flaring defiantly against the man’s unflappable demeanor. “I don’t need a list of reasons, Oberstein. I asked you one question. Just answer it. Do you accept or not?”

Silence returned. Oberstein stared at Reinhard, his expression unchanged. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching painfully, until at last, with a slight nod, Oberstein replied.

“Yes.”

A single word, devoid of emotion or hesitation.

***

Reinhard sank into his chair. The moment of heated excitement had passed, leaving him feeling almost drained. But he knew he had made his choice. And so had Oberstein. A cold, calculated decision, devoid of sentiment. Deep down, perhaps they were two sides of the same coin.

Oberstein nodded at Reinhard’s response, his face as unreadable and composed as ever. Yet there was a brief pause before he spoke, as if organizing his thoughts. “In that case, I will begin arrangements for the bond. Normally, this process begins with a series of structured interactions—a kind of ‘familiarization’—to help both parties adapt to the dynamics of the bond and… build trust.” His tone was as objective as if he were explaining fleet protocols.

Reinhard laughed aloud, the sound sharp with derision. “Familiarization?” he repeated, a mocking edge to his voice. “We see each other every day, Oberstein. What’s there to familiarize? Let’s not make this more complicated than it needs to be. This is purely a biological arrangement, nothing more.” He leaned back, arms crossed, the smirk on his face deepening.

For a moment, Oberstein simply looked at Reinhard, his gaze betraying a fleeting, unreadable expression. But then he merely nodded and replied, “Very well, Your Majesty. I will arrange everything according to your wishes.”

Without another word, Oberstein bowed stiffly and left the room, his movements as rigid as ever. Reinhard watched Oberstein’s retreating figure as he exited. A strange feeling stirred in his chest.

As though, in that brief exchange, Reinhard had overlooked something profoundly important.

Chapter Text

3.

A few days later, a request from Oberstein arrived—brief and formal as always. But the content was anything but ordinary. He proposed spending a few hours together in Reinhard’s room that evening.

Reinhard frowned at the note, his initial reaction irritation. I’m not even in a heat yet. What’s the rush? he muttered. The thought of letting Oberstein—or anyone other than his late friend and his sister—into his private space made him uneasy.

However, later that afternoon, when he summoned Oberstein intending to reject and throw the request back in his face, Oberstein met him with his usual calm demeanor. “This isn’t about your heat, nor is it related to… physical relations, Your Majesty,” he explained. “To allow your body to adjust properly, you need to gradually grow accustomed to my presence. It will help mitigate rejection responses during your heat, when intimacy becomes necessary. I believe the doctor explained this to you?”

Reinhard curled his lip—a childish reaction, but one that betrayed his discomfort and irritation. Oberstein’s suggestion made him feel like an instrument being calibrated.

“Fine,” Reinhard finally said irritably. “If it’s truly necessary…” He glanced away, unwilling to meet Oberstein’s composed gaze.

Oberstein nodded, expression neutral as always, and bowed before leaving the room. As the sound of his footsteps faded, Reinhard sat alone, realizing the weight of what he had just agreed to—he was about to spend a night not with Kircheis, not with anyone else, but with Oberstein, a man as impersonal and clinical as a machine.

But Reinhard had made this choice.

And Oberstein was right. The doctor had advised this.

***

A few days prior, Reinhard had undergone an examination by a renowned doctor.

The doctor had been arranged by Hilda and Oberstein. After some thought, Reinhard had decided to let Hilda know he was an omega. She was already too close to him not to suspect. Oberstein seemed to have a different opinion but ultimately didn’t object. 

Hilda assured Reinhard that the doctor owed a great debt to the Empire and would not betray him. Oberstein, on the other hand, ensured that the doctor and his family were under constant surveillance.

The doctor had appeared tense during the examination—understandable, given the revelation that the reigning emperor was an omega. However, that tension quickly gave way to anger after the check-up. As the doctor’s face grew more grim, and as he clicked his tongue in disapproval while reviewing the results, Reinhard got the impression the man had forgotten he was addressing the head of the Empire. Instead, he seemed to see Reinhard only as a reckless teenager with no regard for his health.

“You’ve come dangerously close to a far worse outcome than you realize. Prolonged use of inhibitors has placed severe strain on your body. While these damages are not irreversible, your body will require time and significant care to recover.”

The doctor then forbade Reinhard from using inhibitors for at least a year. Regular monitoring of his biological markers was essential, alongside various supplements to stabilize his body. Sitting at the desk, Reinhard remained silent, his fists clenched tightly.

The doctor continued, “Your alpha… will play a critical role in your recovery—not just in addressing physical needs, but also mental well-being. Empathy, understanding… closeness.” He went on to suggest methods for strengthening the bond with Reinhard’s alpha, one of which was the very proposal Oberstein had made earlier.

After the health check-up, the doctor’s words lingered in Reinhard’s mind with a nagging unease.

Not just physical needs, but also mental well-being. Empathy, understanding… closeness.

Unconsciously, Reinhard glanced toward Oberstein, who was engrossed in reviewing the report.

While Reinhard didn’t like Oberstein’s personality, he had always acknowledged his efficiency in utilizing resources to achieve the Empire’s goals. But could Oberstein provide anything resembling what the doctor had described?

More importantly—Reinhard didn’t want those things from him.

***

That evening, Oberstein arrived at Reinhard’s private quarters after everyone else had left.

The silence in the room felt heavy, suffused with a palpable tension. Reinhard had never felt anything like it before. Oberstein stood opposite him, composed and indifferent.

“Your Majesty,” Oberstein said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact, as though he were delivering a routine report. “For this process to be effective, I suggest we remove our outer garments. Close physical proximity will accelerate adaptation. Additionally, your olfactory senses will adjust more readily to my scent.”

Oberstein’s clinical tone was both absurd and oddly reassuring. Treating this like a procedural task devoid of any emotional intimacy made it easier for Reinhard to endure. Swallowing his discomfort, Reinhard gave a stiff nod and awkwardly began unbuttoning his coat. Oberstein did the same. Then they lay down together on the bed.

Without a word, Oberstein wrapped his arms around Reinhard—a careful embrace, deliberate in maintaining boundaries and professional detachment. Reinhard lay still, forcing himself to relax, feeling the steady rhythm of Oberstein’s breathing against him. It was strange to share such intimacy with Oberstein—a man Reinhard associated with logic and cold pragmatism. Yet now, here he was, lying in the man’s arms, trying to acclimate to the silence and the invisible wall between them.

Reinhard couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to Kircheis.

Reinhard had never recognized his own feelings. And Kircheis… he had only learned much later that Kircheis might have harbored feelings for Reinhard’s sister. So, even though Reinhard was an omega and Kircheis was an alpha, nothing had ever happened between them. Kircheis had likely always seen him as a younger brother and a close friend, choosing to respect his boundaries.

But during their adolescence, when Reinhard’s cycles had been unpredictable, there were times when he needed an alpha’s presence to regain balance. During those moments, Kircheis would simply hold him. His presence had been a steadfast anchor, unshakable. And now, it was a gaping void that ached with loss.

Reinhard took a deep breath unconsciously, his face twisting slightly as he caught Oberstein’s scent.

It was sharp, sterile, and artificial—like freshly laundered linens in a hospital, with a faint metallic undertone. It was fitting for Oberstein, Reinhard thought: “precision,” “order,” “practicality.” Truthfully, Reinhard didn’t find it unpleasant. But it was bland, cold, and unfeeling. A stark contrast to the warmth Kircheis had brought.

The scent of Kircheis… In the darkness, Reinhard could recall it vividly. Kircheis’s scent had always been a source of comfort, even in childhood. Warm, soothing, and familiar—the scent of handmade soap, clean hay, and a hint of earth. It reminded Reinhard of sunlight, of lazy summer afternoons lying on the grass, dreaming about a future just out of reach.

Lying there, pressed against Oberstein, Reinhard felt his eyes grow hot. He shut them tightly, realizing that what he had with Kircheis was gone forever. Now, he was here with another man, bound in a hollow, mechanical arrangement—a cheap imitation of something precious he had lost.

***

Time passed agonizingly slowly.

Oberstein had said they only needed to remain like this for two or three hours, but even after a short while, Reinhard found it unbearable. Not just because of the fact that he was lying in Oberstein’s arms, but because Reinhard wasn’t accustomed to resting. Ever since embarking on his path of conquest—with Kircheis—they had been consumed by endless tasks, plans, and strategies. The workload had only intensified after Reinhard became emperor. He couldn’t relax without doing something productive.

Finally, unable to endure it any longer, Reinhard turned his head and frowned. “Has it been an hour yet?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Oberstein replied evenly, glancing at his wristwatch.

Reinhard groaned in frustration. “...How much longer? How am I supposed to lie here for hours like this?”

“You could try sleeping, Your Majesty,” Oberstein suggested, his tone devoid of sympathy. Reinhard bit his lip, annoyed, and turned away.

The awkwardness was unbearable. Reinhard began asking idle questions—about Alliance troop movements, recent developments near Iserlohn, or suspicions regarding a high-ranking officer. Oberstein answered each question concisely, with the dry precision Reinhard was used to. Talking to Oberstein was as dull as Reinhard had expected, lacking the warmth, ease, and joy he had once shared with Kircheis. Boring, Reinhard thought irritably.

Then, without warning, Oberstein asked, “Your Majesty, has anyone else helped you maintain this secret in the past?”

The sudden question caught Reinhard off guard. A wave of discomfort rose within him. It was unlike Oberstein to inquire about something so personal. But then Reinhard realized that, with his characteristic caution, Oberstein was likely assessing potential risks.

“Rest assured,” Reinhard said sharply. “Only two people knew—my sister and… Kircheis. They would never betray me.”

Reinhard took a deep breath. Painful memories surged unbidden, and his voice softened. “Besides, Kircheis is dead.”

The familiar ache tightened around his chest. The loss never lessened, no matter how much time passed or how hard he tried to suppress it. The ever-present grief swelled, breaking through the walls Reinhard had painstakingly constructed in his mind.

He lay silent, his breathing uneven, eyes fixed on the darkness. Reinhard felt the corners of his eyes grow damp but refused to turn and face the man lying beside him.

Oberstein remained silent after Reinhard’s final words. Then, in his usual calm, objective tone, he asked, “Growing up with… this condition must have been difficult. Were you healthy as a child?”

“I was often sick as a child,” Reinhard replied with his eyes closed. “But it improved later. After I met Kircheis…”

And their conversation continued—sporadic and uneven. Some questions Reinhard answered curtly, others he ignored altogether. But the questions persisted, each carefully phrased, never too intrusive. Gradually, Reinhard’s irritation faded, and as fatigue set in, he found himself relaxing and delving deeper into the conversation.

Reinhard began talking about his early years, the challenges of hiding his secondary gender, and the need to exert constant control over himself just to earn respect. Then, unbidden, he began to speak of Kircheis.

The memories flowed out before Reinhard could stop them. He recounted how Kircheis had stumbled upon his secret, how he had never judged or questioned him. How Kircheis was always there when Reinhard needed him most. How, during Reinhard’s first heat, Kircheis had comforted him without saying a word, simply offering warmth, understanding, and acceptance.

“He was… always there for me,” Reinhard murmured, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “When everything was too much, when I thought I might be exposed… he was always there. Sometimes, on the worst days, when it felt unbearable, he would just… hold me. I couldn’t trust anyone else completely. Only him.”

Reinhard’s voice grew softer, more wistful. He barely noticed Oberstein beside him, listening intently. It felt as though he were speaking to himself, reliving the memory of Kircheis’s embrace and the unfillable void his absence had left.

“If Kircheis was such a good friend,” Oberstein said in his usual monotone, “he should have stopped you. He shouldn’t have let you take inhibitors for so long.”

Reinhard turned sharply, glaring at Oberstein. “If you speak nonsense about Kircheis again, I’ll kill you.”

Oberstein remained silent for a moment before simply replying, “I apologize.”

Reinhard turned away again, still angry at the man holding him. Yet, at the same time, a different feeling stirred within him—regret.

Kircheis had asked him about the side effects of the inhibitors but had never stopped him. Reinhard could guess why. They had been so young, so inexperienced. Neither had fully understood how harmful those drugs could be. And Kircheis knew Reinhard too well. He understood Reinhard’s hatred for the societal constraints placed on omegas and his determination to defy them. Kircheis had likely believed the inhibitors were a temporary measure until Reinhard achieved the power and freedom to no longer need them.

Freedom can only be achieved through strength. Reinhard had believed that since his youth.

Yet why, even now, was he not free? Why, after becoming the most powerful man in the galaxy, could he not relax, still forced to restrain himself? It seemed that with every gain he made, something was lost, and the dreams of his youth with Kircheis grew ever more out of reach.

Reinhard felt his eyes well up. Oberstein made no comment.

***

Eventually, exhaustion overcame Reinhard. His voice trailed off and fell silent. He drifted into sleep. Oberstein observed him quietly, his gaze settling on the locket around Reinhard’s neck, clutched tightly in his fingers.

After a moment of hesitation, Oberstein reached out. Carefully, he pried the locket from Reinhard’s grasp. With a soft click, it opened to reveal the lock of hair preserved inside—a vivid red even in the dim light of the room.

Oberstein stared at the unmistakable color. Kircheis. The one who had shadowed Reinhard like a guardian, whose absence had left a wound that seemed to shape every decision Reinhard had made since.

An unreadable expression flickered across Oberstein’s face. He closed the locket gently. With the same care, he placed it back beside Reinhard so it would be the first thing he saw upon waking. He pulled the blanket up to Reinhard’s shoulders, the motion almost tender despite his impassive face.

Standing, Oberstein cast one last glance at the young emperor. Now resting in the stillness of the room, Reinhard’s face looked serene, finding a rare moment of peace. Without a word, Oberstein donned his uniform and left, closing the door softly behind him.

***

Oberstein walked down the hallway of his modest home. It was late; even the household staff had retired for the night. The silence was thick, unbroken. As he approached his door, a familiar figure awaited him. A dog sat there, its tail wagging faintly in greeting.

A faint warmth crossed Oberstein’s otherwise dull features. He knelt and gently patted the dog’s head. It nuzzled into his hand, its eyes closing contentedly.

Many of Reinhard’s senior officers were surprised to learn that the stern minister loved dogs, even leaving his home in the middle of the night to buy chicken for one. In truth, Oberstein mused, he didn’t particularly love dogs. The scruffy old mutt wasn’t even one he had chosen; it had simply followed him, mistakenly assumed to be his, and Oberstein had accepted it, just as he accepted the random, meaningless events of life.

As he stood, his hand lingered on the dog’s head for a moment. Suddenly—and perhaps it was deeply inappropriate—the sensation reminded him of brushing Reinhard’s hair before leaving the emperor’s side. The fragile expression on Reinhard’s sleeping face, the rare tranquility it held, replayed in Oberstein’s mind.

Oberstein turned, glancing out at the starry sky beyond the window. He murmured words no one else could hear.

“Good night, Your Majesty.”

Then he turned and entered his cold, empty bedroom, the faithful dog following close behind.

Chapter Text

4.

That afternoon, a light rain fell, the sound of droplets pattering against the stone-paved streets filling the still air. The gray sky above cast a somber veil over everything. Oberstein walked slowly under his black umbrella. Beside him, Hilda held a smaller, more elegant umbrella, her steps graceful despite the wet, slippery ground.

They had crossed paths by chance as Hilda was leaving the cemetery. Oberstein had just returned from a visit to the family of a fallen officer as part of his formal duties. Hilda, on the other hand, had been visiting Kircheis’s grave, leaving a fresh bouquet of flowers—something she mentioned naturally as they began walking together.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” Hilda said. “A man of integrity, a loyal friend who stood beside His Majesty when he was just a young man with dreams and ambitions.”

Oberstein nodded, his expression unreadable. “Siegfried Kircheis was highly regarded by many,” he replied succinctly, his tone neutral.

Hilda glanced at him, her sharp eyes searching for any trace of emotion on his face, but as always, Oberstein remained an impenetrable fortress. “I’ve also heard,” she continued cautiously, “that many of Kircheis’s subordinates blame you for his death. They say you were envious of his accomplishments and position, that you orchestrated—or at least facilitated—his… sacrifice.”

Oberstein’s pace did not falter. “That is not surprising,” he said evenly. “People often seek someone to blame when tragedy strikes. Within an organization, having a target for blame can sometimes be necessary. It reduces internal discord.”

Hilda hesitated. “Then what do you truly think of Kircheis?”

Oberstein’s gaze remained fixed ahead. “I do not have the time to dwell on someone who is already dead.”

Hilda’s expression shifted briefly, though she quickly masked it with her usual composure. “I see,” she murmured, though her tone carried a hint of skepticism.

They walked in silence for a moment before Hilda posed another question, her curiosity now laced with a sharper edge. “I’ve also heard that you opposed Kircheis becoming the second most powerful figure in His Majesty’s circle. That you feared the division of power and loyalty.”

Oberstein’s gaze flicked briefly toward her, his expression unchanging. “That is correct,” he said calmly. “The Empire cannot afford divided authority. His Majesty’s vision must remain singular, unchallenged by a secondary voice of comparable influence.”

Hilda tilted her head slightly, her eyes contemplative. “Then let me ask you this, Oberstein,” she said carefully. “As His Majesty’s alpha, are you not concerned that you might become such a figure? That you might concentrate too much power and attention, dividing what should belong solely to His Majesty?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and loaded with meaning. The rain continued to fall around them. Oberstein’s steps slowed slightly, his gaze lowering momentarily to the wet stones beneath their feet. The rain grew heavier.

“In the assassination that claimed Kircheis’s life,” Oberstein began, his gaze returning to the path ahead, “I, too, stepped forward to shield His Majesty. I did not hesitate, just as Kircheis did. But I survived.”

Hilda looked at him, confusion flickering in her eyes.

Oberstein continued, his tone unwavering, as though recounting a routine matter. “Kircheis lost his life that day, and his absence has affected His Majesty to this day. But tell me this, Miss Mariendorf: If I had been the one to die that day, would His Majesty have been as deeply affected?”

Hilda froze. She opened her mouth to respond but found no words. Her hesitation was answer enough.

Oberstein gave a small nod, as if he had anticipated her silence. “Kircheis was undoubtedly an extraordinary individual—no one can deny that. But do you know why he wielded such power and influence? It was because His Majesty gave it to him. Absolute trust. Affection. Kircheis’s strength was not solely his own; it came from the position he held in His Majesty’s heart.”

He stopped walking, his piercing gaze finally meeting Hilda’s wide-eyed stare.

“By contrast,” Oberstein continued, “His Majesty does not care about me. If I had died that day, the best I could hope for would be a minute of ceremonial silence. After that, His Majesty would appoint someone else to handle my responsibilities and continue his campaigns as usual.”

Oberstein’s words were cold and logical, his expression unchanged. Yet Hilda thought she detected the faintest glimmer of emotion buried deep beneath his measured tone. Even with her perceptiveness, she couldn’t discern what that emotion might be.

“And so,” Oberstein concluded, “there is no risk of me becoming the ‘second most important figure’ in the Empire.”

With that, Oberstein stopped, turned to Hilda, and bowed, his movements as stiff as ever. “If there is nothing further, Miss Mariendorf, I shall take my leave.”

Before Hilda could respond, Oberstein turned and walked away, disappearing into the rain. For a moment, Hilda remained standing there, her gaze fixed on his retreating figure.

***

A month had passed since their first night together.

Reinhard found his life settling into an unusual rhythm. Two or three nights a week, Oberstein would quietly arrive at his private chambers, always precise and punctual. They would lie side by side, their bodies finding warmth in each other’s presence. This was a practical arrangement dictated by biological necessity—nothing more, nothing less. Reinhard reminded himself of this fact repeatedly, relying on logic to dismiss the faint discomfort that lingered in his heart.

Oberstein never stayed until morning. He always left after two or three hours. Sometimes, Reinhard would already be asleep when Oberstein departed. Other times, he would hear the soft click of the door signaling his departure. That sound always brought a sense of relief. This is for the best, Reinhard thought—at least Oberstein understood boundaries, understood that Reinhard didn’t want this closeness to hold any meaning beyond their agreement.

Yet over time, their bodies and minds seemed to gradually adjust to each other’s presence.

The initial awkwardness began to fade, like a stiff uniform becoming more comfortable after repeated wear. And although the silence between them remained heavy, Reinhard noticed that their brief conversations became slightly smoother. The topics were still limited—mostly revolving around work or, at best, trivial matters like Odin’s weather or the scent of the newly replaced wallpaper. Talking to Oberstein was nothing like speaking with Kircheis; there was no natural ease, no unspoken understanding to fill the gaps in conversation. But at least, it no longer irritated Reinhard as much.

That growing familiarity left Reinhard with a vague, unsettling sense of fear.

Occasionally, after Oberstein had left and the room returned to its emptiness, Reinhard would lie awake, staring into the darkness.

***

It was another evening like that. As Oberstein prepared to leave, Reinhard sat up in bed. Clearing his throat, he spoke, “Oberstein, I’ll ensure you receive a proper allowance. A pay raise would be fair, considering… the additional work you’ve taken on.”

Oberstein froze mid-motion, his hand pausing on the button of his uniform. For a long moment, he remained silent, his face devoid of emotion. Reinhard stayed seated on the bed, maintaining as neutral an expression as possible. He thought to himself that this was the right thing to do, a way to clearly define the boundaries of their relationship. Framing this as a transaction would mean he wouldn’t feel indebted to Oberstein.

