PH 3

“It took me three months to cultivate that one, Gerard.”

The door closed. In response to Gerard’s question, Nile laughed and spoke as if complaining.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is for a man like me to meet omegas? I turned him down today, so he might not see me again next time.”

“A man like you—you mean a beta male?”

“Yeah. A beta, and poor on top of that.”

Asking “Want some?” Nile took out a tea canister from the cupboard. Gerard knew well that while this house had nothing to eat, it always kept top-quality tea on hand, so he nodded.

“How did you seduce him? He looked like quite a wealthy young master.”

“I ran into him while running an errand for that wealthy family. We’d promised to spend his estrus together, but…”

With the danger past, regret came belatedly. He could never dream of meeting an aristocratic omega, and even low-grade omegas were not easy to come by.

Even low-grade omegas were precious. Nobles wanted them as concubines, and even among commoners, those with money wanted to take an omega wife—because it was considered aristocratic.

Everyone knew that the cause of low-grade births was the nobles’ dissolute sexual lives. It was because nobles bedded ordinary betas that low-grades were born.

For the same reason that male bastards were fewer than female bastards, alpha bastards were inevitably more numerous than omega bastards, and thus the world of low-grades was severely overpopulated with alphas compared to omegas.

Of course, omegas were sometimes born between alphas and betas like mutations, but those numbers were extremely rare, which meant that Nile, with his already peculiar proclivity, had a very hard time dating.

“Coming back after eight years and ruining my love life—Gerard Galen, when you become viscount, you’ll have to pay me back with interest.”

“I’d give you my very heart for you, Nile.”

“Talk is cheap.”

Nile chuckled. The slight tension that had existed between them dissolved. Nile brought boiling water for tea, and Gerard found some bread and tore into it. As natural as if they had never been apart for eight years.

“So.”

Opening the lid of the tea canister, Nile asked.

“What’s this commission you wanted to give me?”

“Be the Duke of Sirarund’s bed companion.”

“…What?”

“Be the Duke’s bed companion, Nile.”

Gerard’s voice was so casual it sounded crisp. Nile’s hand, holding a spoon, tilted, and tea leaves scattered down with a soft rustle.

That must have been expensive, Gerard thought to himself. His unpretentious friend had always had one luxury he insisted on: tea. Black tea leaves, clearly imported from the Eastern country on the other side of the world, fell to the floor.

“Sirarund? Are you joking right now?”

Fortunately, his friend quickly regained his composure, frowning at the tea leaves scattered on the floor.

“Surely you don’t mean that great nobleman living in the North?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re insane.”

With meticulous care, Nile picked up the fallen tea leaves one by one, blew on them, and put them into his own cup. He simply couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. Gerard could swear that the spoonful of tea leaves Nile had just spilled was worth about as much as his weekly wage.

“Why would that nobleman need a bed companion, and why come to me? A man of that standing would never lack for partners.”

The Grand Duke of Sirarund. Even Nile, who worked as an administrative assistant at Galen Harbor, knew that name. No, that name was famous enough to reach beyond the Prastos Empire into other nations.

The young war god. The coldest blood. The conqueror of the North.

The man who had gone to the battlefield at thirteen and, four years later, restored the border of the Holy Land—the Empire’s long-cherished goal—and annexed that territory to the Imperial House. The King of Sirarund and Grand Duke of the Empire, Magnus Sirarund.

“Did you come all this way just to joke around?”

“It’s neither a joke nor madness.”

Gerard pulled his chair forward and sat down. His voice grew serious.

“Must be male. Of humble origin. But his conduct must be as elegant as a well-bred young noble. Skilled in bed, with good manners, and must know his place.”

Gerard looked his friend straight in the eye and said:

“I’m looking for a man like that, Nile.”

“Find me an omega, Gerard.”

The order had come ten days ago.

The content of the command, issued directly by Count Nuveri—the Duke of Sirarund’s maternal uncle—was to find a man to serve as the Duke’s bed companion.

Those who wished to enter the Grand Duke’s bedchamber were legion. There was no need to go out of one’s way to find one. If the Duke wished it, he could lay anyone—alpha, omega, or beta—in his bed.

Yes. If he wished it.

“No female types. His Excellency has a strong aversion to them. A male