But Oberstein stayed silent for so long that Reinhard began to feel uneasy, confused as to what was happening. Finally, Oberstein looked up, his sharp gaze meeting Reinhard’s with an intensity that seemed capable of cutting through steel.

“That won’t be necessary, Your Majesty,” Oberstein said, his tone calm and formal as always, but with an unmistakable firmness that brooked no argument—not even from the ruler of the Empire.

“Oberstein, reconsider,” Reinhard said irritably. “This is hardly fair.”

Oberstein’s gaze lingered on Reinhard’s face for a moment, as if weighing something, before he abruptly shifted the topic. “I believe we have more pressing matters than my salary. It would be wise for Your Majesty to begin preparing for your next heat cycle. Based on my calculations, it could occur as soon as next week.”

A chill ran down Reinhard’s spine, sinking deep into his bones. The thought of facing his first heat without inhibitors, completely dependent on Oberstein’s calculated support, left him frozen. For years, Reinhard had meticulously controlled every aspect of himself, bending even his biology to the iron will that had propelled him to power. And now…

Reinhard felt a faint tremor in his body, the foundation of his pride beginning to crack.

Oberstein’s expression remained unchanged, as if he were merely outlining a strategic adjustment. Reinhard simply nodded and dismissed him.

But behind the facade of composure, Reinhard couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at his mind. The weight of uncertainty pressed heavily on him, a reminder that this arrangement demanded more of him than he had ever prepared to give.

***

The next morning, Reinhard entered his office to find Oberstein already waiting, a thick stack of documents neatly arranged on the desk. Wasting no time, Oberstein began presenting a meticulously crafted plan to manage Reinhard’s upcoming heat cycle. It was prepared with the same precision and attention to detail that Oberstein applied to any military campaign.

“Your Majesty, I’ve outlined a plan that I believe to be the most effective,” Oberstein began, his voice as detached as ever. “The first priority is scheduling. We will need to adjust certain appointments for both you and myself to avoid raising suspicion about our simultaneous absences during your heat. Based on your medical assessments, the medical advisors estimate that your cycle will fall within the highlighted timeframe on the calendar attached. During that period, the following tasks must be addressed…”

Reinhard glanced down at the documents Oberstein had handed him, skimming through the detailed and methodical plans. Every aspect had been accounted for: lists of necessary supplies, a revised schedule for critical meetings to ensure an uninterrupted private window, and contingency measures to handle any inquiries or suspicions from officers, staff, or even enemies.

“Discretion is paramount,” Oberstein continued. “With proper timing, no one will have cause to suspect anything unusual. I will personally ensure that all potential oversights are addressed to eliminate any risk of exposure.”

Reinhard listened silently, his emotions in turmoil. He found the cold, pragmatic approach to the issue both alien and oddly amusing. Yet alongside his wry amusement was a deep-seated unease. He had to admit that the plan was flawless. Oberstein’s ability to grasp details and anticipate contingencies was extraordinary—each variable accounted for with unrelenting precision. But in the end, this plan was not about a military strategy. It was about his heat cycle, an intensely personal matter that Reinhard had long concealed. The biological reality he had suppressed for years was now the subject of detailed logistical planning.

Inevitably, Reinhard’s mind wandered back to their first night together. The memory resurfaced with painful clarity—the physical and emotional agony of that night. His first heat—his first time—with Oberstein, had been an ordeal unlike anything he could have imagined. Preoccupied with grand plans for galactic conquest, Reinhard had never given much thought to his physiology. He had never imagined what his first time would be like—but it certainly shouldn’t have been that. It was a jarring collision of naivety and the brutal reality of adulthood, an experience that had left him shaken.

The raw vulnerability, the enforced intimacy, the pain and exhaustion the morning after… Reinhard’s fingers grew cold as the memories gripped him. Without realizing it, he shivered slightly.

“Mariendorf has also assisted with procuring necessary supplies. All items have been arranged to be delivered via anonymous channels,” Oberstein continued in his measured tone, as if discussing logistical support for a distant outpost. “Your Majesty, please review the list of supplies. If there are any additions or changes you wish to make, kindly inform me as soon as possible. Likewise, if you require adjustments to any part of the plan, please do not hesitate to request them.”

Oberstein suddenly looked directly at Reinhard. It was clear why. He had likely expected Reinhard to be reviewing the documents while listening to his presentation. Now, he was waiting for Reinhard to provide input or revisions, just as Reinhard had done with countless military strategies in the past.

But Reinhard could only feel a knot of unease twisting in his stomach. He wasn’t sure why. His entire body felt frozen, icy, as if he had turned to stone. With great effort, he managed a curt nod.

“There is one final matter I must address,” Oberstein said, pulling a letter from his pocket and placing it in front of Reinhard. “It is a recommendation from the medical advisors, delivered this morning. Due to prolonged use of inhibitors, your body may react unpredictably during an unmediated heat cycle. During intercourse, you may experience heightened stimulation and extreme reactions—hallucinations, emotional instability, or even temporary loss of physical and mental control.”

Each word landed on Reinhard like a heavy stone, sinking deeper into his chest and amplifying the tension coiled within him. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, a reflexive attempt to anchor himself in the face of the cold reality being laid out before him. Oberstein’s delivery was clinical, detached, but the implications—losing control over his body and mind during such an intimate and primal process—stirred an unspeakable dread within Reinhard.

After all, Reinhard was still young, just past his teenage years. His boundless ambition and sense of invincibility often masked the truth: he was still growing, still vulnerable. He had always seen himself as the master of his own destiny, bending even his biology to his will through the use of inhibitors. But now, as he faced the inescapable truth of his nature, he felt himself spiraling, unable to command or suppress it.

“Your Majesty?”

Finally, Oberstein looked up, apparently noticing Reinhard’s uncharacteristic silence. But his expression remained unchanged. He offered no words of reassurance, perhaps understanding that any attempt at comfort would be meaningless coming from him.

“If you require more time to prepare, we can adjust the schedule,” Oberstein said after a brief pause. “Alternatively, if you prefer… another partner, we can revisit the list of candidates and identify someone suitable.”

Reinhard took a deep breath, forcing himself to maintain an outward facade of calm, though his knuckles had turned white from gripping the chair. I’m not ready for this. The realization hit him like a wave of cold air, but he knew there was no other choice. The path he had chosen demanded sacrifices—Reinhard had to confront vulnerabilities he had never anticipated, lay bare parts of himself he had long hidden.

He remained silent, wrestling with the rising tide of fear within him, unable to meet Oberstein’s gaze, though he could feel the steady, unwavering presence of those piercing eyes waiting for his response.

***

After a long moment, Reinhard struggled to respond, trying to muster some semblance of strength and resolve to assert that he could face this. But as he searched for the words to articulate his thoughts, his mind only grew more confused. His scattered voice faltered, then faded entirely. A cold silence fell over the room.

Reinhard’s mouth remained open, but he could no longer form any words.

Oberstein stayed silent as well, his artificial eyes coldly fixed on Reinhard’s. As always, those eyes betrayed no emotion. Yet Reinhard couldn’t help but feel… the man had realized something simple and undeniable: Reinhard was experiencing a sudden psychological crisis.

This is the end, Reinhard thought, a chill running through his body. He’ll see me as weak, just a panicked child unworthy of loyalty. He’ll abandon me, seek out a “leader” more suitable, someone who won’t crumble at the idea of physical closeness. The thought sliced through Reinhard’s mind like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

But then, something unexpected happened. Oberstein stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. Without a word, he extended his hand and firmly grasped Reinhard’s icy fingers.

“Your Majesty, look at me.”

His expression remained calm and detached as ever, but the warmth of his hand tightened around Reinhard’s, conveying something—a quiet strength—that Reinhard couldn’t quite comprehend.

Reinhard looked back at him, his eyes hollow and vacant.

In a measured, deliberate tone, Oberstein spoke slowly.

“Everything will be fine, Your Majesty.”

The simple statement, devoid of any embellishment, sounded less like an attempt at comfort and more like a declaration of fact. And yet, those words stirred something deep within Reinhard.

Reinhard hated this. He hated allowing his vulnerability to surface. But at this moment, he lacked the energy to resist.

Oberstein didn’t move, his hand still clasping Reinhard’s with just enough pressure to provide warmth and stability without causing discomfort. He didn’t attempt to shatter the silence, nor did he offer hollow or insincere reassurances. He simply stood there, holding Reinhard’s hand, silent and steady.

After what felt like an eternity, as if time itself had slowed, Reinhard finally drew a deep breath. He gave a quiet nod and spoke.

“No, I’m fine. And I don’t need another partner. You may go.”

Oberstein nodded silently. Releasing Reinhard’s hand, he bowed slightly before quietly leaving the room.

Chapter Text

5.

Finally, the day of Reinhard’s heat arrived. Reinhard had done his best to mentally prepare, suppressing the persistent fear and anxiety to don the same cold, resolute expression he wore on the battlefield. Yet, when he was led into the room Oberstein had prepared, he found himself surprised. It was nothing like what he had imagined.

The sterile, soulless atmosphere of the military spaces they were both so accustomed to was nowhere to be found. The lighting in the room was softened, creating a sense of calm. As Reinhard looked around, small details caught his eye: a tray near the bed neatly arranged with water and nutrient packs, cooling towels, and other essential tools meticulously organized. The bed was outfitted with softer linens than usual, though the thought of using them made Reinhard feel somewhat uncomfortable. Even the air in the room had been neutralized, likely to avoid overstimulating his heightened senses during the heat.

"Everything is ready." Oberstein spoke as he glanced at the checklist in his hand. "I’ve completed the inventory; all necessary provisions for your heat are accounted for. If you require anything else, inform me immediately."

Reinhard turned to look at him. He wanted to sweep away the chaotic emotions stirring inside him with a sarcastic remark about Oberstein’s rigidity. But in the end, he simply nodded and said, “You’ve… prepared everything very thoroughly.”

“That was necessary,” Oberstein replied, his tone as detached as ever. “Your health is a matter of importance to the entire Empire.”

That rational statement made Reinhard want to laugh mockingly. But now, standing in this room prepared for his own heat, Reinhard felt the tension rise sharply. He was struck by the raw reality of what was about to happen — that he was about to become deeply vulnerable. That he could lose his self-control. Though Reinhard wielded immense power, this challenge was unlike anything he had ever faced before.

The day had arrived, and there was no avoiding it. The room was ready, and so was he — or at least, he had done everything he could to be as prepared as possible. But even as he told himself this, the weight of what was about to unfold pressed heavily upon him.

***

Contrary to Reinhard’s expectations, when he began showing the first signs of his heat—his face slightly flushed, and his body temperature rising—Oberstein didn’t immediately initiate intimacy.

Instead, after Reinhard changed into his sleepwear, Oberstein led him to sit on the bed, silently arranging a few pillows behind his back with the same meticulous precision he applied to every task. A small tray was brought to the bedside, containing drinks and light snacks Reinhard had noticed earlier. Now that he saw them up close, Reinhard realized they were carefully selected to be gentle on his stomach.

When Reinhard glanced at Oberstein with a skeptical look, the man spoke in his usual even tone: “The last heat came too suddenly and improperly. That shouldn’t happen again. For now, you need to let yourself rest. Your body needs time to adjust before the heat peaks. Rushing will not yield good results.”

The words were dry, textbook-like. But Reinhard still found himself surprised. And, if he were honest, slightly relieved. He had steeled himself for something overwhelming, intense, and painful. Oberstein, with his cold pragmatism, seemed to understand that Reinhard needed time to acclimate—not just physically but mentally—to what was to come.

“Don’t forget to stay hydrated.” Oberstein handed him a glass, his tone as clinical as if reciting from a health manual. “And eat something. You’ll need the energy.”

Reinhard nodded, taking a few sips of water as he watched Oberstein. The man had turned away from him, busy checking the room’s temperature and humidity. Despite feeling the encroaching signs of his heat, Reinhard suddenly noticed that his anxiety had lessened somewhat.

Reinhard knew that he and Oberstein shared certain traits in their personalities. At their core, they were both cold, pragmatic individuals... so he hadn’t expected Oberstein to account for his anxieties or insecurities. Yet, every detail in the room seemed to convey a certain level of understanding, making Reinhard feel unexpectedly reassured.

***

When the heat engulfed Reinhard, the sensation far surpassed anything he had ever experienced—even the sudden episode from before. Years of relying on inhibitors had left him utterly unprepared for the intense eruption of his body’s instincts. The room seemed to blur around him, his mind consumed by a searing fever that left him dizzy and disoriented.

Clenching the bedsheet tightly, his breath came in ragged gasps, the heat coursing through every nerve, pulling him deeper into the abyss of losing control. When Oberstein finally sat down and touched him, Reinhard instinctively shuddered, a soft moan escaping his lips.

I don’t want this. I don’t want to lose control like this.

The heat wasn’t just tormenting his body; it was cutting into his pride, into the very core of the identity he had forged. He bit his lip and clenched his teeth to suppress the sounds threatening to escape. Gripping the sheet, he fought against the trembling, desperately clinging to any fragment of control he could find, but it all slipped away too quickly, leaving him exposed in a way he had never imagined.

Every nerve ending in his body became painfully sensitive. He could feel Oberstein’s hands—larger than he had anticipated—pressing against his fevered skin with precision. For the first time in his life, Reinhard wanted to run, to escape. He longed to be anywhere but inside the body that was betraying him.

And then, when Oberstein entered him, Reinhard felt something inside him shatter.

The heat in his body surged higher, and Reinhard was swept away in a storm of emotions he had long buried. The relentless intensity of the heat tore through his defenses, leaving him utterly vulnerable. Unconsciously, Reinhard’s trembling hand reached for the pendant around his neck, gripping the cold metal tightly—a tangible link to Kircheis’s memory. His chest ached, not only from the overwhelming sensations coursing through him, from the pain or the uncontrollable pleasure building within him, but from the sharp sting of loss and the suffocating loneliness rising to the surface, impossible to contain.

“Kircheis...”

The name escaped his lips in a whisper, almost a sob.

His fingers tightened around the pendant, clinging to its cold solidity as though it were a lifeline.

Longing, grief, loss, fear, regret—all of it surged forth. Reinhard became acutely aware of how much he yearned for the solace he had once known, the quiet strength that Kircheis had provided. In this moment of utter helplessness, he could no longer suppress the pain.

Oberstein paused for a brief moment. His expression remained inscrutable, but for an instant, something flickered in his artificial eyes—a fleeting emotion that was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. Reinhard, lost in his own turmoil, failed to notice.

Then, without warning, Oberstein leaned down. Before Reinhard could comprehend what was happening, Oberstein’s lips brushed against his.

It was entirely unexpected. Even more surprising, it wasn’t the cold, rigid touch Reinhard had always associated with Oberstein. Nor was it passionate, forceful, or demanding. It was a quiet, deliberate kiss, unhurried and tinged with a gentleness Reinhard could not reconcile with the man he thought he knew. The unexpected softness left him momentarily stunned.

When the kiss ended, Oberstein lowered his head to speak close to Reinhard’s ear, his steady voice calm and unshaken.

“Your Majesty. Calm yourself. Everything will be alright.”

Reinhard stared up at the ceiling. His trembling hands, after a brief hesitation, reached up and finally rested on Oberstein. The man’s presence felt like an anchor, keeping Reinhard from being swept too far away by the waves crashing through his body and mind.

In this fleeting moment, Reinhard allowed himself to believe in that anchor.

***

When Reinhard opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

The lingering sensations from the intimate encounter still echoed in his mind, accompanied by the faint traces of a fever. Yet, the clean comfort of fresh clothes on his skin, the faint scent of soap, and the lightness in his body told him he had been washed and dressed while he slept.

His gaze fell on the small pendant carefully placed on the pillow beside him, within easy reach. Memories of the night before flooded back—the vulnerability, the overwhelming emotions he couldn’t control, and that unexpected kiss—causing him to hold his breath for a moment.

Oberstein was seated nearby, reading a book in a chair by the bed. He turned his head when Reinhard pushed himself up into a sitting position. They locked eyes in silence for a long moment. Reinhard found the situation surreal: to have shared such intimate moments, yet to see Oberstein’s face remain as stoic and unchanging as ever.

Finally, Reinhard broke the silence. “Thank you.”

Oberstein simply nodded. He set the book aside and approached the bed. Producing a small medical kit, he began checking Reinhard’s heart rate and blood pressure, recording the results in a notebook provided by the physician. After a moment, Oberstein withdrew his hands and nodded slightly.

“Your condition has stabilized. I expect the heat will subside completely by tomorrow morning,” Oberstein said. “However, I recommend you undergo a follow-up examination at the hospital. The prolonged use of inhibitors has undoubtedly placed significant strain on your body. We need to ensure there are no lingering complications.”

Reinhard nodded slowly. Then, recalling something, he asked, “What about contraceptives? Do I need to take them?”

Oberstein shook his head.

“While modern contraceptives are generally safe for omegas, it’s better to avoid unnecessary strain. I’ve taken preventive measures on my part to ensure there’s no risk of pregnancy. Your health and stability remain the top priority.”

Reinhard stared at Oberstein, surprised by the level of care and forethought he had quietly exercised without ever mentioning it. He had always seen Oberstein as cold, perhaps even ruthless—a man governed entirely by logic, with little room for empathy or personal concern. And perhaps that was true. Yet this time, Oberstein had thought through every detail to safeguard Reinhard’s well-being.

It took a moment before Reinhard found his voice again. “Oberstein… on the night I fell into heat in the office… I truly don’t know what would have happened if the one who found me… hadn’t been you.”

“Perhaps Your Majesty wouldn’t have had to endure someone as dull as me,” Oberstein replied evenly, his face betraying no particular emotion.

“Honestly… I thought you would see me as “not suitable” and look for someone else… someone better suited to fulfill your vision.”

Oberstein stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, after packing away the medical equipment, he turned his back and simply said:

“Your Majesty. There is no one in the galaxy more suited than you.”

***

"And one more thing, Oberstein."

Reinhard's voice broke the silence as the minister resumed his seat and returned to his book.

Oberstein turned his gaze silently toward him. Reinhard looked away, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the blanket. The memories of the previous night—fevered delirium, overwhelming sensations, and above all, that kiss —made him restless. It had all been too close, too intimate, far beyond the realm of practicality that defined their relationship.

After a brief hesitation, Reinhard spoke again, his voice softer than usual. "Oberstein... I don’t want you to… kiss me again. That… that’s something meant for people who are in love."

As soon as the words left his mouth, regret and embarrassment surged within Reinhard. His cheeks burned with shame. The Supreme Commander of the Empire stammering like some naive child—how ridiculous!

Of course, Reinhard had spent his formative years consumed by ambition and war, leaving him with little in the way of romantic experience. In this realm, he truly was a novice, and exposing such immaturity felt…

But Oberstein merely looked at him, his expression as unreadable as ever. Then he nodded, accepting the request without question or comment, as if Reinhard’s words were no different from an order to reposition a fleet.

"I understand."

"Good," Reinhard replied, his cheeks flushing even redder. He hurriedly lay back down, turning his face toward the wall.

Oberstein's effortless compliance brought Reinhard a sense of relief. Yet at the same time… a strange unease stirred within him. It felt as though, once again, there was something about this man that Reinhard could not fully grasp.

***

Eventually, Reinhard drifted back to sleep. Exhausted from the waves of heat coursing through his body, he curled up in the nest of blankets and pillows around him, breathing softly and evenly in slumber.

Oberstein remained seated in the chair by the bed. The book was still open in his hands, but his gaze was not on its pages. Instead, he watched the figure sleeping peacefully beside him.

For a moment, Oberstein's usually expressionless face seemed to soften slightly as he observed Reinhard. In sleep, the emperor looked younger, more vulnerable, the weight of his daily burdens temporarily lifted. For once, the traces of boyishness hidden beneath his commanding presence became apparent.

After a while, as though certain that Reinhard would not wake, Oberstein slowly leaned forward. Approaching with the caution one might reserve for something fragile, he quietly lowered his face just enough for his lips to brush against Reinhard's forehead.

It was a fleeting touch, so brief it could hardly be called a kiss.

Then Oberstein straightened, his face resuming its neutral mask as if nothing had occurred. Without another word, he returned his attention to the book in his hands.

Chapter Text

6.

The rainy season came and went.

Days turned into weeks, and months and the tenuous connection that had begun awkwardly between Reinhard and Oberstein gradually settled into a peculiar kind of "normalcy."

Oberstein continued to visit Reinhard’s chamber. He remained by his side through the cycles of heat. Their moments of closeness and the nights they spent together, holding one another, were still marked by a careful restraint from both sides. There were no unnecessary words or touches. True to Reinhard’s request, Oberstein never kissed him again.

Yet, this closeness began to bring subtle changes to the young emperor’s life—changes that could be described as positive. Reinhard’s body began to adjust to the cycles; the fevers that had once wracked him grew less intense, and the sleepless nights gradually gave way to more peaceful rest. The crushing exhaustion that had hung over him like a storm cloud for years lightened somewhat. His doctor noted that his hormones were slowly stabilizing—though far from what one might call "normal."

As for Oberstein... it was difficult to tell if the bond held any meaning or had any impact on him. When they met at the desk for work, Oberstein was as Reinhard always remembered: cold, ruthlessly pragmatic, and almost mechanical. They exchanged very few words in public. Oberstein continued to come and go alone, paying no mind to the malicious or mocking looks from colleagues—a habit he had perfected since the beginning of his career.

Oberstein still cared for Reinhard with the same precision and thoroughness as ever, ensuring all his needs were met. However, despite the growing familiarity between them, Oberstein never stayed until dawn. Every morning, Reinhard would wake to find the other side of the bed empty, the pillows and blankets neatly arranged as though Oberstein had never been there at all.

Reinhard told himself he didn’t care—that he preferred it this way. Who would want that bored face to be the first thing they saw in the morning anyway? he reasoned. Yet, as the weeks turned into months, Reinhard realized he was beginning to stare at the empty space beside him for longer than he cared to admit. A childish, simmering frustration began to stir in his chest.

Why does he leave so quickly? Would it really be so unbearable for him to stay a little longer?

This thought gnawed at him during those brief, quiet moments at dawn, before the demands of the day took over. One night, as Oberstein was preparing to leave, Reinhard almost said it. But then he fell silent, his words caught in his throat as he looked at Oberstein’s calm, inscrutable face.

What would I even say? Ask him to stay? Ridiculous. Knowing Oberstein, he’d ask what purpose it would serve. What could I possibly answer?

Biting his lip, Reinhard clenched the blanket lightly in his fingers as he turned toward the wall. His own pride warred against him.

And so, the nights continued as they always had. Reinhard fell asleep comforted by the steady presence of Oberstein, only to wake to an empty bed and the faint trace of warmth left behind in the place where Oberstein had been.

***

But the fragile peace within the newly established Empire was inevitably disrupted.

There were always new battlefronts to open, conflicts to resolve, and territories to subdue. Deep down, Reinhard knew he needed war. His heart had grown hollow since Kircheis's death, and the adrenaline rush of a fierce battle was one of the few things that made him feel alive.

Once again, they were at war. The atmosphere in the command room was suffocating with tension. As always, Reinhard stood at the center, his commanding presence unshaken by the brutal battle. His icy blue eyes swept across the room with an air of cold detachment, his golden hair gleaming under the harsh lights. Orders were issued with his trademark authority and decisiveness.

But then, as the tide of the battle began to turn in their favor, a strangled sound escaped Reinhard's lips. His hand flew to his mouth, and his body swayed unsteadily. Before anyone could react, he doubled over, coughing violently. Deep crimson blood spilled through his fingers, staining the floor beneath him.

"Your Majesty!" one of the officers cried out, rushing forward, but Oberstein was faster. He caught Reinhard before the emperor could collapse entirely. Without a word, he lifted the young ruler into his arms.

"Move aside," Oberstein commanded, his voice sharp and icy as he carried Reinhard out of the room. Officers and guards stepped aside immediately, their faces etched with shock and concern.

In the medical bay, the doctors worked quickly. Finally, with Reinhard stabilized and lying unconscious, one of the doctors hesitantly approached Oberstein.

“Sir… It seems His Majesty has ceased taking one of the prescribed medications intended to help rebalance his body after years of inhibitors. The bleeding is not life-threatening but entirely avoidable. If he continues to refuse treatment… his condition will worsen.”

“For how long would His Majesty have to stop taking the medication to reach this state? It would be utterly irresponsible for you to let him endure such side effects over a missed dose or two.”

The doctors exchanged uneasy glances before one adjusted his glasses and replied, “For such a severe reaction, it couldn’t just be one or two doses. Based on the test results, I estimate His Majesty has been off the medication for over a month. Which means… he likely stopped when the campaign began.”

Oberstein’s brow furrowed. “Are you suggesting His Majesty deliberately stopped taking the medication? Why would he do that?”

The doctor hesitated before finally speaking. “It might have been… to maintain focus.”

Under Oberstein’s unyielding artificial gaze, the doctor slowly elaborated. The medication had a side effect of causing drowsiness. Before the campaign began, Reinhard had come to him privately, without even Hilda or Oberstein present, requesting a change to avoid losing concentration during the upcoming battles. But the doctor had explained that no alternative medications were currently available.

Oberstein’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to grow colder. The silence that followed weighed heavily on the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was frigid, sharp enough to cut.

“Leave.”

The doctor hesitated, glancing nervously at Reinhard’s still figure. “But—”

“All of you,” Oberstein repeated, “out. Now.”

One by one, the doctors and staff quietly left, casting worried looks back as they passed through the door. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the room heavy with an oppressive silence.

Oberstein turned his gaze to Reinhard’s unconscious form on the bed. For a moment, he said nothing, staring at the pale, fragile face of the young emperor. His hand clenched at his side—the only outward sign of the storm raging beneath his calm exterior.

Finally, he stepped closer, his voice low but carrying an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

“You… are recklessly beyond belief.”

Reinhard stirred, his blue eyes fluttering open under the harsh medical lights. His chest felt heavy, his body drained, and for a moment, he couldn’t recall what had happened. Then his gaze fell on Oberstein.

“Oberstein, this is…?”

“You collapsed while commanding,” Oberstein said curtly. “And you deliberately ignored prescribed treatments. Foolishness.”

Reinhard blinked, startled by the anger—and perhaps insolence—evident in Oberstein’s tone. The composed, emotionless minister he had known seemed to have vanished, replaced by a man radiating quiet fury.

“I don’t need a lecture,” Reinhard snapped, trying to sit up, only to feel a wave of dizziness and clutch his head. “I’m fine—”

“You are not fine,” Oberstein interrupted, his voice razor-sharp. “Your health is deteriorating because you refuse to follow basic medical guidance. Do you intend to destroy yourself before the Empire is even stabilized?”

Reinhard clenched his fists, his own anger boiling over. “I cannot afford to slow down, Oberstein! Those medications cloud my mind. I need to stay sharp. I need to focus. Do you think I have the luxury of lying in bed all day, waiting for my body to recover? This Empire demands more from me every single day!”

“The focus you crave will mean nothing if it kills you,” Oberstein retorted icily. “You cannot rule an empire from a coffin, Your Majesty.”

The words hit a raw nerve. Reinhard’s fury erupted. “Why do you even care? You only need me alive to fulfill your dream! Your perfect, orderly Empire! So why pretend to care? I will achieve your dream, everyone’s dream… Kircheis’s dream… even though I don’t understand why I’m still alive in a world where he doesn’t exist! Is that not enough?”

For a moment, the room was silent. Reinhard’s chest heaved with rage, his fiery blue eyes daring a response. The weight of his words hung between them like an unbearable burden.

Oberstein didn’t reply immediately, his synthetic eyes fixed on Reinhard with an unreadable expression. Yet something in his silence made Reinhard falter—a restrained storm of anger, frustration, and perhaps something deeper.

But then, as if flipping a switch, Oberstein’s composure returned. His fury was smothered beneath a layer of icy calm, and his voice, when he spoke, was as cold and detached as ever.

“If you continue down this path, there will be no Empire left to rule. No dreams to fulfill. Only a tragic legacy, undone by your own hands.”

Reinhard’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth to argue, to lash out again, but Oberstein didn’t give him the chance. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, not waiting for the young emperor’s permission to leave.

***

The term "Cold War" originated from some ancient conflict between two Earthly superpowers, long before the era of space exploration. Reinhard had little interest in such distant history. Yet, he found "cold" to be an apt description for the "war" brewing between himself and Oberstein in the days that followed.

There were no raised voices or overt arguments. The tension between Reinhard and Oberstein lay quietly beneath the meticulously ordered facade of their lives. Day after day, both continued to fulfill their roles — Reinhard as the Emperor, Oberstein as both his Alpha and the Minister of Military Affairs — but the personal bond they had built over the past months seemed to have frozen solid.

Oberstein performed his duties with his usual precision. He attended every meeting, offered his advice on every strategy, and ensured the Empire — and Reinhard — functioned like a well-maintained machine. Yet there were no quiet glances, no moments of calm reassurance, no acknowledgment of the connection they had shared. Oberstein carried out his responsibilities as an Alpha with the same efficiency as any other task.

Reinhard felt the distance keenly, though he stubbornly refused to admit it.

Despite the growing rift, Oberstein did not neglect Reinhard’s health. While he no longer stayed near during Reinhard’s rest periods, he enlisted Hilda — someone no less steadfast in her resolve — to ensure that Reinhard consistently took his medication.

Oberstein’s dedication and meticulousness remained unchanged. And though Reinhard was loath to acknowledge it, the absence of his presence bothered him far more than he cared to admit.

***

Ten days later, the campaign concluded, and they returned.

Once more, Reinhard found himself at Kircheis’s grave, a habit he had developed whenever the crushing weight of loneliness became unbearable. A light drizzle blanketed the cemetery, cold and persistent. There was no one else around; Reinhard had instructed the guards not to let anyone in.

The rain continued to fall, seeping into his very bones. Reinhard stood with his head bowed before the gravestone, his golden hair, now wet and plastered to his shoulders, forgotten in the downpour. His trembling hands clutched the locket tightly to his chest, lips brushing its cold surface. The rain hid his tears, but the anguish etched into his face was unmistakable.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps drew closer. The rain above him ceased. Startled, Reinhard turned to see Oberstein standing behind him, holding an umbrella over his head. The artificial eyes of the minister reflected the dim light of the rainy day, inscrutable as ever.

"You," Reinhard said, his voice filled with disbelief. "What are you doing here? I gave explicit orders that no one was to follow me. The guards—"

"I told them I had uncovered a plot to assassinate your sister," Oberstein replied calmly, without a hint of remorse or hesitation. "They allowed me through."

Reinhard’s fury ignited instantly, his hands clenched into fists. Through gritted teeth, he hissed, "You dared to lie about Annerose’s safety? Oberstein, you’ve overstepped your boundary—"

"Did you love him?" Oberstein’s sudden question cut through Reinhard’s anger like a knife.

Reinhard froze. He stared at Oberstein, the rain the only sound between them.

"...Oberstein, what are you talking about?"

Oberstein stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "The kiss," he said, his tone as monotonous as ever. "You once told me that a kiss is for those in love. So, did you love Siegfried Kircheis?"

The question struck Reinhard like a blow to the chest. His breath caught, his hand tightening around the locket, his wide blue eyes betraying his shock. The rawness of the moment, the intrusion into a grief so deeply private, was too much to bear. The initial astonishment quickly gave way to a searing rage.

"That is none of your business!" Reinhard shouted, his voice cutting through the rain. His blue eyes blazed with fury. "Who I love, what I do with my life, is not for you to question!"

Oberstein’s gaze remained fixed on him, unflinching in the face of Reinhard’s outburst. His voice, colder and sharper than usual, cut through the tension. "I care, Your Majesty, because of what you once said. That there was no reason to live if Kircheis was gone."

Reinhard’s jaw clenched, and his hands trembled. "And what of it? Even if I said that, what does it matter? It’s still none of your concern, Oberstein!"

The calm facade Oberstein usually maintained cracked slightly, his voice rising just enough to reveal an uncharacteristic intensity. “It becomes my concern when the Empire itself is at risk! You are not just a grieving individual mourning the loss of your closest friend—you are the ruler, the foundation of this Empire. If you choose to abandon your life in despair, you are not only abandoning yourself but also forsaking the millions who depend on you.”

Reinhard’s fists clenched tighter as Oberstein continued, his voice laced with a rare fervor.
“Managing an empire is far harder than conquering one. Anyone can fight for a throne. The real challenge lies in ruling—maintaining what you’ve built and ensuring it endures long after you are gone. And if you allow despair over one man’s death to destroy you now, it is nothing less than cowardice.”

The word hung in the air, sharp and cutting. Reinhard’s blue eyes widened, and for a moment, his anger was overshadowed by something deeper—a flicker of vulnerability, guilt. The rain continued its relentless rhythm, amplifying the tension between them as they faced each other in the cemetery.

Reinhard’s body trembled as the fury and pain within him erupted in an uncontrollable wave. His voice broke as he shouted, his hands shaking, tears streaming down his face and blending with the rain.

“Yes, I am a coward!” Reinhard screamed, his voice raw and filled with anguish, as though every word tore a piece of his soul apart. “I didn’t stop Westerland! I sat there and let it happen, knowing it would stain everything I’ve fought for—everything Kircheis fought for! I didn’t even get to apologize to him until it was too late.”

His voice grew hoarse, his grip on the locket tightening as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world. “I couldn’t tell Annerose. I couldn’t tell her that I loved Kircheis—not just as a friend, not just as someone I trusted, but as someone who…”

He took a shuddering breath, anger and sorrow pouring out uncontrollably. “And I couldn’t follow him! I couldn’t leave everything behind, no matter how much I wanted to. Because of this Empire, because of this ideal, because of my promise to Kircheis—because of all the chains I’ve bound myself with!”

Tears fell faster now, his golden hair plastered to his face, wet from the rain. Reinhard glared at Oberstein, his voice trembling with pain and defiance. “So yes, I am a coward, Oberstein! Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The rain continued to fall around them, soaking the ground beneath their feet, but the world seemed to freeze in the wake of Reinhard’s outburst. His chest heaved with each labored breath, his vulnerability laid bare.

Oberstein stood motionless for a moment, rain pouring over both of them, soaking them to the bone. Reinhard’s raw, unfiltered confession was jarring, a moment neither seemed prepared for. As Reinhard’s breathing steadied, his blue eyes burned with a mixture of rage and despair.

Then, to Reinhard’s utter astonishment, Oberstein stepped closer. Before Reinhard could react, Oberstein reached out, gripping his shoulders firmly. The umbrella in Oberstein’s hand fell to the ground, forgotten. His artificial eyes glimmered with an unusual intensity, something almost frightening in its ferocity.

“Your Majesty. The one you should hate is me.”

Oberstein’s voice was low but forceful, his grip on Reinhard’s shoulders unwavering. The words carried a weight and passion that Reinhard had never seen in him before.

“You should hate me.” Oberstein’s voice grew more resolute, his hands tightening slightly on Reinhard’s shoulders. “If you need someone to blame for Westerland, for Kircheis’s death—then blame me. Hate me with everything you have.”

Reinhard froze, stunned by the unexpected shift in Oberstein’s demeanor. The minister’s voice grew even more intense, nearly desperate.

“I was the one who suggested abandoning Westerland. I was the one who proposed treating Kircheis as equal to the other generals because I believed his influence could divide your authority. That decision indirectly led to his death. Those burdens, those choices—they are mine. Not yours.”

Oberstein’s words came in a rush, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the cold rain and the suffocating grief surrounding them.

“Hate me, Your Majesty. If it eases your pain, then despise me with all your heart. But do not destroy yourself. Do not carry these burdens alone.”

Reinhard’s breath caught, his body trembling. Oberstein’s words pierced through the fragile armor Reinhard had constructed around himself. The rain fell steadily, a cold and relentless reminder of the reality they stood in.

Chapter Text

7.

In the end, both of them were soaked from the rain.

As they silently walked out of the cemetery together, Reinhard could feel the fever returning. Since his collapse in the command room, his body had become more prone to minor illnesses—a consequence, the doctors had said, of his reckless decision to stop taking his medication.

Oberstein held the umbrella over both of them as before. He remained quiet for a moment before finally saying, “I’m sorry.”

Reinhard didn’t respond, only shaking his head wearily. He needed to change into dry clothes and take a hot bath immediately, and since Oberstein’s residence was quite close, they made the logical, pragmatic decision to stop there—under the pretense of the emperor paying a visit to one of his officials.

***

When they arrived at Oberstein's apartment, Reinhard's fever had left his head feeling as though it were floating, but he still managed to take note of his surroundings. The apartment was small, neat, and so impeccably clean that it felt almost unnatural. Every piece of furniture was utilitarian, in muted colors, arranged in a minimalistic layout. One could only describe it as dull.

"Here are towels and clean clothes. The hot water is ready. You should wash up first. My housekeeper will take care of drying and cleaning your clothes," Oberstein said, then added, "He is discreet. There’s no need for concern."

Reinhard nodded and took the set of clothes. Judging by their size, he assumed they belonged to Oberstein. A simple gray set of pajamas, devoid of any patterns, made from an unremarkable material—just as unexciting as the man himself.

When Reinhard finished bathing and returned to the living room, he found himself alone. Oberstein must have gone to attend to something—perhaps arranging the logistics to return Reinhard safely. Surely, he also needed to take a turn under the hot water. For a long moment, it was just Reinhard in the quiet room.

Reinhard let his eyes wander across the silent space. A bookshelf covered an entire wall, with books meticulously arranged, even labeled by category as if it were a library. Most were old volumes on philosophy, political theory, and military strategy. On the shelf sat a framed photograph—Oberstein posed with a group of cadets in military academy uniforms. He stood at the far left of the photo, so unassuming and marginal that one could easily miss him entirely. Beside it was a glass case holding a handkerchief embroidered with a few initials, though Reinhard was too far away to read them. A few small objects—seemingly mementos—were carefully placed near the window.

The stark cleanliness of the space made these personal touches stand out even more, and Reinhard's curiosity stirred, despite the lingering fever and fatigue. At the same time, another question surfaced in his mind: Why did he know so little about Oberstein?

When their relationship began, Reinhard had dismissed Oberstein's suggestion of “getting to know one another” with a mocking laugh. He had thought there was nothing left to learn about this man. Indeed, he and Kircheis had thoroughly investigated Oberstein’s background, record, work history, and capabilities before bringing him into their circle. Reinhard knew all the facts. But now, sitting in Oberstein's apartment, Reinhard realized he knew nothing about the man beyond that.

To Reinhard, Oberstein’s silent presence beside him had always seemed like an immutable constant, so predictable it became mundane—like the turning of the seasons, like the inevitable end of night and the rise of dawn. It had been so long that Reinhard no longer noticed it.

***

When Oberstein entered with Reinhard's medication, he unknowingly interrupted the young emperor’s swirling thoughts. “Here’s your medicine,” he said, placing a glass of warm water on the table. “You need to take it to keep warm.”

“…Don’t you have tea, coffee, or something else?” Reinhard asked, wrinkling his nose reflexively.

“You shouldn’t drink tea or coffee right now. And I don’t have other drinks,” Oberstein replied matter-of-factly, his artificial eyes scanning Reinhard as if to assess his condition.

Reinhard accepted the pills and swallowed them in silence. The fever made his thoughts sluggish, but one question continued to nag at him: Who are you really, Paul von Oberstein?

The silence between them grew heavy. Reinhard was too fatigued to speak, and Oberstein seemed too focused on monitoring his condition to make conversation. After their earlier exchange in the cemetery, it was unsurprising that neither of them wanted to talk.

Suddenly, a faint clattering sound came from the direction of the door.

It wasn’t quite like a knock—more like an odd tapping. Reinhard instinctively reached for a weapon. Oberstein, however, didn’t appear concerned. Rising calmly, he walked to the living room door and opened it.

Then, a dog burst inside, wagging its tail excitedly before almost launching itself into Oberstein’s arms.

Reinhard blinked in astonishment, straightening up slightly despite his feverish haze. The dog placed its front paws on Oberstein’s legs, gazing up at him with an eager, almost childlike adoration. To Reinhard’s greater surprise, Oberstein—usually so stoic and distant—leaned down and gently scratched behind the dog’s ears.

Reinhard just stared, unsure how to process what he was seeing. After a long pause, he finally managed to speak. “Oberstein, you… own a dog?”

Without looking up, Oberstein continued to pet the dog with slow, deliberate motions. “His name is Fritz,” he replied. “I’ve had him for a few years.”

“I never imagined you as the type to keep a dog,” Reinhard said, his surprise entirely genuine. In truth, he couldn’t reconcile the image of the cold, calculating Oberstein with the idea of him caring for a pet.

“This dog followed me home one day,” Oberstein explained after a brief pause. “Leaving him on the street would’ve been… inconvenient.”

Not "pitiful" or "tragic." Just "inconvenient," Reinhard thought, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at Oberstein’s typical phrasing. It was the first time Reinhard had laughed in what felt like ages.

Unbeknownst to him, his sharp blue eyes softened as he watched the interaction. The contrast between Oberstein’s usual demeanor and the tenderness he showed Fritz unsettled Reinhard in an inexplicable way. For a brief moment, Oberstein even smiled—a rare, fleeting expression that carried an unexpected warmth.

It was a smile Reinhard had never seen before, not even during their most intimate moments.

A distant memory surfaced: a strategic meeting long ago where Reuenthal and Mittermeier had been discussing Oberstein in his absence. “I heard our military minister likes dogs. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Only a dog could like Oberstein,” Mittermeier had joked, his tone light and teasing. Reuenthal had smirked and added, “Even that might be a stretch.”

Reinhard had laughed along and forgotten the conversation minutes later. But now, watching Fritz lick Oberstein’s hand with unrestrained joy, and seeing the faint, gentle smile on Oberstein’s face, the memory returned with an unexpected sting. What had once seemed like harmless banter now carried a strange cruelty. Mocking Oberstein’s cold demeanor was one thing, but ridiculing the idea that he might show or receive affection felt different. It felt wrong.

Feeling uncomfortable and slightly ashamed, Reinhard shifted in his seat and frowned. Oberstein turned, noticing the movement, and asked, “Are you feeling unwell, Your Majesty?”

“No, I just…” Reinhard shook his head. “I didn’t expect you to keep a pet. It surprised me.”

Oberstein glanced at him briefly before guiding Fritz to sit by his side. “Fritz is a low-maintenance dog,” he said plainly. “He needs care and loyalty, and he reciprocates in kind. That’s sufficient.”

Reinhard nodded faintly, unsure how to respond. His gaze rested on Fritz, who now sat obediently by Oberstein’s side, wagging his tail lightly. There was something oddly comforting about the scene—a rare glimpse into a different side of Oberstein that Reinhard had never seen.

On impulse, Reinhard extended a hand toward Fritz, intending to pat the dog. But Fritz growled softly and retreated behind Oberstein.

Reinhard frowned, pulling his hand back as a flicker of irritation crossed his fevered expression. “Your dog doesn’t seem to like me.”

Oberstein glanced at Fritz, his artificial eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s strange. Usually, he only dislikes cats.”

Reinhard fixed Oberstein with a sharp glare. “Don’t tell me you keep cats, too.”

“No. The neighbor’s cats. And I don’t like them either,” Oberstein said, running his hand lightly over Fritz’s head. “Dogs are straightforward. They express their feelings openly, showing you whether they like or trust you without ambiguity. Cats are the opposite—their faces never change, and it’s impossible to tell what they’re thinking.”

Reinhard stared at Oberstein’s emotionless face for a moment, suppressing a sudden urge to laugh. 

Do you ever look in a mirror, Oberstein?

Fritz continued wagging his tail as Oberstein scratched behind his ears, oblivious to the tension in the room. Oberstein’s face had returned to its usual calm neutrality, a stark contrast to the fierce intensity he’d shown earlier in the cemetery.

Reuenthal and Mittermeier always compare you to a dog. But you’re more like a cat, Oberstein , Reinhard thought, his fevered mind racing. Always inscrutable, always unreadable. Do you even realize you’re describing yourself?

***

Oberstein’s housekeeper brought in a bowl of hot soup, and Oberstein suggested that Reinhard should eat something before heading back. Reinhard nodded, realizing just how hungry he was. They ate dinner in the room while Fritz lay curled up at Oberstein’s feet, sound asleep and looking utterly content.

As the meal went on, the tension that had filled the room earlier began to dissipate. Their conversation, initially stilted and cautious, gradually drifted toward light, trivial topics. They spoke of books Reinhard had read that also happened to be on Oberstein’s shelves, or acquaintances from Oberstein’s days at the military academy—those were in the photograph on the shelf. For a fleeting moment, Oberstein’s usually stoic eyes softened as he spoke about them, though he added that most of them had since perished.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Reinhard said quietly, shaking his head.

“It’s fine, Your Majesty. This is war. Everyone loses someone,” Oberstein replied, his voice quiet.

Reinhard’s gaze drifted back to the bookshelf. He wanted to steer his thoughts away from the dangerous path Oberstein’s words had nudged them toward—he was too tired to face them tonight. But his mind seemed to draw a blank. Thankfully, Oberstein began talking about caring for Fritz.

“He only likes chicken cooked until it’s incredibly tender. Sometimes, I’ve had to get up in the middle of the night to buy some,” Oberstein remarked with a matter-of-fact tone.

Reinhard blinked in surprise, vaguely recalling hearing rumors of something like this before but never paying them any mind. The image of his Minister of Military Affair waking in the dead of night to buy chicken for his pet—and not just any chicken, but one prepared to specific standards—was so absurdly out of character that Reinhard couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

Through these small anecdotes, told in Oberstein’s typically measured voice, Reinhard felt himself relaxing more than he had in days. The tension he had been carrying around started to melt away.

And he realized, somewhere along the way, that the “cold war” between them might have ended.

There was no dramatic reconciliation, no formal declaration of peace. But the fact that they could sit here, share a simple meal, and exchange trivial stories was enough. It was, perhaps, all they needed.

***

When Oberstein mentioned that Reinhard's clothes were dry and it was time for him to return, Reinhard remained silent for a long moment. Oberstein stood up, beginning to gather the necessary items and prepare for their departure. Reinhard silently watched him, feeling an unfamiliar weight pressing down in his chest.

He already knew how the night would play out. Oberstein would escort him back to his vast, empty chambers. He would linger briefly—just long enough to ensure Reinhard was safe. Then, as always, Oberstein would slip away quietly before dawn. Reinhard might fall into a deep, exhausted sleep. Or perhaps he would lie awake for hours, listening to the echo of the closing door, alone in the darkness, confronting his own solitude.

But tonight, something inside Reinhard rebelled against that expectation. When Oberstein reached for the door, intending to open it, Reinhard suddenly grabbed Oberstein’s wrist.

The older man froze, turning back to face him with his usual calm demeanor, though there was a flicker of surprise in his artificial eyes.

“…I want to stay here tonight,” Reinhard said softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “And I want… you to stay with me until morning.”

After the emotional outburst at the cemetery earlier, Reinhard no longer had the strength to face his vast, desolate chambers alone.

For a moment, the room fell into silence, broken only by the faint rustling of Fritz shifting under the chair Oberstein had occupied earlier. Reinhard’s grip on Oberstein’s wrist loosened slightly but did not let go entirely, the uncertainty and vulnerability clear on his face. The rawness of his request, the sheer desperation it revealed, made his chest tighten with the fear of exposing yet another weakness to Oberstein.

Oberstein’s expression remained unchanged as he studied Reinhard intently, his gaze unblinking. Then, after a long pause, he gave a quiet nod and said, “…Let me prepare.”

Reinhard exhaled softly, a mixture of relief and embarrassment flooding through him as he leaned back into the sofa. As Oberstein stepped out of the room, Reinhard tilted his head to look out the window at the night sky of Odin.

At least tonight… Reinhard wouldn’t have to face being alone.

***

They moved into Oberstein's bedroom afterward.

The room was much smaller than Reinhard's chambers and just as plain and utilitarian as the living room. Yet, in Reinhard's current state of heightened sensitivity, that simplicity was oddly comforting. The tension in his body began to dissipate, replaced by the gentle fatigue of impending sleep. Staring up at the ceiling, Reinhard tried to block out thoughts of the day's events. His gaze eventually rested on Oberstein. The man’s presence and his uninspiring yet solid embrace brought an unfamiliar sense of safety.

“Oberstein,” Reinhard murmured, stifling a yawn, fishing for a casual question to distract himself. “The handkerchief on your shelf… who gave it to you? A lady? Or perhaps a male omega?”

Oberstein’s brow furrowed slightly, his artificial eyes reflecting the dim light in the room. He remained silent for a moment. Then he replied, “It was a gift from my mother. She passed away many years ago.”

Reinhard blinked, surprised, and then felt a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he mumbled, quickly trying to lighten the mood. “...I assumed it was a gift from a lover or fiancée.”

Still holding Reinhard, Oberstein said quietly, “I’ve never had any significant romantic relationships.”

“Not one?” Reinhard frowned, turning his head slightly. “That’s hard to believe!”

“I’ve been to a few dinners with people, arranged by my family and friends.” Oberstein explained, causing Reinhard’s eyes to widen at the revelation that Oberstein had family and friends . “But no one could tolerate someone as ‘boring’ as me. They all left after the first meeting.”

For a moment, Reinhard was taken aback by Oberstein’s candor. Then, unexpectedly, he burst into laughter—a full, genuine laugh that he couldn’t stop. Despite knowing it might be rude, the image of Oberstein attending a date with flowers in hand but wearing the same dour expression he brought to military briefings was too much for Reinhard to suppress.

Oberstein raised an eyebrow. “You find that amusing, Your Majesty?”

Reinhard only laughed harder. And for the first time in what felt like ages, he experienced something like… relaxing. The burdens of the Empire, Kircheis’s death, and his own insecurities all felt, for a fleeting moment, lighter.

When his laughter finally subsided, Reinhard closed his eyes and rested his head against Oberstein’s chest, murmuring drowsily, “You are… really boring. But sometimes, that’s not a bad thing, Oberstein…”

Oberstein didn’t respond. He simply held him in silence. In the darkness, Reinhard could almost feel—surely it was just his imagination—that Oberstein’s arms tightened around him slightly. As sleep began to claim him, Reinhard recalled the conversation that had just passed, his lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile.

I laughed , Reinhard thought, his chest tightening. Truly laughed—for the first time since Kircheis was gone.

Unconsciously, Reinhard shifted closer to Oberstein. And nestled in the man’s arms, Reinhard finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Text

8.

After that night, Oberstein began staying overnight instead of leaving before dawn as he had before.

The first time it happened, Reinhard woke up, startled by the warmth surrounding him. His sharp blue eyes widened as he realized he was leaning against Oberstein, whose arm was still wrapped around him. Oberstein's artificial eyes were closed, and his breathing was steady.

This was the first time Reinhard had ever seen Oberstein asleep.

The usually rigid lines of Oberstein’s face seemed softened, his expression devoid of the usual indifference or harshness he wore while awake. His face looked peaceful, serene—a side of him Reinhard had never imagined.

Reinhard’s first instinct was to pull away, a surge of embarrassment rising in his chest. But something stopped him. He found himself staring at the sleeping face of the man beside him.

At this moment, Oberstein looked… human, Reinhard thought, then gave a weak chuckle at the absurdity of it. Yet he understood why the thought had crossed his mind.

And so, Oberstein stayed each night. Neither of them mentioned this change. When Reinhard woke up, he no longer felt surprised to find Oberstein holding him—or, on occasion, already awake and reviewing documents for the morning’s meeting. Before bed, they began talking more about things unrelated to work—like Fritz's recent illness, for instance. The quiet, cold man now brought Reinhard a sense of… reliability. Not warmth, not affection, but reliability. Reinhard valued that stability in ways he hadn’t expected, though he rarely voiced it.

But deep inside, Reinhard’s guilt lingered.

There were mornings when he would wake, look down at Oberstein, and feel a sharp pain in his heart. This is not Kircheis, he reminded himself, clutching the pendant in his hand. I shouldn’t need this. I shouldn’t want this.

What Reinhard didn’t know was that on those early mornings, when he held the pendant and lost himself in thoughts of Kircheis, Oberstein had already woken and seen everything. Yet Oberstein remained silent, closing his eyes and pretending to still be asleep.

***

Then, on a day when they attended a ceremonial event together, an ambush occurred.

It seemed the attackers had prepared meticulously, catching the guards off-guard and forcing them to prioritize Reinhard's evacuation.

The sound of gunfire still echoed in Reinhard's ears as he turned back for one last look at the situation before departing with the guards. Suddenly, Reinhard froze. His sharp blue eyes locked onto the figure of a man slumped against the hallway wall—Oberstein.

Blood pooled across the polished marble floor. The sight gripped Reinhard like a vice, his mind freezing as if time itself had rewound. Red . That was all he could see, all he could think of. Blood on the ground. Blood in the air. Kircheis.

He couldn’t move. His breaths quickened, his usually sharp thoughts blurred, swept away by the memory of Kircheis’s lifeless body in his arms. Kircheis’s brilliant red hair mingled with the dark crimson of blood—a merciless image. His chest tightened painfully, and the world around him began to fade.

“Your Majesty! Go now.” Oberstein’s voice cut through the haze. Reinhard blinked, startled. The call had dragged him back to reality. Oberstein, though his uniform was stained crimson and his pain was evident, was looking directly at him with his usual calm.

Turning to the anxious soldiers and guards nearby, Oberstein spoke firmly, “I’m fine.” For a moment, Reinhard had the impression that he was saying it for the young emperor’s benefit. His voice was steady, almost indifferent, as though the bleeding wound at his side was of no consequence. “Ensure His Majesty’s safety. Escort him to the evacuation point immediately.”

Reinhard’s lips parted, but no words came out. His gaze remained fixed on the blood, the vivid red spreading across Oberstein’s uniform. The sight seemed to drag Reinhard back toward the abyss that had once consumed him.

“Your Majesty,” Oberstein repeated, louder this time, his gaze locking onto Reinhard’s with unwavering determination. “Please proceed to the evacuation point.”

Reinhard snapped out of it. He gave a stiff nod, allowing the guards to guide him away. But even as he moved, his eyes remained fixed on Oberstein, unease churning violently within his chest.

***

Oberstein watched as Reinhard departed, the emperor’s golden hair gradually disappearing into the dim light of the corridor. He remained leaning against the wall, blood soaking his uniform and spreading into a dark red pool at his feet.

Glancing down, Oberstein quickly assessed the wound. It wasn’t critical, but its location made it prone to heavy bleeding. In truth, he had already lost so much blood that the soldiers nearby were growing visibly alarmed. Yet his training and discipline kept Oberstein’s composure intact.

The more pressing reason for Oberstein’s calm demeanor, however, was Reinhard’s reaction.

When Reinhard had seen him like that, the young emperor had frozen, his sharp eyes dulling, his breathing heavy. A flashback , Oberstein concluded instantly. He’s seeing Kircheis’s death.

Oberstein didn’t believe himself to hold any particular emotional value for Reinhard. It was simply that Kircheis’s death was a wound Reinhard carried constantly. And this incident, with its similarities, had struck a nerve, shaking Reinhard deeply. That was why Oberstein had deliberately spoken loudly and firmly—a calculated move to pull Reinhard back to the present.

I cannot allow myself to collapse here. Even if His Majesty doesn’t care much about my condition, I cannot let him spiral into another episode of panic caused by those memories. That is unacceptable.

Oberstein shifted slightly, and a sharp pain flared in his side. He took a deep breath. The wound could be treated. The pain didn’t matter. 

The soldiers beside him helped Oberstein move. His head swam slightly from the blood loss, but he ignored it.

This is my role , Oberstein thought with cold logic, even as his consciousness began to blur. To ensure His Majesty’s safety and stability, no matter the cost. The pain doesn’t matter..

When the evacuation was complete and the last threat neutralized, Oberstein allowed himself to sit down, carefully pressing his hand to his side to stem the bleeding. His body felt heavy, the world tilting as his thoughts began to slow.

But even then, as exhaustion overtook him, Oberstein’s priorities remained clear: His Majesty was safe. That was enough.

***

Reinhard sat in the command room of the evacuation zone.

Reports were delivered one after another by officers and generals. He reviewed everything with practiced precision, his mind focused on maintaining control. Yet beneath the surface, a persistent unease gnawed at him.

Reinhard gripped the edge of the desk as another vivid red image filled his mind. Blood. Blood staining Oberstein’s uniform, pooling beneath him. Reinhard shook his head, forcing himself to refocus on the work in front of him. I’ve seen blood countless times. This is nothing.

But the memory of Kircheis’s lifeless body, his brilliant red hair blending with deep crimson blood, refused to leave. The overlap between that memory and the image of Oberstein slumped against the corridor wall sent a shiver through Reinhard’s chest.

“Your Majesty,” an officer called, placing a report on the desk before him. Reinhard nodded slightly, his sharp blue eyes scanning the document. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, as he tried to suppress the rising tide of unease. Focus. There’s nothing wrong.

Yet, the more reports were delivered, whether in person or via communication devices, the stronger Reinhard’s unease grew. Each time someone entered the room or sent a message, he found himself hoping it was Oberstein. The absence of the man became increasingly apparent, chipping away at his concentration.

Finally, when Hilda entered, her expression calm but tinged with a subtle trace of concern, Reinhard straightened in his seat, an ominous feeling stirring within him.

“Your Majesty,” she began, her tone steady but carrying something Reinhard couldn’t quite define. “Minister Oberstein was injured during the evacuation. He collapsed from blood loss after ensuring the route was secure. He has since been taken to the medical bay.”

Reinhard froze for a fraction of a second, her words striking him like a blow. The report in his hand slipped to the floor, swaying through the air unnoticed. His mind reeled, images of Oberstein bleeding on the corridor floor intertwining with memories of Kircheis’s motionless body.

But Reinhard’s face remained calm. His expression didn’t change as he leaned slightly forward, clasping his hands together as though nothing had happened. “What is his condition?” he asked, his voice as composed as if inquiring about any other officer.

Hilda hesitated briefly, observing him before responding. “The medics report that he is stable and only requires rest.”

Reinhard nodded slightly, his composure unshaken. “Good. Thank you.” He gestured for her to leave, his gaze returning to the desk before him. Yet his heart pounded in his chest, each beat hammering against the mask he wore.

In another corner of the room, Mittermeyer frowned slightly, leaning toward Reuenthal. “Did you see that?” he whispered. “His Majesty’s reaction when Hilda mentioned Oberstein was injured? It was… strange.”

Reuenthal raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Mittermeyer hesitated, his eyes flicking back to Reinhard. “He seemed startled… almost shaken. It’s not like him.”

Reuenthal chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re imagining things. There’s no way His Majesty would be affected by Oberstein being injured. If anything, he’d probably feel relieved to be rid of him for a while.”

Mittermeyer frowned, his eyes narrowing in doubt. “Even so… it felt odd.”

Reuenthal waved a hand dismissively, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s Oberstein. If he were to die, no one would mourn him—least of all His Majesty.”

***

The next day, Reinhard returned to work with his usual sharpness and efficiency. Outwardly, he maintained a calm demeanor, but his mind was elsewhere.

Paul von Oberstein.

The name lingered in his thoughts, surfacing every time his focus strayed. Hilda’s reassurances from the previous day echoed faintly, yet they weren’t enough to dispel the tight unease coiled in his chest.

The medics report that he is stable and only needs rest.

Reinhard gritted his teeth, his sharp blue eyes scanning a report without absorbing a single word. Then why do I feel this way?

A thought struck him suddenly: Should I visit Oberstein? It wasn’t unusual for a commander to visit an injured officer. It was a gesture of morale-boosting, a sign of care from a leader to their subordinate. Yet another thought crept in, bringing fresh unease: What if his condition is worse than Hilda described? What if what I see is something I cannot bear?

His grip tightened on the pen in his hand, his thoughts spiraling into images he desperately didn’t want to envision—Oberstein, pale and lifeless, blood pooling around him, a cruel replay of Kircheis’s final moments. The memory constricted around him, sharp and painful, threatening to unravel the careful control he had so painstakingly maintained. I cannot see that happen again.

Reinhard exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming restlessly against the desk. He was the emperor, the conqueror of the galaxy… and yet, here he was, paralyzed by hesitation over a simple visit. The thought amused and irritated him, but it did little to soothe the conflict within.

Another report was delivered, this one detailing the civilian impact of the assassination attempt. Reinhard seized it eagerly, using it as a distraction. The people come first , he told himself. I should focus on the damage they have suffered. 

But as he read the report, his mind drifted again—to Oberstein. The cold, artificial gaze of his eyes, the calm tone in his voice as he cut through the chaos to direct the guards. The brief tension that flickered across his usually composed face as he stood there, bleeding, yet completing his duty.

Reinhard placed a hand over his chest, trying to breathe evenly, but the tightness in his chest refused to subside. He tried to convince himself that keeping his distance was the right choice, but the dull ache in his chest told a different story.

I want to see him.

The admission surprised even Reinhard as he voiced it silently to himself.

I want to see him. But why?

***

The sterile glow of the hospital lights was the first thing Oberstein noticed when he opened his eyes.

His artificial eyes adjusted to the brightness, scanning the room around him. A standard recovery room—efficient and unadorned. The pain in his side reminded him of his injury, though it no longer seemed critical. The medics had done their work well. Very efficient.

A nurse entered the room, offering a polite smile as she checked the monitor beside his bed.

“Good morning, Minister Oberstein. Your condition has stabilized, but you should rest a bit longer.”

Oberstein shook his head slightly, his voice calm yet firm.

“Not necessary. If there’s no further danger, I’d like to be evaluated for discharge.”

The nurse hesitated but nodded. Then, as if remembering something, she gestured toward the corner of the room, where a small bouquet and a card sat on a table.

“The Emperor has sent his regards to all injured soldiers, informing them of his safety,” she said. “Flowers and thank-you cards have been distributed to everyone recovering from the incident.”

Oberstein’s gaze shifted to the bouquet. The arrangement was neat and formulaic, the card bearing a generic message of thanks, likely signed by an aide or official on the Emperor’s behalf. A standard procedure, one Reinhard was likely unaware of.

I’ve drafted similar messages countless times, Oberstein thought.

He gave a slight nod. “I see.” Then, almost offhandedly, he asked, “Has anyone called for me or come to visit?”

The nurse paused, her smile faltering slightly. “Not yet, sir.”

Oberstein remained silent. Then, looking up, he spoke decisively. “I’ll need a fresh uniform to be discharged.”

“But Minister, you should stay for at least another day for observation. You’ve lost a significant amount of blood, and—”

“I have work to do,” Oberstein interrupted, his tone unyielding.

Recognizing the futility of arguing, the nurse sighed and left to retrieve a uniform. Oberstein carefully sat up, ignoring the dull ache in his side, and swung his legs off the bed. The bouquet and card remained untouched in the corner of the room.

When the nurse returned, he changed quickly, his movements precise and deliberate as always. The new uniform, pristine and neatly pressed, restored his composed appearance. No one would suspect the injury concealed beneath the fabric.

Oberstein left the infirmary, his steps steady despite the lingering dizziness. The hospital corridor buzzed with activity. Families and loved ones gathered around injured soldiers, welcoming them back with voices full of relief and affection. Laughter and words of gratitude filled the air.

Oberstein walked alone, his expression as unreadable as ever. Good. Everything is in order, he thought, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. The Empire’s soldiers are cared for, and the work continues. The Emperor remains safe. That is enough.

Yet as he passed the beaming faces, the tearful reunions, and the embraces shared between others, a faint ache stirred deep within him—a pain he refused to dwell on.

He stepped outside into the cool air, the noise of the bustling corridor fading behind him.

***

That night, Reinhard went to the hospital where the injured soldiers were being treated.

The day’s work had been relentless, but his mind kept returning to the image of blood pooling on the polished marble floor. His chest tightened with unease as his gloved hands clenched and unclenched. This is merely a matter of protocol, he told himself, trying to control the strange anxiety creeping into his demeanor. I am here to acknowledge the sacrifices of all the wounded soldiers.

Yet, even as he repeated that reasoning in his mind, he knew what truly lingered there.

I need to see him.

Entering the medical wing, Reinhard maintained his composed exterior, his sharp blue eyes scanning the hallways. Hospital staff lined up to greet him.

“I am here to recognize the efforts of those injured in yesterday’s attack,” he said, his tone commanding.

Reinhard was led through the hospital rooms. He shook hands and thanked the wounded soldiers, who seemed deeply moved. He also expressed his gratitude to the doctors and nurses tending to the injured. Then, just as the visit was nearing its end, Reinhard asked the hospital director, “Where is Minister Oberstein? I heard reports that he was also being treated here.”

“Your Majesty, Minister Oberstein left this afternoon.”

Reinhard blinked, the information taking a moment to register.

“He left already?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” a nurse replied. “He insisted on returning to work, despite our advice to stay for further observation.”

Reinhard pressed his lips tightly together, his mind whirling with conflicting emotions. Oberstein’s stubbornness was hardly surprising, yet his early departure, with his wounds still fresh, left Reinhard feeling uneasy.

So he’s fine, Reinhard thought, trying to reassure himself. The injury must not have been serious.

But the heavy feeling in his chest didn’t subside. Instead, it seemed to deepen, leaving behind a dull ache he couldn’t explain.

The doctors and staff saw Reinhard off at the hospital gates. As he stepped outside, he paused for a moment, glancing back at the building behind him. Oberstein must be fine, he repeated silently, trying to dispel the nagging unease. He’s never stopped working. There’s nothing to worry about.

Yet, as he turned to leave, his steps felt heavier. The hollow ache in his chest remained, threading through him like a weight he couldn’t shed.

It’s nothing, he told himself. This is better.

But the emptiness lingered, a quiet reminder of something he couldn’t name—and didn’t dare fully admit.

***

Oberstein returned to his home in the early evening, his steps heavier than usual.

The dull ache in his side reminded him of his injury, though the doctors had assured him it would heal without complications. As he pushed the door open, Fritz bounded toward him, tail wagging in unrestrained excitement.

Oberstein paused, his expression softening ever so slightly. Placing his briefcase down carefully, he knelt with deliberate care to avoid aggravating his wound. He gently patted Fritz on the head, scratching behind the dog’s ears. Fritz eagerly licked his hand, and Oberstein let out a quiet chuckle.

“You waited a long time for me last night, didn’t you?”

He stood and walked into the small kitchen, taking Fritz’s bowl and filling it with food.

“I couldn’t get any chicken for you today, so this will have to do.”

The dog wagged its tail, diving eagerly into its meal while Oberstein watched, a faint smile flickering across his lips.

He crouched again, lightly patting Fritz as the dog ate. “I hope,” Oberstein murmured thoughtfully, “that you die before I do.”

Fritz paused briefly, looking up at him, tail still wagging. Oberstein continued, his hand gently stroking the dog’s back. “So that I can ensure you’re taken care of properly when the time comes. You always rely on me. If there’s no one else to care for you, it would be… inconvenient.”

Fritz returned to his meal, tail wagging steadily, oblivious to the weight behind his master’s words. Oberstein slowly straightened, taking care not to strain his injury, and leaned against the kitchen counter. His gaze drifted out the window, where the distant lights of Odin’s cityscape twinkled faintly.

Perhaps this dog is the only one who wants me to keep living.

The thought emerged quietly but resolutely, like so many others in his mind.

Oberstein reflected on the people in his life—the soldiers and officers under his command, the officials he worked with, and the Emperor. Reinhard von Lohengramm, the man to whom Oberstein had pledged unwavering loyalty. They would undoubtedly continue to thrive without him. If Oberstein were to disappear, it would be noted in the Empire’s records, perhaps mentioned briefly in the annals of history, but nothing more.

No one would mourn if I didn’t return one day.

Chapter Text

9.

Oberstein returned to work swiftly afterward.

In the strategy room, he resumed his usual place, calm and composed, with his perpetually stoic expression. His artificial eyes glinted faintly as he reviewed a document, seemingly unfazed by his injury. Only with prolonged observation might one notice a slight stiffness in his movements.

Even Reinhard didn’t see any signs of Oberstein’s injury. His heat hadn’t come yet, and outside of those periods, they did not have sexual activities. On the nights Oberstein stayed in Reinhard’s chambers, it was merely to be nearby, to hold him, letting the scent of an alpha help suppress the biological chaos Reinhard experienced.

That was simply Oberstein’s way—never doing anything unnecessary. And Reinhard, too, remained silent, deciding not to address the matter. After all, Oberstein had recovered and returned to work. That meant his injury wasn’t a problem, right?

But every time Reinhard glanced at Oberstein, his chest tightened with a peculiar mix of guilt and unease. Oberstein had been injured yet was still here, working as if nothing had happened. Still coming to his chamber regularly.

Is he in pain? Should he be standing, walking, or working like this?

Reinhard didn’t tell Oberstein about his visit to the hospital after he had already left. Nor did he admit how, at that moment, a powerful urge had overtaken him: I need to see him.

To say it out loud would mean acknowledging the growing concern within him—a concern that shouldn’t exist in a relationship built on restraint and principle. It’s none of my business, Reinhard told himself firmly. He’s working as usual. There’s no need to intervene.

Yet the memory of Oberstein slumped against the wall, dark red blood pooling on the floor around him, lingered in Reinhard’s mind. It overlapped with memories of Kircheis, suffocating him with waves of guilt. Each time, Reinhard would shake his head slightly, trying to push the thoughts away.

***

Reinhard sat in his vast office, the expansive space framed by towering windows behind him. The golden light of a beautiful afternoon streamed in, illuminating his hair so it gleamed as if lit from within. It was a perfect day, yet it did nothing to ease the tension weighing heavily in his chest. His sharp blue eyes skimmed the latest reports, each one adding to the burden of his thoughts.

That morning, the officials had approached him again, their tones polite yet firm: Your Majesty, you should marry. The Empire needs an heir.

Reinhard’s hands gripped the edge of the desk as the weight of their words bore down on him. Marriage. Children. He understood the practical necessity of their demand. After all, this was the Empire’s greatest vulnerability—everything depended on Reinhard. The Empire would crumble if something happened to him. This was precisely the weakness Yang Wenli had exploited in nearly destroying his flagship during their last confrontation—a dangerous moment Reinhard had only survived thanks to Hilda’s quick thinking. He needed an heir to ensure the Empire’s stability. Reinhard knew this well.

Yet the prospect filled him with an indescribable unease. Reinhard’s anxiety stemmed from a secret known to only a handful: Reinhard was an omega.

He leaned back in his chair, his thoughts in turmoil. If I marry, they’ll expect an heir. If they know I’m an omega, they’ll expect me to bear a child. The thought sent a chill down his spine. The image of himself, pregnant, vulnerable, and exposed for what he truly was, was unbearable.

Still, he couldn’t outright reject the officials’ request. Their logic was sound. But logic did nothing to quell the fear simmering beneath his composed exterior.

Kircheis … Reinhard’s thoughts turned, unbidden, to his childhood friend. His hand unconsciously reached for the pendant he always carried.

When Kircheis was alive… when they were children, life had been so much simpler. Their only dream had been the stars in their eyes. There were no concerns of flesh and blood—no talk of marriage, sex, or children. But Reinhard knew he could never return to those innocent days.

A calm voice broke his reverie. “Your Majesty, the latest security measures have been implemented. Would you like a report?”

Reinhard blinked, momentarily startled, then nodded. His hand still unconsciously played with the pendant. “Yes. Go ahead.”

Oberstein’s sharp eyes briefly lingered on Reinhard’s hand, but he said nothing and began his report.

As Oberstein spoke, Reinhard forced himself to focus on his words, though his thoughts remained fractured. The sight of Oberstein standing there—steady and composed even after being injured—brought Reinhard an odd sense of reassurance. He’s been through worse, and yet he remains steadfast, Reinhard thought. Maybe I can, too.

But as his mind returned to the pressing concerns of the Empire, his unease resurfaced. Marriage, an heir, his own fears—they hung over him like an inescapable shadow. In the quieter moments, his gaze drifted toward Oberstein, as though seeking a sense of stability from the man who seemed so unwavering, so unshakable.

Yet even Oberstein, Reinhard thought, recalling the blood pooling at Oberstein’s feet that day, was not an unyielding rock. Even he could be hurt.

***

That night, the quiet of the room was broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows, mingling with the steady rhythm of their breathing. Reinhard lay on the bed beside Oberstein, his golden hair splayed across the pillow, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, weighed down by his thoughts.

The day’s conversations refused to leave him in peace, the officials’ demands for an heir digging ever deeper into his mind. He had tried to push the issue aside, but as time passed, the weight of it became unbearable. Finally, in a rare moment of hesitation, Reinhard broke the silence.

“Oberstein,” he began tentatively. “What do you think… about the matter of an heir? Many have been pressing me on it.”

Oberstein turned his head slightly, his artificial eyes catching the faint light from the window. For a moment, he was silent, as though calculating the most appropriate response.

“It is a legitimate concern, Your Majesty,” he replied calmly, his voice devoid of hesitation. “The officials are correct. Ensuring the royal lineage is essential for the stability of the Empire.”

Reinhard frowned, his fingers tightening on the edge of the blanket. “And how do you propose I accomplish that?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of sharpness, though it was clear his frustration was directed at the situation rather than at Oberstein.

Oberstein appeared unfazed by Reinhard’s tone, his voice remaining as steady and pragmatic as ever.

“You have several options to consider. The first is adoption. However, this would likely invite controversy over the legitimacy of the heir. The second is to find a healthy alpha with suitable qualities to sire a child. If you choose this method, maintaining confidentiality will be somewhat complicated. However, if secrecy is preserved, you could publicly declare the child as being born of a secret lover. This would ensure that your secondary gender remains undisclosed.”

Reinhard’s breath hitched, his heart pounding at Oberstein’s calculated explanation. He spoke of the matter as if it were merely a logistical problem, devoid of any emotional weight.

Oberstein continued, unperturbed, “If you wish to pursue the second option, I can prepare a list of suitable alphas for your consideration by tomorrow.”

For a moment, silence filled the room, heavy and oppressive. A strange, sharp pain twisted in Reinhard’s chest. Before he could stop himself, he sat up abruptly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he turned to face Oberstein.

“You’re fine with that, are you? Oberstein?”

Oberstein turned to meet Reinhard’s gaze, his mechanical eyes fixed on him. As always, his expression was unreadable. Outside, the rain continued to fall steadily, its rhythm at odds with the rising tension in the room.

Reinhard’s breathing quickened, the simmering anger inside him flaring into something fierce. The way Oberstein spoke only fanned the flames of his frustration. He clenched the blanket tightly, his blue eyes blazing.

“Do you even hear what you’re saying, Oberstein?” Reinhard snapped. “You’re talking about me finding another alpha as if it’s just another line in one of your damned reports! You’re really fine with that? With me finding another alpha and having a child with them? You’re willing to hand me over to someone else?”

His words echoed through the room, the atmosphere thick with unbearable tension.

Oberstein remained silent for a moment. Then, he spoke.

"It’s not that simple, Your Majesty."

Reinhard glared at him, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "Then explain."

Oberstein turned away for a moment, his gaze resting on the streaks of rain sliding down the window. "As you know, my genes carry defects. It’s possible—if we were to have a child—that the child might inherit my blindness."

Reinhard blinked, surprised, but his shock quickly gave way to anger. "I don’t care about ‘eliminating defective genes’ like those tyrants of the previous regime! And wasn’t it your hatred of such oppressive policies that brought you to me in the first place?"

"That’s correct. And I still believe it’s wrong when applied across a population," Oberstein said, his voice calm but tinged with something that resembled resignation. "But this is the matter of the Empire’s heir. We must minimize risks wherever possible."

Reinhard clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "If that happens, then so be it! I don’t care about some hypothetical defect. Don’t use that as an excuse!"

Oberstein turned back to him, his expression unchanged, though a flicker of something—hesitation, or perhaps regret—passed through his artificial eyes. "That is not the only reason."

"Then what is it?" Reinhard demanded, his voice rising.

Oberstein was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Because you wouldn’t want a deeper connection with me. Nor would you want a child to bind us together forever. Your Majesty, right now, your pride is speaking. You feel insulted that an alpha like me could refuse you. But if you were to have a child with me, you would regret it in the future."

Reinhard froze, his breath catching in his throat.

Oberstein continued, his voice steady, yet each word carried a weight that was hard to describe. "I understand my place. I serve you, and that is enough. But I have never deluded myself into thinking this arrangement is anything more than that."

Those words hit Reinhard like a punch to the chest, leaving him breathless with a pain he couldn’t quite name. His anger ebbed, replaced by something just as intense but far harder to define. He stared at Oberstein, his emotions twisting inside him, but for the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

Oberstein sat up, adjusting the collar of his uniform with precise, deliberate movements. He glanced at Reinhard, his face calm, though there was a faint weariness beneath his usual detachment.

"Your Majesty, you should rest. Tonight, I will take my leave early, as I need to prepare materials for tomorrow’s meeting."

Reinhard watched him, his sharp blue eyes wide, unblinking. The words Oberstein had just spoken echoed in his mind, leaving him stunned. I understand my place. I serve you, and that is enough.

His fingers tightened around the blanket as he struggled to find something—anything—to say in response. But the weight of what he had just heard rendered him motionless. He wasn’t accustomed to this feeling—unbalanced, uncertain, vulnerable—and he hated it. But more than that, he hated that Oberstein truly believed the things he had said about himself.

Oberstein, for his part, didn’t seem to expect an answer. He donned his uniform with care, turned toward the door, and his artificial eyes glinted faintly in the dim room. "Good night, Your Majesty," he said, inclining his head slightly.

Reinhard parted his lips as if to speak, but no sound came out. His thoughts swirled, his emotions clashing, making it impossible to form a coherent sentence. This isn’t just a necessity, he wanted to say. You’re not a tool. To me, you’re…

… He is what?

As Oberstein left the room, the door closing softly behind him, Reinhard remained seated, motionless, staring at the empty space Oberstein had left behind.

***

Oberstein sat quietly in his room, the light from a desk lamp casting faint shadows across the sparse, almost austere space. Fritz lay at his feet, quietly gnawing on a toy, the soft sound breaking the stillness. Oberstein leaned back in his chair, his artificial eyes focused on the documents before him, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

It was nearing time to end this relationship—or rather, this arrangement.

It was something he had contemplated for a long time—the role he played in the life of Reinhard von Lohengramm. What had begun as an emergency measure to stabilize the Emperor’s cycles had become a routine. And Oberstein, ever logical, knew this couldn’t last indefinitely. The time is approaching , he thought. The time for me to step away.

Oberstein knew his strengths well. He was efficient, steadfast, and capable of making decisions others would never dare. These qualities made him indispensable as a minister. But as a partner? As Reinhard’s alpha? He was acutely aware of his shortcomings.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze settling on the plain, undecorated wall.

I am not Siegfried Kircheis.

The thought came, not bitterly, but with quiet acceptance. Kircheis had been everything Oberstein was not—young, handsome, full of life, warm, and so loyal that he inspired those around him. He was the one Reinhard had trusted completely, the one Reinhard had mourned with a depth of sorrow that shook the very foundation of the Empire.

And Oberstein? He was cold. Logical. Cautious. Too old. Unattractive. Humorless. Lacking the warmth and charisma that Kircheis had brought into Reinhard’s life. Qualities Reinhard deserved in a partner, and, someday, as the father of his children.

His gaze drifted down to Fritz. Reaching out, he absentmindedly patted the dog’s head. “I was never meant to stay long,” he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible in the stillness.

Reinhard deserved a partner who complimented him perfectly. Someone like Kircheis, someone who could stand beside him in the dazzling light of his radiance. Oberstein knew his place was always in the shadows, behind Reinhard. Even though Kircheis was gone, the space beside Reinhard was never meant for Oberstein.

He knew Reinhard would eventually marry. The officials’ insistence on an heir was not only logical but vital for the stability of the Empire. And Oberstein harbored no illusions—his position was temporary. His role was one born of necessity, not choice.

Reinhard would replace him, as he replaced all things that no longer served their purpose. That was the natural order, and no one understood it better than Oberstein.

Yet, despite his logic, a faint ache lingered in his chest. He pressed a hand to his side, where the wound from the assassination attempt had healed but still throbbed faintly—a reminder of his own limitations. He had given everything to the Empire and to Reinhard, and he would continue to do so until the end. But he also knew that when his life concluded, it would pass without notice. The Emperor would move on. Quickly. As he should.

For a moment, Oberstein closed his eyes, the silence of the room wrapping around him like a shroud. This is better , he thought, the logic ringing hollow even to himself. You deserve far more than I can give.

***

Reinhard sat in his expansive office, the reports and daily affairs of the Empire spread before him, yet his sharp blue eyes were unfocused. His thoughts wandered, always circling back to the same place that seemed to draw him more often these days—Paul von Oberstein.

I care about him.

The admission weighed heavily in his mind, undeniable yet deeply unsettling. This feeling was not like what he had felt for Kircheis; the bond he had shared with his closest friend was unique, an irreplaceable part of him. What he felt for Oberstein was different—less fiery, more steadfast. Quiet, but no less significant.

And it was precisely this difference that brought with it a pang of guilt. How can I feel this way for someone else? Kircheis gave his life for me. Is it fair to care for another while he is gone?

The sound of approaching footsteps broke through Reinhard’s thoughts. He looked up to see Hilda entering the room. She carried her usual calm demeanor, but her sharp eyes lingered on him a moment longer than usual. Reinhard frowned slightly, knowing she had noticed his unease.

“You seem distracted, Your Majesty,” Hilda said gently, placing a folder on his desk. “Is something troubling you?”

Reinhard hesitated, instinctively wanting to dismiss her concern. But Hilda was perceptive—always had been—and if anyone might understand, perhaps it was her. After a long silence, he leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on the desk, fingers interlaced.

“It’s Oberstein,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “He’s… frustrating me.”

Hilda raised an eyebrow slightly but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“We… talked about the matter of an heir,” Reinhard said, his tone growing irritable as he spoke. Once he began, his emotions poured out unchecked. “And he said he would prepare a list of other suitable alphas. He said—he said he understands his place. What does Oberstein mean by that? It’s infuriating.”

Hilda nodded slowly, processing his words.

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and now the Emperor’s sharp blue eyes were fixed on her, carrying a rare vulnerability she had only seen a few times before.

Hilda had never truly liked Oberstein. His cold, mechanical demeanor and his willingness to make ruthless decisions without flinching unsettled her. Yet she couldn’t ignore the quiet tragedy in what she had once heard from him during an encounter at the cemetery.

Finally, Hilda took a deep breath and spoke carefully. “Your Majesty, there is something Oberstein said that I believe you should know.”

Reinhard frowned, leaning forward in his chair. “What is it?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and unease.

Hilda hesitated before deciding to speak plainly. “Once, I encountered him at the cemetery. I asked him if he ever worried about becoming too significant to the Empire as your alpha—about potentially sharing in your power, which he has always been careful to avoid.”

Reinhard’s frown deepened. “And what did he say?”

Hilda’s gaze softened, a trace of sympathy crossing her usually composed features. “He said it wouldn’t happen. That unlike Kircheis, if he were to die, you wouldn’t care. He said you would quickly replace him, and his absence would mean nothing to you.”

Reinhard’s breath caught, those words striking him like a blow. His sharp blue eyes widened, the usual clarity in them clouded by shock at what he had just heard. “He said that?”

Hilda nodded. “Yes, he did.”

For a long moment, Reinhard said nothing, his thoughts spinning wildly. Why would he think that? The question burrowed into his mind, but as Reinhard reflected, a harsh truth began to surface.

Because it used to be true.

Before—before the nights they shared, before Oberstein became a constant presence in his life—Reinhard wouldn’t have cared if the minister disappeared. He would have acknowledged Oberstein’s death as an unfortunate loss, replaced him with another capable official, and moved forward without pause. Back then, Oberstein had been nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

But now…

He looked at Hilda, his expression distant yet conflicted. “But it’s different now. Why… why does he still think that?”

Hilda tilted her head slightly, her eyes contemplative. “Perhaps because you’ve never given him a reason to think otherwise, Your Majesty.”

***

That night, Oberstein didn’t come, citing that he had other matters to attend to. Reinhard sat alone on the edge of his bed, the weight of Hilda’s words pressing heavily on him.

He thinks I wouldn’t care. And before… he might have been right. But not now. Not anymore.

The realization left him shaken, the silence of his room becoming oppressive with truths he could no longer ignore. Feeling restless, Reinhard let his eyes wander around his private space—his sanctuary—and for the first time in a long while, he truly noticed the changes that had occurred.

The small desk where Reinhard occasionally read at night was now impeccably organized, every item within easy reach. It had never been this way before; Oberstein had undoubtedly rearranged everything without a word, knowing Reinhard would never ask.

Next, his gaze fell on the bedside table. A water pitcher sat there, a detail Reinhard hadn’t thought much about until now. He remembered Oberstein requesting it after reading a doctor’s report about his dehydration.

Then there was the blanket folded neatly at the foot of his bed—slightly thicker than before. Reinhard recalled offhandedly mentioning once that the chill in the room sometimes made it hard to sleep. He hadn’t thought twice about the comment, but the blanket had appeared the very next night, seamlessly blending into his routine.

And then there were the subtle adjustments to his schedule. Oberstein never complained, yet Reinhard realized over time that his minister had always ensured he had adequate rest, meals, and the occasional break, even when the Empire’s demands felt unrelenting. No one else noticed, but the results were undeniable.

Reinhard stood and walked slowly toward the bed. His fingers brushed the edge of the neatly folded blanket, his mind racing. How much have I taken for granted? How much has he done without ever expecting anything in return?

Hilda’s words echoed again, sharper now:

"Perhaps because you’ve never given him a reason to think otherwise, Your Majesty."

Reinhard sat back down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. But what about me? Have I given him anything to see? To show him that I care too?

The answer came with uncomfortable clarity: No.

Despite the growing emotions, the quiet realizations, Reinhard had done nothing to show Oberstein that he mattered. He had taken everything Oberstein offered without question, without thanks, assuming it was all part of Oberstein’s unyielding duty.

For the first time, Reinhard felt regret.

If it were Kircheis… everything would be so simple.

The thought came unbidden, bringing with it a bittersweet sadness. Kircheis had always known what Reinhard needed, often before Reinhard himself realized it. In return, Kircheis had always understood the depth of Reinhard’s trust. With Kircheis, Reinhard had never needed to explain.

But Oberstein was not Kircheis.

I have to do something. I can’t just sit here and expect him to understand.

***

Two weeks later, Reinhard’s heat came again.

As always, Oberstein was there with him.

When it was over, the room fell silent, broken only by Reinhard’s steady breathing as he lay against Oberstein. The warmth of their intimacy lingered in the air. Reinhard’s golden hair clung lightly to his forehead, damp with exhaustion. He shifted slightly, his head resting nearer to Oberstein’s shoulder.

Oberstein, as he always did, lay beside him with a calm demeanor, his artificial eyes fixed on the ceiling. One hand rested lightly on Reinhard’s waist—a gesture that had become a habit between them, though it was never overly intimate.

But tonight, something felt different.

Reinhard shifted again, his fingers idly playing with the edge of the blanket as if gathering courage to say something. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost hesitant—a stark contrast to the commanding tone Oberstein was so accustomed to.

“I’ve been thinking,” Reinhard began, hesitating. “I… I want to give you something.”

Oberstein turned his head slightly. “As I’ve said before, a salary increase is unnecessary, Your Majesty.”

Reinhard blinked, his cheeks flushing an even deeper red. He propped himself up slightly, turning to look at Oberstein with an expression that was more flustered and embarrassed than angry. “That’s not what I meant!” he retorted, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Oberstein remained silent, waiting for Reinhard to elaborate. The young emperor fidgeted under the weight of that gaze, his fingers gripping the blanket more tightly as he struggled to find the right words.

“I just…” Reinhard hesitated, his face growing even redder. “I just wanted to do something… to thank you. For everything you’ve done.”

Oberstein blinked, his expression unchanged, but a faint glimmer of surprise seemed to flash in his eyes. Reinhard turned his face away, his golden hair falling to partially obscure his face as he muttered, “I mean, you’ve done so much for me… And I’ve never properly thanked you.”

The silence between them stretched out, Reinhard’s flushed face stubbornly turned away as he awaited Oberstein’s response.

For a long moment, the minister remained quiet. Time seemed to slow as the seconds ticked by.

***

For a long moment, Oberstein’s gaze lingered on Reinhard.

The young emperor had sat up in bed, his golden hair slightly tousled, draped over his bare shoulders, his cheeks flushed, and his sharp blue eyes avoiding Oberstein. In this unguarded, silent moment, Reinhard looked impossibly beautiful—so much so that Oberstein couldn’t help but think that the rumors were true. The man before him truly was the most beautiful in the galaxy.

The sight sent a pang through Oberstein’s chest, a feeling he neither fully understood nor wanted to acknowledge. Reinhard von Lohengramm, the man who commanded even the stars, was now beside him, with a rare vulnerability that disarmed anyone who saw it. And yet, Oberstein reminded himself, this was not something he was entitled to possess.

He averted his gaze, his artificial eyes shifting to the shadows in the room as if searching for an anchor. I know my place . He repeated the thought like a mantra, trying to steady himself.

But when he looked back at the emperor’s flushed face, Reinhard’s hesitant expression touched something deep within him. Reinhard had said this wasn’t about “duty”—it was something personal, something genuine. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Oberstein allowed himself to feel a flicker of a long-buried desire.

Just once. Just this once.

The thought crept in before he could stop it. He knew his role was coming to an end. Soon, Reinhard would find another alpha—perhaps a partner who could provide the heirs the Empire needed. This arrangement, this closeness, was only temporary. So why not? Oberstein thought. Why not take this moment for myself?

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, with a faint trace of hesitation. “Your Majesty,” he began, his words deliberate and carefully chosen. “If you truly wish to, perhaps… you might join me for dinner.”

Reinhard’s head snapped toward him, his blue eyes wide with surprise. “Dinner? That’s all?” he repeated, his tone a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.

Oberstein nodded with quiet determination. “Yes. A private dinner, if you permit it. As a gesture of thanks.” He paused, selecting his words with precision. “That would be enough.”

The simple suggestion carried a weight Oberstein couldn’t entirely conceal. He was allowing himself a brief moment of satisfaction before stepping back into the shadows of duty.

Reinhard blinked, clearly caught off guard. His cheeks flushed again. “I… I suppose that would be fine,” he said, his words faltering.

Oberstein inclined his head slightly, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever, though a faint tension lingered in his posture. “Then I will make the arrangements, Your Majesty.”

Reinhard nodded, still looking slightly bewildered.

Oberstein reached for his uniform jacket lying on the bedside chair. Retrieving a small planner from the pocket, he silently calculated their schedules. Outwardly composed, his mind churned with ripples of uncertainty. This is a mistake , he told himself. But it will be the only mistake I allow.

When he turned back, his gaze lingered for a moment on Reinhard’s golden hair, glinting softly in the dim light. Once again, a sharp ache pierced Oberstein’s chest.

This is not for me.

The thought echoed in his mind.

But if a fleeting moment is all I can have, I will carry it with me, even when my role in your life comes to an end.

Chapter Text

10.

Reinhard strode into his office, the morning light catching his golden hair. There was a subtle buoyancy in his step, barely noticeable but present. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but the conversation with Oberstein last night had left him feeling lighter than usual.

Oberstein’s request had been so simple—a private dinner with Reinhard, nothing more. Reinhard chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. That man asks for so little. How have I not noticed before?

Sitting at his desk, Reinhard flipped through reports with an unusual ease and called out to Hilda, who was organizing documents nearby. “Please make a note to clear my schedule for next Friday evening.”

Hilda looked up, her polite smile unwavering. “Of course, Your Majesty. May I ask the occasion?”

“There’s no occasion,” Reinhard replied, his tone casual. “Just a dinner.”

Hilda nodded, jotting it down. But then she paused, her brows knitting slightly as she reviewed the calendar. “Your Majesty,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity, “that evening happens to fall on Valentine’s Day.”

Reinhard froze mid-turn of a page. His sharp blue eyes widened. “Valentine’s Day?” he repeated, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic hesitation.

“Yes,” Hilda confirmed, glancing at him with a faintly amused expression. “February 14th.”

Reinhard’s thoughts ground to a halt.

In the silence, Hilda chuckled softly, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Your Majesty, are you having dinner with Oberstein?”

Reinhard could only nod stiffly, his mind suddenly filled with a whirlwind of questions. Did Oberstein know? Had he chosen the date intentionally?

The thought brought a strange, warm sensation blooming in Reinhard’s chest. He tried to brush it aside, telling himself it must be a coincidence, but the feeling lingered, refusing to leave.

Meanwhile, in the Minister of Military Affairs’ office, Oberstein was also staring at the neatly pinned calendar on his desk.

Valentine’s Day?

A day originating from some long-forgotten religion… dedicated to lovers?

Oberstein hadn’t given much thought to the date—an event irrelevant to his life of precision and practicality. He had simply chosen a day when both their schedules were clear. Yet now, as he looked at the calendar, he realized the significance of the date he had selected. February 14th. Valentine’s Day.

For a brief moment, Oberstein’s usually composed thoughts faltered. His artificial eyes narrowed slightly. The question crossed his mind: Should I contact His Majesty to change the date?

But he dismissed the idea almost immediately, returning to his usual focus on the day’s work. The date was irrelevant. What mattered was that the dinner had been arranged and the schedule was perfectly aligned. Still, despite this rational reasoning, the awareness of the date lingered at the edges of his thoughts, a subtle but unfamiliar distraction.

***

The day arrived, and Paul von Oberstein, Minister of Military Affairs for the Empire, found himself standing in the middle of a flower shop, utterly unsure of how he had ended up there.

The air was filled with the soft fragrance of roses, lilies, and a myriad of other flowers arranged in vibrant bouquets. Oberstein stood stiffly among them, his artificial eyes scanning the options before him with the same calculating precision he applied to any task.

A bouquet of deep red roses first caught his attention. He tilted his head slightly, considering their significance.

Too bold, he thought, immediately dismissing them.

His gaze shifted to a simple arrangement of white lilies.

Elegant, refined, he noted. But… perhaps too reminiscent of a funeral.

Then Oberstein paused before a bouquet of bright yellow roses, unconsciously reaching out to touch them. Their vibrant color and soft texture reminded him of Reinhard’s golden hair. But even with his limited grasp of sentimentality, Oberstein knew that yellow roses were a poor choice for Valentine’s Day.

He continued moving along the display shelves, his hands clasped behind his back, scrutinizing each option with the same focus he applied to military reports. A small bouquet of blue flowers caught his eye. Their soft, muted tone made him pause. The vivid blue hue was strikingly reminiscent of Reinhard’s eyes.

For a moment, Oberstein allowed himself to imagine Reinhard’s reaction to receiving such a bouquet. Would those sharp blue eyes narrow in confusion or simply stare back at him, uncomprehending? Would Reinhard offer a small smile, however faint? Or would he frown and question the unnecessary gesture outright?

The thought cut through Oberstein’s deliberations. He glanced around the shop at the lively bouquets, cheerful customers chatting, writing cards for their loved ones, or excitedly sharing engagement plans with the florist. He felt out of place here, as if he had stumbled into a world that didn’t belong to him.

Finally, Oberstein straightened, shook his head slightly, and turned away from the blue bouquet.

How ridiculous, Oberstein told himself. Reinhard von Lohengramm does not need this from me. Gestures like this are neither appropriate nor expected.

Without sparing another glance at the flowers, Oberstein quietly left the shop, his expression as composed as ever.

Yet as he walked away, a vague sense of unease lingered at the edges of his mind—a whisper of something he could not name.

***

That morning, Reinhard sat in his office, attempting to focus on the reports in front of him. Yet, his sharp blue eyes kept flicking toward the clock. It was still hours until his dinner with Oberstein, but his stomach had been unsettled since morning, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

Suddenly, Reinhard caught the sound of voices and laughter coming from the hallway. It was Mittermeyer and Reuenthal.

“Can you believe it?” Mittermeyer said. “This morning, I saw Oberstein in a flower shop. On Valentine’s Day, no less! I almost thought I was dreaming.”

Reuenthal chuckled, his tone carrying his signature air of mockery. “The real question is, who were the flowers for? What kind of woman could tolerate… his unique charms?”

“Someone very patient,” Mittermeyer replied with a booming laugh. “Or very desperate.”

Their voices faded as the two walked further away, their laughter echoing faintly in the air. Reinhard remained motionless in his chair, his sharp blue eyes narrowing.

Oberstein, in a flower shop?

The idea was almost absurd. Oberstein—the embodiment of cold calculation—choosing delicate flowers for someone? It didn’t fit him at all. Yet the image lingered in Reinhard’s mind, an odd, unfamiliar thought that left him unsettled. He frowned, gripping the edge of his desk.

It’s nothing, he told himself. Perhaps he was arranging something for official business—a visit to a widow, or a diplomatic gift, perhaps.

But then another thought struck him suddenly.

What if it’s for me?

Reinhard’s breath caught, and he quickly dismissed the idea, forcing himself to focus on the reports in front of him. But the thought wouldn’t leave, lingering like a persistent whisper. Unease began to swell within him, mingling with a strange warmth he couldn’t fully explain. For the rest of the morning, the idea refused to let him be, leaving him restless and uncharacteristically anxious.

What if it really is for me? What if Oberstein brings flowers, and I don’t have anything prepared in return?

The thought jolted Reinhard. He began pacing the room, his usual confidence seemingly evaporating as he realized he hadn’t even considered bringing a gift to the dinner.

I can’t show up empty-handed. That would be… unacceptable.

Reinhard frowned, running a hand through his golden hair as he searched for an idea. His gaze swept across the room, landing on various decorations—beautiful but impersonal objects, none of them suitable.

It has to be practical, he thought. Something useful. Oberstein wouldn’t appreciate frivolous or extravagant items.

After a while of fruitless searching, his eyes landed on something. It was a fountain pen he had received during a visit to one of the planets, still sitting in its original box. The design was elegant without being ostentatious—a deep, striking red that reminded him of the Empire’s flag.

Reinhard picked it up, his fingers brushing over the soft velvet lining of the case. It was practical, refined, and perfectly suited to Oberstein. He knew Oberstein preferred writing by hand, saying it helped him concentrate.

A rare smile flickered across Reinhard’s face. A childish, triumphant thought crossed his mind.

Just wait, Oberstein. You’re not going to catch me off guard.

With the gift decided, Reinhard allowed himself a small sigh of relief, though his mind remained abuzz with nervous anticipation. At the same time, a faint warmth spread in his chest—a feeling that was almost… excitement.

***

The restaurant was every bit as elegant and refined as one might expect for an emperor—a private dining room perched atop one of Odin’s skyscrapers. Below, the city lights stretched endlessly, like a brilliant galaxy. Reinhard sat at the table, his golden hair glowing under the soft light of a chandelier, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the door.

When Oberstein entered, he carried his usual composed demeanor. Yet as Reinhard observed him, he noticed something unusual—a subtle stiffness in Oberstein’s gait. He’s tense, Reinhard realized, though Oberstein’s face betrayed nothing.

“Your Majesty,” Oberstein said, bowing his head. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

Reinhard didn’t respond immediately, his gaze sweeping over Oberstein from head to toe.

He came empty-handed.

A pang of unspoken disappointment tightened Reinhard’s chest, the initial anticipation now deflating.

“As always, you’re punctual,” Reinhard said, his tone edged with curt irritation and a hint of sulkiness.

Oberstein took the seat across from him, his artificial eyes fixed on Reinhard’s profile. Unaware of himself, Reinhard had turned his face away slightly, his lips curving into a faint pout. But Oberstein merely inclined his head and replied, “Thank you for the compliment, Your Majesty.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Reinhard, still stewing in his quiet disappointment, reached for his glass of water, his fingers gripping it tightly as he stubbornly avoided Oberstein’s gaze.

Why did I even think he might bring something? Of course not. He’s not that kind of person.

When the waiter arrived with the menus, Reinhard exhaled softly. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, he thought, stealing a glance at Oberstein. Yet the small box containing the fountain pen still rested in his pocket, pressing slightly against him, a tangible reminder of his lingering sense of loss and disillusionment.

***

As Reinhard sat there, still silently sulking, he noticed Oberstein shifting slightly in his chair. With his usual precision, Oberstein reached into his coat and pulled out a small package, sliding it toward Reinhard.

“Your Majesty,” Oberstein said, his voice as even as ever, though his hands betrayed a faint hesitation. “This is for you.”

Reinhard blinked. He set his glass down and carefully picked up the package.

The gift was wrapped in plain paper, without any decorative patterns or attached cards—completely devoid of anything superfluous. Reinhard unwrapped it cautiously and found a neatly crafted leather notebook inside.

For a moment, Reinhard simply stared at it. Oberstein tilted his head slightly, his face as calm as always, but his artificial eyes seemed to hold a flicker of unease. “I thought it might suit you,” Oberstein explained, his tone measured. “You’re always surrounded by documents and reports. Technology is convenient, but I believe handwriting might help you organize your thoughts more effectively.”

Reinhard looked up at Oberstein. And then, to Oberstein’s apparent surprise, Reinhard laughed.

“If the gift is not to your liking, I apologize,” Oberstein said quietly.

Reinhard shook his head, laughter still bubbling forth. The initial disappointment had vanished. Wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, he said, “No… this is perfect. Better than flowers, I’d say.”

Reinhard held the notebook in his hands, running his fingers over the smooth leather cover. It wasn’t sentimental, but it was thoughtful in a distinctly Oberstein way. It suits him, Reinhard thought, a vague warmth rising in his chest. I should have known this would be his style.

Placing the notebook carefully on the table, Reinhard said, “Thank you, Oberstein. I’ll make good use of it.”

Oberstein nodded slightly, his posture unchanged, though Reinhard thought he caught a fleeting sense of relief in those artificial eyes.

“Oh, by the way,” Reinhard added, reaching into his pocket, “I have something for you too.” He pulled out the small box and extended it toward Oberstein with a faint smile. “It’s not anything extravagant, but I thought it would suit you.”

Oberstein blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before reaching out to accept the gift. His movements were precise and deliberate as he unwrapped the paper. Inside was a fountain pen. Through the transparent lid of the box, the pen gleamed in a striking red under the soft lights of the restaurant.

Red…

Oberstein froze, as if momentarily paralyzed.

“Do you like it?” Reinhard’s voice broke the silence. He leaned forward, his blue eyes eager, completely unaware of the subtle shift in Oberstein’s demeanor.

Oberstein straightened, his usual composure quickly returning. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll use it with care.”

Reinhard smiled, leaning back in his chair, visibly relieved. “When I saw it, I thought it was just right for you. Quiet, understated, but still striking enough to leave an impression.”

Oberstein said nothing, merely nodding slightly, his fingers brushing over the transparent lid of the box. Beneath the lid, the pen continued to glimmer in its vivid red.

Reinhard had said he thought of Oberstein when he saw the pen. But Oberstein knew red didn’t suit him. He had no color at all—if anything, he was a muted shade of gray, a figure blending into the background.

Red—the vibrant color of passion, vitality, and youth—was meant for someone else. Someone with fiery red hair and a heart full of earnest warmth. Someone who had brought Reinhard more joy and light than anyone else ever could.

A ghost neither Reinhard nor Oberstein could truly escape.

Siegfried Kircheis.

***

The evening unfolded quietly but pleasantly. The initial tension had dissolved, giving way to a comfortable rhythm of casual conversation. The view from the tower was breathtaking, and the privacy of the dining room allowed Reinhard to relax more easily. Everything felt perfect—at least, to Reinhard.

Oberstein ate in his usual restrained manner, responding briefly to Reinhard’s chatter. His terseness was no different from any other day, and, immersed in his own comfort, Reinhard failed to notice that the man across from him was quieter than usual. He didn’t realize that Oberstein’s thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

Siegfried Kircheis.

The red fountain pen now rested in Oberstein’s chest pocket. Through the fabric of his coat, it felt as if it burned like a live ember.

Oberstein knew this wasn’t Reinhard’s intention. It was likely a subconscious act. Yet, despite this rational understanding, a strange feeling flickered within him. It was fleeting, hard to define, but it left behind an unexpected ache. Even now, Oberstein thought, Reinhard remained bound to Kircheis. No—perhaps it would be that way forever.

It was irrational, Oberstein knew, to feel hurt over something so trivial. But the pain lingered nonetheless.

Reinhard was unaware of the storm brewing within Oberstein. To him, this was merely an exchange of thoughtful gifts. But to Oberstein, the gift carried a heavier meaning, a reminder that he would always stand in the shadow of the one Reinhard would never forget.

Still, Oberstein said nothing, his calm mask remaining firmly in place. The pain was his alone to bear, not something Reinhard needed to know.

***

At Reinhard’s suggestion, they stepped out to gaze at the stars after dinner.

The observation deck offered a breathtaking view, with the stars spread out like scattered jewels across the infinite black canvas of the universe. The glass walls of the tower provided an uninterrupted panorama, rendering the city below insignificant against the vastness of the cosmos.

Reinhard leaned against the railing, his golden hair catching the faint light, and his sharp blue eyes softened with a rare sense of peace. The dinner had gone better than he had expected, and the fountain pen nestled in Oberstein’s chest pocket felt like a small but satisfying victory. For the first time in a long while, everything seemed to be under control.

He spoke more freely than usual, his words unguarded as the stars stirred thoughts he rarely shared. “You know,” Reinhard began, his tone almost wistful, “when I was young, Kircheis and I used to look up at the night sky like this, dreaming about the day we’d conquer the light of the stars.”

He smiled faintly, his gaze distant.

Oberstein stood a few steps behind, his posture as straight and formal as ever. The faint starlight reflected in his artificial eyes, but his attention was unmistakably focused on Reinhard.

Reinhard continued, unaware of the quiet tension that had settled over the moment. “Once, while stargazing, we talked about what we’d do after the war ended,” he said, his voice tinged with a trace of regret. “Kircheis always wanted peace. He wanted me to have peace too. He said my sister and I deserved it.”

Then Reinhard chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I told him it was ridiculous. My sister deserved a peaceful life, yes, but me? There’s no peace for someone like me. But he always insisted, you know? He always believed in me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

The words flowed effortlessly, Reinhard becoming more animated as he spoke. He gestured toward the stars, his expression softening as memories overtook him. “He always stood beside me, like this, talking about the future as if it were something we could actually reach. As if it wasn’t just a dream.”

Oberstein remained silent, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. The fountain pen rested heavily in his chest pocket, its vivid red stark against his monochrome attire. Its weight seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. Reinhard’s repeated mentions of Kircheis stirred something deep within Oberstein—a quiet pain he couldn’t entirely suppress.

Reinhard, still lost in thought, sighed softly, his gaze fixed on the stars. “Kircheis would have enjoyed tonight. He always appreciated moments like this, where it felt like the universe paused for just a little while.”

The young emperor’s voice trailed off, and for a moment, the only sound was the stillness of the stars. Feeling at ease, Reinhard glanced at Oberstein and smiled faintly. “Thank you, Oberstein, for tonight.”

Oberstein inclined his head slightly, his face as unreadable as ever. “It was my honor, Your Majesty.”

Reinhard turned back to the stars. Behind him, Oberstein stood motionless, the red fountain pen pressing against his chest like a silent reminder of something left unsaid. Yet he remained quiet.

***

The silence between them stretched as they both gazed at the stars, each lost in their own thoughts. Reinhard’s words about Kircheis lingered in the air, making the quiet between them feel heavier than before.

Then, breaking the stillness, Oberstein’s voice sounded, lower than usual. “Your Majesty,” he began, his artificial eyes fixed on Reinhard’s golden hair, which glowed faintly in the starlight, “after careful thought, there is something I need to say to you.”

Reinhard turned slightly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing in curiosity. “What is it?” he asked, his tone softer than usual, tempered by the tranquility of the moment.

For a brief moment, Oberstein’s silence carried an air of hesitation. Then he continued, “You once told me that a kiss is something meant for lovers.”

He… he remembers that?

Reinhard blinked, and then his face turned bright red with embarrassment. The clumsy, thoughtless remark from so long ago—Oberstein had remembered it so clearly?

“I feel the need to apologize. That time, when we were together, I kissed you without your permission. At the moment, I believed you were losing control, and I did it to help calm you.”

“I understand, Oberstein!” Reinhard cut in, his voice tinged with irritation, though it was more from embarrassment than anger. “You don’t need to apologize for something like that. I understand the necessity of the situation. Just… don’t bring up such ancient history again!”

Oberstein was silent. As Reinhard began to sense that this silence carried a weight different from Oberstein’s usual reticence, the older man quietly shook his head. “I’m not just apologizing for the past, Your Majesty. This is about the present.”

Reinhard blinked again, and before he could fully grasp the meaning of Oberstein’s words, the man stepped closer. With an almost unsettling carefulness, Oberstein reached out, his hand brushing gently against Reinhard’s face, and then he leaned in.

Their lips met in a kiss—sudden but unexpectedly tender. It wasn’t the calculated or utilitarian action of before. There was something profoundly genuine in Oberstein’s touch, something unspoken and lingering, leaving Reinhard stunned. His hands froze mid-air, unsure whether to push Oberstein away or pull him closer.

The moment passed quickly, and before Reinhard could react, Oberstein pulled back, his artificial eyes meeting Reinhard’s wide, confused gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Without waiting for a response, Oberstein turned and walked away. His figure disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Reinhard standing there, alone under the vast starry sky, his heart pounding and his thoughts swirling with unanswered questions.

***

Reinhard carried his unease back to his private chambers.

Sitting alone in the expansive room, he felt the stillness pressing heavily upon him. The events of the evening replayed in his mind like fragments of a dream—the quiet dinner, the exchanged gifts, the conversation beneath the starlit sky, and then… Oberstein’s kiss. His hand unconsciously brushed against his lips, and Reinhard let out a soft sigh.

No. Something wasn’t right.

Now, with some distance from the moment, he could see it clearly.

There had been something unusual about Oberstein’s silence tonight.

Reinhard’s sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly as he recalled moments that felt out of place, subtle shifts in Oberstein’s demeanor that he hadn’t noticed at the time. As he reviewed their exchanges, piecing together the night’s events, a pattern began to emerge. Something Reinhard, swept up in his emotions, had overlooked.

Kircheis.

The realization struck like a bucket of cold water.

“He said that wouldn’t happen. That unlike Kircheis, if he were to die, you wouldn’t care. He said you’d replace him quickly, that his absence would mean nothing to you.”

Hilda’s words echoed in his mind. Those words had driven Reinhard to arrange tonight’s dinner. He had wanted to show Oberstein that he valued him as more than a tool.

But tonight, all Reinhard had done was talk about Kircheis.

It had been an unintentional mistake. For Reinhard, Kircheis was tied to all his most cherished memories. So naturally, when Reinhard was at ease, his thoughts drifted to the pure, innocent childhood the two had shared. But how would those stories sound to Oberstein? Someone who had always believed himself to be “easily replaced,” unlike Kircheis.

And then there was the gift Reinhard had chosen.

Reinhard’s mind replayed the image of the pen. Now he realized. It was red—bright, striking, and beautiful. It was the color of Kircheis’s hair, of his presence, of the memories tied to him. Though unintentional, Reinhard now understood what that gift must have symbolized to Oberstein.

His chest tightened, guilt rising as he pieced the evening together. His words about Kircheis under the starry sky had only deepened the wound. He had spoken too naturally, too nostalgically, without considering how it might hurt Oberstein.

Because Oberstein had feelings for him.

Oberstein’s question about the kiss, followed by his sudden action, made it unmistakable.

Oberstein’s silence, in retrospect, felt heavier now. The way he had stood there, quietly listening without interruption, only to apologize and offer Reinhard a kiss before leaving—it was all painfully clear. He had likely grown too weary of enduring the thought that… he was merely a replacement. A shadow of someone Reinhard couldn’t let go.

Reinhard’s hand clenched into a fist on his lap, the guilt swelling in his chest. He hadn’t intended to hurt Oberstein, hadn’t even considered how his words or actions might be misunderstood. But now, looking back on the evening, he couldn’t deny the unintentional pain he had caused.

No. I have to explain this to him immediately…

Reinhard shot to his feet and rushed to the door.

***

Oberstein sat alone in his minimalist room, the fountain pen Reinhard had given him resting in his gloved hands. Its vivid red stood out starkly against the muted tones of the room. He traced his fingers over the pen’s body, his artificial eyes fixed on it, though his thoughts had drifted far from the present.

Reinhard’s words still echoed in his mind—spoken with a warmth filled with nostalgia, always directed toward someone irreplaceable.

Kircheis. Always Siegfried Kircheis.

That name lingered like an unbroken thread, woven into every conversation with Reinhard, every moment they spent together, every rare glimpse of vulnerability Reinhard allowed himself.

Even in the increasingly frequent moments of ease and quiet between them, Oberstein could sense Kircheis’s presence—an unshakable shadow looming over every thought Reinhard shared.

He looked down at the pen again, its vibrant red color a sharp reminder of Kircheis. Oberstein knew it was mere coincidence—Reinhard, for all his brilliance, wouldn’t have intentionally chosen a gift so burdened with meaning. Yet, that knowledge did nothing to dull the ache quietly spreading within him.

I shouldn’t have suggested this dinner. I shouldn’t have been blind to my own place. I should have known what I am to His Majesty.

For as long as Oberstein could remember, he had accepted his role as a tool—a means to an end. He harbored no illusions of warmth, no expectation of love or affection. But tonight, for the first time, that acceptance had become difficult to bear.

I stand in the shadow of someone I cannot replace. Kircheis will always be the one His Majesty truly trusts, the one he mourns. And I… I am simply what remains.

He placed the pen down on the small table beside him, its vibrant color almost glaring. Leaning back in his chair, he rested his hands on his lap, his face as composed as ever. But within him, a feeling he could scarcely name—regret, longing, or perhaps both—smoldered quietly. The pen’s red hue seemed to mock him, a constant reminder of a connection he would never truly have.

Then the phone rang.

Oberstein answered, his brow furrowing as he listened. Then he replied, “Understood. I’ll head there immediately.”

For weeks, Oberstein had been tracking those behind the ambush that had endangered Reinhard’s life. Finally, a lead had surfaced, revealing the rebels’ stronghold.

He exhaled softly, the steadfast resolve within him returning. This is my role, he reminded himself. To serve, to support, to ensure His Majesty can build the Empire he dreams of. Nothing more.

After preparing his weapon, Oberstein crouched to gently pat Fritz on the head. Then, without a second glance, he left his home and headed into the night.

***

“Your Majesty, Minister Oberstein has left his residence.”

“Left?” Reinhard asked sharply, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “Where did he go?”

Oberstein’s attendant hesitated. “It was an urgent matter, Your Majesty. The Minister didn’t provide specifics, only that it pertained to confidential operations. He left in great haste.”

Reinhard clenched his teeth, a flicker of frustration crossing his face.

Of course. Secrets, as always.

He briefly considered contacting Oberstein directly, but whenever the minister handled such secret affairs, it was impossible to reach him. Oberstein always took care of the Empire’s dirty work without complaints and without requiring Reinhard to involve himself.

Still unsettled, Reinhard decided to inspect Oberstein’s study. The room was just as he remembered—immaculately organized, with not a speck of dust out of place. The handkerchief and a framed photo sat neatly on a shelf, undisturbed. There was no sign of where Oberstein might have gone. Reinhard’s disappointed gaze swept the room until it landed on the small table beside the chair.

There lay the red fountain pen Reinhard had given him.

The sight struck Reinhard harder than he expected. He stepped closer, his hand hovering over the pen but not touching it. The vivid red stood out starkly against the dull gray of the desk, a vibrant reminder of the evening they had shared—and now, of Oberstein’s absence.

He left it here. Why?

The thought unsettled him, and guilt began to rise in his chest. Reinhard reasoned that it could simply be because Oberstein’s current mission didn’t allow for carrying such a personal item. But the doubts lingered.

Did I make him feel unwelcome?

The guilt deepened, and Reinhard’s hand curled into a fist at his side.

I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t even realize…

Reinhard stood there for a long moment, staring at the pen as the weight of his own words and actions pressed heavily upon him. The bright red seemed to mock him, reflecting his unspoken regrets.

I have to fix this, he thought, though frustration simmered within him as he failed to determine how.

For now, Reinhard could only return to his own chambers and wait for Oberstein’s return, the guilt and unease gnawing at him with every passing second.

Chapter Text

11.

That night, Oberstein carried out a covert operation, as he always did.

It was the kind of mission no one praised, the kind that never saw the light of day. These were the tasks he had taken on as always—dirty, shadowy, and devoid of glory—the sort of work Kircheis, no matter how devoted, could never have done for Reinhard. And work Reinhard didn’t need to know about.

At some point, rain began pouring incessantly, drenching the dark streets where Paul von Oberstein’s team was carrying out their mission. The terrorists had been cornered, their plans dismantled by the precision and efficiency Oberstein demanded. He had played the bait, deliberately placing himself in danger to lure the enemy into the open. And it had worked, just as he calculated.

But at a steep cost.

Now, Oberstein lay on the cold, rain-slicked pavement, his uniform soaked with water and blood. The metallic tang of iron filled the air. A deep, jagged wound stretched across his abdomen, the result of a final, desperate attack—a grenade that had exploded too close for him to escape. His artificial eyes, usually steady and unwavering, flickered as his vision began to blur.

Oberstein felt his body growing colder. He looked down. Through his dimming sight, he could make out the extent of his injuries and knew…

The soldiers around him were shouting, their voices drowned out by the pounding rain, as Oberstein’s hearing began to fade. One of them knelt beside him, hands trembling as they pressed against his wound in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding.

“Minister Oberstein! Hold on! We’re getting you to medical—call for a medic, now!”

Oberstein’s hand, shaking but firm, grasped the officer’s wrist to stop him. His voice, though faint, cut through the chaos with its familiar calm. “No. Don’t call anyone. It’s too late.”

The officer froze, his eyes wide with horror. “But—”

“No need,” Oberstein repeated, his tone unyielding. He took a breath, the simple act draining what little strength he had left, and his artificial eyes locked onto the officer. “Prioritize the mission. Secure the area. Report to His Majesty.”

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, rain streaming down their faces. One leaned closer, his voice heavy with desperation. “What should we do, sir? If… if you don’t make it, do you have any final message for someone?”

For a moment, Oberstein’s mind went blank. Then, an image surfaced—a cascade of golden hair slipping into the shadows. Sharp blue eyes, filled with ambition, belonging to the young emperor… And the faint, lingering taste of the kiss Oberstein had stolen three times from Reinhard. All three times, without his consent.

He considered leaving a message—a final word for the one he had served and, perhaps, cared for in a way he would never admit.

But the thought dissipated. What meaning would it have? His Majesty didn’t need him. Reinhard had the galaxy at his feet. And in his heart, there would always be…

Siegfried Kircheis.

A name that had become a curse.

Kircheis—always Kircheis.

How ironic that, in his final moments, Oberstein thought of Kircheis. Even though he had admitted to disliking the red-haired youth from the very first meeting. And surely, Kircheis had felt the same.

It wasn’t merely a clash of personalities. It wasn’t just that Kircheis doubted Oberstein’s motives or that Oberstein criticized Kircheis for failing to step back and not overshadow Reinhard’s authority. Oberstein had always envied Kircheis. The red-haired youth was everything Oberstein was not. Bold, charismatic, vibrant, magnetic. The one Reinhard chose. The only one who could stand beside the young emperor as an equal.

“I always knew,” Oberstein murmured, his voice so faint it was swallowed by the rain. “I was always the duller one. The less remarkable one. Practical. Replaceable.”

His artificial eyes flickered weakly, raindrops trailing down their polished surfaces. But as the darkness deepened, another thought surfaced, bringing with it a strange sense of pride.

But Siegfried Kircheis… this time, I did one thing better than you.

Kircheis’s death had devastated Reinhard. It was a wound that never healed, a shadow that never left. Oberstein, on the other hand, could ensure that Reinhard would never endure such pain again…

His Majesty… will not suffer from my death.

It wasn’t resignation but a quiet acceptance of his role. Reinhard might feign sadness for a moment, perhaps out of duty or courtesy, but his ambition would propel him forward.

Turning his faintly flickering gaze toward the soldiers still awaiting his final words, Oberstein mustered what little strength remained. His lips curled into a rare, fleeting smile.

“... Take care of Fritz… my dog. He doesn’t have… much time left…”

The faint smile lingered on Oberstein’s lips even as his eyes closed, the last remnants of light fading into darkness. The pain was gone, the cold no longer biting. His final thoughts were of Reinhard—standing tall, unwavering, advancing toward the empire he dreamed of, his golden hair shining like the sun amidst the night.

“Your Majesty, I’m glad…” Oberstein whispered, his voice so faint it was barely audible, “that… you’ll… soon forget me.”

The smile of quiet contentment remained on his face as the light in his artificial eyes extinguished completely.

***

When Reinhard finally left Oberstein’s apartment, the torrential rain had ceased.

Sitting in the car, he watched the radiant lights of Odin at night blur past. Yet his mind remained fixated on the vivid red of the fountain pen left on Oberstein’s desk. Reinhard’s sharp blue eyes narrowed as his thoughts churned. He was accustomed to commanding fleets, crushing adversaries, and deciding the fate of an entire empire. But this—navigating the fragile, unspoken relationship between himself and Oberstein—seemed far more daunting.

I need to give Oberstein another gift.

Reinhard leaned against the car door, his thoughts beginning to coalesce.

A real gift. Not something hastily picked out from my office. Something meaningful. Not an apology, but something that shows him I mean it. That I’m serious about this relationship.

His mind drifted back to the sparkling stars they had gazed upon earlier that night, from the observation tower’s lofty heights. He knew he could never forget Kircheis—his closest friend, the greatest loss of his life. The memory of Kircheis was an inseparable part of who he was. But now, a different realization was growing stronger.

I can’t live in loss forever. Kircheis wouldn’t want that. And... perhaps it’s time I look toward what lies ahead.

His thoughts returned to Oberstein—the man who had silently stood behind him, even when Reinhard hadn’t fully understood or even trusted him. Over time, Oberstein had become a pillar, a supporter, a challenger, and someone who cared for Reinhard in ways he hadn’t anticipated. And tonight, Oberstein’s kiss had made one thing abundantly clear—there was something deeper in that care, something Reinhard hadn’t been ready to acknowledge before.

I want to understand Oberstein more.

Reinhard clenched his hand slightly.

Not just as my Minister of Military Affairs. Not just as an Alpha helping me manage my biological cycles—I want to understand Paul von Oberstein, the man who has always stood by me.

Sitting up straighter, his eyes sharpened with newfound determination.

This time, I’ll make it clear to him. I’ll tell Oberstein that while I’ll never forget Kircheis—and perhaps never can—I’m ready to move forward. With him.

He nodded to himself and began pondering the right gift for Oberstein. It had to be something practical, meaningful, something that showed Reinhard had paid attention to who Oberstein truly was.

Something that proves I’m truly serious about this. About us.

The car came to a halt. A guard opened the door. Reinhard stepped out, still immersed in thoughts of the perfect gift. I’ll figure it out. And the next time I see Oberstein, I’ll make sure he understands…

The weight in his heart eased slightly, replaced by a faint sense of solace—and, for the first time in a long while, a glimmer of hope.

Reinhard didn’t know that another star had quietly fallen from the sky.

End.

Chapter Text

12.

That day began with an unusual sense of lightness for Reinhard. He had decided to spend some time browsing a gift catalog in his office—something he rarely did. This wasn’t an official task or a political duty. This time, it was personal.

He was looking for a gift for Oberstein.

Reinhard’s sharp blue eyes scanned the selections in the catalog. It has to be something functional, something he’ll actually use , Reinhard thought, pausing at the image of a sleek leather wallet. But it can’t be impersonal. It has to mean something.

A faint smile flickered across his lips. The act of choosing a gift felt foreign to him, but the thought of Oberstein’s reaction—even if it was just a subtle, nearly imperceptible response—brought an unexpected warmth to Reinhard’s chest.

He deserves this, Reinhard thought, his resolve hardening. For everything he’s done, even if he never asks for recognition.

As Reinhard deliberated over his options, the communication device on his desk suddenly buzzed. He frowned, the moment of peace abruptly shattered. Picking up the device, he heard a tense and rigid voice on the other end.

“Your Majesty. There was an explosion last night. Minister Oberstein... is in critical condition.”

Reinhard froze.

The words hit him like a physical blow, the air around him suddenly thick and suffocating. "What?” he demanded, his voice colder and sharper than usual. “Say that again.”

The voice on the other end continued to tremble. “An explosion during a mission, Your Majesty. Minister Oberstein was gravely injured. He is alive, but his condition is severe. The doctors are trying to stabilize him, but…” The speaker hesitated, searching for the right words. “The chance of survival... is very uncertain. He is in critical condition.”

Silence followed, the messenger awaiting a response. But Reinhard couldn’t speak. His mind reeled, overwhelmed by fear and disbelief that shattered his usual composure. Oberstein. Critical. Uncertain. The words repeated in his mind, each sharper and more unbearable than the last.

His gaze fell to an image in the catalog—a polished communication case, sleek and functional. A perfect, thoughtful choice. But now, it felt meaningless. A painful tightness gripped his chest as he realized something far more important was at stake.

It can’t be him. Not Oberstein.

That thought repeated, desperate and haunting, as memories of Oberstein flooded his mind—standing steadfast by his side, unwavering, his artificial eyes sharp and resolute. The ways Oberstein had quietly cared for him, things Reinhard had never truly appreciated.

And now... he might be gone.

Reinhard’s breathing quickened, his chest heaving as fear took hold. For the first time since Kircheis’ death, Reinhard felt the same suffocating despair and helplessness.

The gifts in the catalog blurred before his eyes, tears welling up, but Reinhard gritted his teeth, refusing to let them fall.

It can’t be Oberstein. He doesn’t die so easily.

He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with force, and strode out of the room with determination blazing in his chest like a fire. The gift was forgotten; his mind was now consumed by one thought:

I have to go. I have to make sure he survives.

***

Reinhard burst through the doors of the emergency ward, Hilda and a small entourage trailing worriedly behind. Without looking back, he gestured sharply for them to stay behind. His sharp blue eyes burned with panic, his golden hair slightly disheveled, his breath uneven—but he barely noticed.

As he entered the intensive care area, an officer rushed up to him, pale-faced. “Your Majesty, Minister Oberstein is in surgery. Please, you must wait.”

Reinhard’s chest tightened, his mind spinning with the worst possibilities. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice cold but trembling at the edges.

The officer hesitated, his gaze lowering before he answered. “The Minister was leading an operation against the insurgents responsible for the previous attack on Your Majesty. The mission was a success, but he was injured in an explosion. Severe injuries—internal damage, broken ribs, massive blood loss…” His voice faltered, unwilling to say more.

Reinhard felt a wave of dizziness, his legs threatening to give way. He clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stay upright. Oberstein had put himself in danger—again—for him. The thought brought a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him.

“Did he… leave any message?” Reinhard barely managed to finish the question, the words catching in his throat.

The officer, sensing his unease, tried to offer some reassurance. “The surgeons are doing everything they can, Your Majesty. But before losing consciousness… Minister Oberstein left a message for you.”

Reinhard’s chest constricted, his mind screaming with the worst fears. He nodded quickly, almost desperate. “What did he say?”

The officer swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a hesitant murmur. “The Minister said… he was glad… that Your Majesty would soon forget him.”

The words struck Reinhard like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. His hands clenched tighter, his wide blue eyes staring unseeing.

He believes I wouldn’t care. That I’d replace him without hesitation, as though he were nothing more than a tool.

Guilt gnawed at him, sharp and agonizing with every passing second. And then another thought came, one that cut even deeper: The last thing I gave him was that red pen.

Reinhard squeezed his eyes shut, his hands trembling as he recalled the dinner. The red gift he had chosen for Oberstein, inadvertently reminiscent of Kircheis. A constant shadow over the fragile connection between him and Oberstein.

Was that my final insult to him? A reminder of the one he could never be?

A wave of fear crashed over him, not just at the thought of losing Oberstein, but at the possibility of Oberstein leaving this world believing he wasn’t wanted.

It’s not true , Reinhard thought desperately. I care. I care more than I’ve ever admitted.

Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, pulling Reinhard from his chaotic thoughts. A nurse stepped out of the operating room. “Your Majesty,” she said calmly, “Minister Oberstein has survived the surgery. He is stable for now, but his condition remains critical.”

Relief and fear collided in Reinhard’s chest, leaving him frozen in place. He opened his mouth to speak but found no words. The nurse, perhaps sensing his turmoil, bowed slightly and said, “We will notify you as soon as the Minister regains consciousness.”

Reinhard nodded, turning away to leave. Hilda and the others were still waiting outside. 

I have to make this right. He cannot leave this world thinking he doesn’t matter to me. I won’t let that happen.

Guilt and fear threatened to overwhelm him, but one thought stood firm amidst the chaos:

He must know. He must understand that I care. That I need him.

***

Oberstein regained consciousness two days later. However, it wasn’t until the fourth day that Reinhard was allowed to visit him.

Reinhard sat in the waiting room, his body tense, his mind a chaotic whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t fully process. The nurse’s words— temporarily stable but still critical —echoed in his mind like a cruel mantra, offering neither relief nor reassurance. His fingers trembled slightly, the cold seeping through them as if mocking his feeble attempts at composure.

Clenching his fists, Reinhard tried to push the feeling away, but it persisted, a sharp reminder of his helplessness. He hated it—hated the way it robbed him of control, reduced him to something vulnerable, something small. It reminded him of when he lost control and revealed himself as an Omega… or when Kircheis was lost to him.

The chill in his fingers grew more pronounced, creeping up his arms as his body betrayed the façade of calm he tried to maintain. And then, like a ray of light piercing through the darkness, he remembered…

A moment when his hands had been just as cold, trembling uncontrollably. It was one afternoon in his office, when Oberstein was explaining a plan to manage Reinhard’s impending heat. Overwhelmed by the helplessness of his biology, Reinhard had spiraled into a mental breakdown, leaving him paralyzed. And then…

Oberstein had been there.

Without a word, Oberstein had approached him, his artificial eyes steady and unwavering. He had simply reached out, his hand taking hold of Reinhard’s cold, trembling fingers with firm assurance.

“Your Majesty, look at me.”

“Everything will be alright, Your Majesty.”

That gesture, so simple, had pulled Reinhard back from the brink, grounding him when his world seemed on the verge of collapse.

Now, sitting in the waiting room with freezing fingers and labored breaths, Reinhard felt the weight of that memory like a lifeline.

He always knew , Reinhard thought, his chest tightening painfully. Even when I couldn’t say it. He always knew what I needed.

His fingers flexed slightly, the numbness giving way to a dull ache. But this time, it wasn’t just the cold—it was the realization of Oberstein’s significance in his life, how much he had relied on his presence, his steadfastness, and his quiet care.

As each minute passed and the waiting stretched on, Reinhard clung to that memory as a shield against the despair threatening to overwhelm him, his resolve hardening with each breath.

When I see him again, I will make it clear. I will not let him doubt his worth. Never again.

***

The sound of the door opening echoed softly in the quiet room as Reinhard stepped in. His sharp blue eyes immediately settled on Oberstein, who was sitting upright in the hospital bed, his expression calm despite the pallor of his face.

"You… you're awake," Reinhard muttered, his voice almost trembling. His fingertips were still ice-cold, and his chest ached at the sight of the medical machinery surrounding Oberstein, the tangle of wires and tubes keeping him alive. But above all, there was a wave of relief. Oberstein was still alive, and Reinhard had not made an irreparable mistake.

All strength seemed to drain from Reinhard's body. The tension of the past few days collapsed all at once, leaving his legs weak and shaky. He stumbled slightly before sinking into the chair by the bedside, propping himself up with his hands.

"Your Majesty?" Oberstein's artificial eyes fixed on him. Then, with a faint hint of concern, he asked, "Have you eaten breakfast yet?"

Perhaps it was the pale complexion and weary state of Reinhard that caught his attention.

Reinhard let out a sharp laugh. Of all the possibilities he had imagined, he hadn’t expected Oberstein’s first words to him to be that. But he was too drained, his limbs numb and his mind foggy, to muster a retort.

"Don’t talk about me," Reinhard said, brushing the concern aside. "How are you?"

Meeting Reinhard’s worried gaze, Oberstein glanced down at his bandaged body. After a pause, he replied slowly, “I must apologize. For a considerable period, I likely won’t be able to fulfill my responsibilities.”

Responsibilities. Always responsibilities.

Reinhard’s brow furrowed slightly. He took a deep breath, exhaling sharply as he tried to quell his rising frustration. He wanted to tell Oberstein to stop worrying about duties and focus on recovering. But then…

Oberstein handed Reinhard a list. It was something he had painstakingly written with his one uninjured hand. “These individuals could assume my responsibilities,” Oberstein said evenly. “You may review them or consult Miss von Mariendorf for additional opinions.”

The room fell utterly silent.

Reinhard closed his eyes. His entire body began to tremble, not with relief or sorrow as it had in recent days, but with…

Rage.

"Enough!" Reinhard’s voice suddenly roared through the room. His fists clenched tightly as he glared at Oberstein. “You just woke up on a hospital bed after nearly dying, and the first thought you have is to draft a list of people to replace you? A list? Always a list! Are you addicted to making lists?”

Oberstein remained unfazed, his tone as calm as ever when he replied, “It is my duty, Your Majesty. My current condition significantly hampers my ability to serve effectively, either as a minister or as your alpha. This list is necessary.”

“Necessary?” Reinhard repeated, his voice rising sharply. He leaned forward, his eyes blazing with fury. “Do you have any idea what it felt like for me to hear that you might not make it? And now you sit here—here, in a hospital bed, hooked up to all kinds of medical machines—and speak so casually about replacing yourself as if it’s nothing?”

Oberstein’s lips pressed into a thin line, yet his face remained calm, unyielding. “Your Majesty, this is necessary,” he replied.

“Necessary? Again?” Reinhard interrupted, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. “Is that all you think? Do you think I care about some cold, efficient replacement? You—you…” He faltered, words choking in his throat as emotions overwhelmed him. “I always thought you were smart. But you’re a fool, Oberstein! I don’t need anyone else but you. Do you understand? Throw that list away, focus on recovering, and… come back to me. Do you hear me?”

Reinhard paused, panting, his heart pounding wildly as he tried to steady himself. Oberstein’s artificial eyes widened slightly, as though he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

Then, narrowing his eyes, Oberstein said with solemn precision, “Your Majesty. An emperor cannot grow too attached to a subordinate. I am merely a tool at your disposal, and you must have a replacement to ensure the Empire functions smoothly.”

Reinhard froze, the words cutting into him like a sharp blade. His breath hitched, and his chest tightened painfully as he stared at Oberstein. For a moment, silence filled the room, suffocating and oppressive, the tension so thick it felt as if it could crush them both.

Then, shaking with rage and something far deeper, Reinhard snapped, “You are not a tool!”

The declaration rang out in the room, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. Oberstein looked at him, for the first time appearing genuinely taken aback.

Reinhard rose from his seat, stepping closer to the bed, his hands trembling at his sides as he continued, “You are not a tool, Oberstein. Not something I can just replace like a broken machine. And if you think I’m going to stand here and let you talk about yourself like that, then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”

For the first time in years, Oberstein found himself at a loss for words. His mind, usually sharp and calculated, struggled to formulate a response, his logic overwhelmed by the undeniable emotion in the young emperor’s voice.

“You matter to me, Oberstein. More than I’ve ever let you know. And I won’t let you…” Reinhard’s voice wavered, his anger giving way to raw vulnerability. “I won’t let you think otherwise. Not ever again.”

The room fell into silence once more. Oberstein’s gaze lowered, a flicker of hesitation crossing his usually unreadable features… as if he wasn’t yet ready to believe.

Reinhard stood there, his hands clenched, waiting for a response, his heart pounding in his chest as he braced himself for whatever might come next. For the first time, the roles between them had shifted, and it was Reinhard who refused to let the silence stretch on.

***

After a long pause, Oberstein finally spoke.

“Then what do you see me as, Your Majesty?”

There was no reproach in his voice, only something deeper—an uncertainty, even vulnerability, hidden but undeniable.

Reinhard froze, his breath catching in his throat. The emperor found himself at a loss for words. He had spoken with such certainty just moments ago, emotions pouring out with intensity, but now, faced with Oberstein’s direct question, he felt a wave of confusion and even a hint of embarrassment.

“What am I to you?” Oberstein repeated, his sharp gaze locking onto Reinhard. “You say I am not a tool. Then what am I?”

Reinhard’s chest tightened under the weight of the question as he struggled to find the right words. His mind whirled, circling around truths he had long avoided confronting. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, he lowered his gaze, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.

“It’s true that I can’t forget Kircheis,” he admitted.

Oberstein inclined his head slightly, his artificial eyes seeming to darken. Reinhard swallowed hard, and before Oberstein could turn away, he took a deep breath and pressed on.

“I’ll never be able to forget him,” Reinhard continued. “He was… everything to me. My closest friend, my most loyal companion. Losing him… it will always hurt. But…”

Reinhard’s voice wavered as he forced himself to go on.

“But from now on, the one standing beside me is you, Oberstein. And I want to understand you better…”

Oberstein raised his head, his gaze narrowing slightly.

“You are not Kircheis. Oberstein, you are… yourself. And I want to know more about you—about Paul von Oberstein—more than I have allowed myself to before.”

Oberstein’s lips moved slightly, as though he wanted to say something, but no words came. The emperor took another deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” Reinhard said, his voice barely a whisper. “For that gift. For the red fountain pen. I didn’t mean to remind you of Kircheis or make you feel… lesser. I wasn’t thinking carefully. And that was wrong.”

Oberstein tilted his head, a flicker of surprise—or perhaps confusion—crossing his face. Reinhard’s blue eyes met Oberstein’s gaze, steady despite the lingering vulnerability in his voice.

“You are not lesser, Oberstein,” Reinhard said firmly, his voice regaining its strength. “You are not a replacement. You are not a tool. You are… someone I’ve begun to care about. And I need you to understand that.”

***

The silence that followed enveloped the entire room. Oberstein's hand tightened slightly on the blanket, his mechanical eyes scanning Reinhard's face. Reinhard, still clenching his fists, kept his sharp blue gaze fixed on the man in the bed, waiting for an answer.

When Oberstein remained silent, Reinhard’s frustration exploded. His voice, sharp and full of indignation, shattered the stillness.

“Well?” he shouted, sounding more like an angry child than the emperor of the galaxy. “I’ve said everything I wanted to say. What about you? What do you think of me, huh? Do you even want this relationship or not?”

Oberstein’s mechanical eyes widened slightly at the outburst, though his face maintained its usual calm. He looked down for a moment as if gathering his thoughts. Then, looking back up, he spoke evenly.

“Your Majesty, you are the emperor of the Galactic Empire,” Oberstein said slowly. “The person standing by your side must meet the appropriate requirements. I am older, colder, and far less… deserving of your attention. My past, my unfavorable reputation, and my shortcomings make me an unsuitable choice. You deserve someone—”

“Stop it!” Reinhard’s voice cut through like a blade, his cheeks flushing with anger and raw emotion he couldn’t suppress. “I don’t care about what you think is deserving of me or not! I’m asking if you want me, Oberstein. Forget the Empire, forget my title, and just answer the damn question.”

Oberstein blinked, genuinely taken aback by the intensity of Reinhard’s outburst. For a long moment, he stared at Reinhard, as though weighing the gravity of the question against the cold logic that had always guided his actions.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Oberstein let out a quiet sigh. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands. And then, Oberstein extended his arms toward Reinhard.

“If you truly want my answer,” he said, each word chosen with care, “then I will say it. I want nothing more, Your Majesty.”

Reinhard froze, his anger dissipating instantly. His blue eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he looked at the man before him. The sight of Oberstein, arms outstretched, so vulnerable in a way that Reinhard had never imagined, struck a deep chord within him.

Without another word, Reinhard stepped forward, allowing himself to collapse into the open arms of Oberstein, his head resting on the older man’s shoulder.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Reinhard allowed himself to feel secure, his anger and unease giving way to a fragile but undeniable sense of connection. Oberstein’s arms gently encircled him, holding him with a care that stood in stark contrast to the icy composure that normally defined him.

At that moment, neither of them spoke. Because there was nothing left to say.

***

One month later, Oberstein was discharged from the hospital.

However, his injuries were too severe for him to recover fully. Oberstein now relied on a prosthetic leg, and several of his internal organs had been replaced. As a high-ranking officer, these adjustments were made with utmost precision, but the artificial parts didn’t always function seamlessly. Oberstein could feel his health declining rapidly. Every movement came with pain, serving as a constant reminder of his body’s limitations.

Oberstein endured it all without complaint, as he always had. He attended physical therapy sessions, ignoring the pain and other complications. The rehabilitation staff praised his resilience, but Oberstein dismissed their compliments. This wasn’t an accomplishment—it was a necessity.

During Oberstein’s convalescence, Reinhard frequently visited. His presence was one of the rare bright spots in the grim atmosphere of the hospital. Each time, Reinhard brought something—a book, carefully selected small gifts, or even photos and videos of Fritz, ensuring Oberstein that his dog was well cared for. Whenever Reinhard inquired about his recovery, Oberstein responded with his usual calm demeanor. Their conversations remained as formal and straightforward as ever, but neither could entirely mask the warmth that lingered in the air after each meeting.

One such visit ended just before Reinhard was due for a council meeting. Walking through the military ward’s hallways, accompanied by his aides, Reinhard’s mind lingered on Oberstein’s recovery. He had witnessed firsthand the effort it took for Oberstein to rise from a chair or walk the hospital corridors. While Oberstein’s determination never wavered, Reinhard had seen the pain etched on his face more than once.

These thoughts were interrupted as Reinhard passed a small conference room where Mittermeyer and Reuenthal were engaged in an animated conversation.

“...he’s more machine than man now,” Reuenthal remarked with a dry laugh. “Though with Oberstein, maybe he considers that an improvement.”

Mittermeyer chuckled, albeit somewhat uneasily. “Not wrong. He’s always been a bit… mechanical.”

Reinhard’s steps faltered. He turned and walked into the room.

“That’s enough,” his voice rang out sharply.

Both men immediately stood at attention, their expressions of mirth vanishing as they recognized the emperor’s presence. “Your Majesty,” Reuenthal said, bowing slightly. Mittermeyer followed suit, his demeanor suddenly serious.

“Do you find this amusing?” Reinhard asked coldly, his piercing gaze fixed on Reuenthal. “Oberstein was injured to ensure my safety and that of the Empire. Do you think that’s something to mock?”

Both men were silent. Then Mittermeyer lowered his head. “You’re right, Your Majesty. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Reinhard said, his tone icy. He turned, his cape swishing lightly behind him as he strode toward the council chamber.

As he walked, the anger still simmered in his chest, but alongside it was another feeling—a pain he couldn’t quite name. The image of Oberstein, walking slowly but with unyielding resolve down the hospital corridors, lingered in his mind once more.

***

After that, Oberstein returned to work with his usual precision and efficiency. However, the injuries he had sustained left visible marks. Tasks requiring prolonged focus or physical exertion drained him more than before. Eventually, he conceded to having a personal assistant—something he had initially opposed vehemently, until Reinhard firmly insisted.

One evening, Reinhard and Oberstein sat across from each other during a private dinner—an arrangement that had become a regular occurrence in their evolving relationship. Reinhard watched Oberstein closely as they ate, noting the slight tension in his posture, the way he carefully balanced his hand while holding his glass. Seeing these subtle signs of his lingering injuries stirred a pang of sorrow in Reinhard, though Oberstein showed no discomfort.

“I’ve been thinking,” Reinhard said abruptly. “About… us.”

Oberstein set down his fork, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Reinhard. “Please continue, Your Majesty.”

Reinhard frowned slightly at the formal address, but he pressed on. “You’ve returned to your own residence, but that no longer makes sense. Given our… arrangement, and the inconvenience your daily travel causes, I think we should live together.”

“This proposal is quite practical,” Oberstein said after a moment of thought. “Sharing a residence would eliminate the need for additional security adjustments and reduce nightly travel time.”

Reinhard nodded, feeling a sense of relief at the lack of resistance. “Good. Then it’s settled. Also…”

He hesitated, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his water glass. Finally, he looked up at Oberstein, his expression serious. “I want to tell those closest to me about us.”

Oberstein’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze narrowed slightly. “Your Majesty, that would not be wise.”

Reinhard’s frown deepened, irritation flickering in his sharp blue eyes. “Why not? The people closest to me know me better than anyone. They’ve earned my trust.”

“This is not a matter of trust,” Oberstein replied calmly. “It’s a matter of perception. You are the emperor. Any personal relationship, particularly one as unconventional as ours, invites scrutiny—even from your closest allies. Revealing this relationship serves no strategic benefit.”

Reinhard leaned back in his chair, his gaze narrowing further. “So you’re saying we should hide it forever? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

“I am saying,” Oberstein said carefully, “that for now, it is better to maintain the status quo. The fewer people who know about your personal life, the fewer weaknesses they can exploit.”

Reinhard’s frustration was clear in his expression. He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t deny the logic in Oberstein’s reasoning. Yet the thought of keeping their relationship a secret, as if it were something shameful, unsettled him.

“Then what about our relationship?” Reinhard asked, his voice softer but no less insistent. “Do you intend for us to live in the shadows forever?”

Oberstein paused, his gaze softening slightly. “No, Your Majesty. But for now, the shadows are safer. For the Empire… and for you.”

Reinhard stared at him, his anger slowly giving way to reluctant acceptance.  After a long pause, he sighed, leaning slightly forward.

“Fine. I’ll delay telling them. For now.”

Oberstein inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable but seemingly relieved. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“But we will live together,” Reinhard said firmly. “That is non-negotiable.”

Oberstein allowed himself a small, genuine smile. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The tension between them dissipated as they continued their meal, the conversation shifting to other matters. But as Reinhard looked at Oberstein across the table, he couldn’t help but feel that this was progress—a small but significant step toward something more tangible, more enduring. For now , Reinhard thought, even if we must keep this hidden, this relationship is ours. And that is enough.

***

The stars stretched endlessly above them. Reinhard leaned against the railing, his golden hair catching the faint starlight. His sharp blue eyes gazed intently at the sky, but there was a distant sorrow hidden within them.

After dinner, they had stepped out onto the balcony to admire the stars. Finally, Reinhard broke the silence, his voice soft but laden with emotion.

“When Kircheis died, it felt as though all the brightest stars had gone dark and fallen from the heavens.” Reinhard paused, his hands gripping the railing tightly. “He was everything—my friend, my companion, the one who understood me without words. Losing him felt like losing the light of the entire universe.”

Oberstein remained silent, his mechanical gaze fixed carefully on Reinhard. He knew better than to interrupt; Reinhard’s pain needed space to surface, unhurried and unforced.

“But I’ve been trapped in that pain,” Reinhard continued, his voice trembling slightly. “I was so consumed by the loss of one brilliant star that I failed to notice how many others quietly shone beside me. Silent stars, unassuming ones.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Oberstein, though he didn’t say the name aloud. It wasn’t necessary.

Oberstein’s posture remained steady, though his gaze softened slightly. “Your Majesty,” he said after a moment, “in ancient times, people would make wishes upon falling stars. They believed that something so fleeting and beautiful was a sign of good fortune.”

Reinhard turned his head, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “I’ve always found that odd. A star falling from the heavens sounds more like a tragedy than a blessing.”

“Perhaps,” Oberstein replied, his tone calm and measured. “But it’s not the star that brings fortune—it’s the hope it inspires.”

As if on cue, a streak of light darted across the sky—a shooting star. Reinhard’s gaze followed it, his expression softening with something akin to wonder. He turned toward Oberstein, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Do you believe in wishes, Oberstein?” Reinhard asked, his voice half-teasing, half-curious.

Oberstein tilted his head slightly. “I am not one to believe in superstition, Your Majesty,” he replied evenly. “But if I were to make a wish, it would be for you.”

Reinhard blinked, surprised by the unexpected answer. “For me?” he repeated. “And what would you wish for? What do you think I need?”

Oberstein looked up at the sky.

“I would wish,” he said slowly, deliberately, “for you to live long—far beyond twenty-five. For your life to be filled with triumph and glory. And for you to find peace within your soul.”

The sincerity in his words struck something deep within Reinhard. For a moment, he said nothing, his blue eyes fixed on Oberstein’s face. The older man remained as composed as ever, but there was an understated intensity in his voice that Reinhard couldn’t ignore.

Reinhard turned his gaze back to the sky, his chest tightening with a strange emotion. “That is... a lofty wish,” he murmured. “More than I could hope for myself.”

Oberstein inclined his head slightly, his mechanical eyes returning to Reinhard. “It is what you deserve, Your Majesty.”

Reinhard’s grip on the railing loosened slightly. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the sky, the light of the shooting star etched into his memory.

The End.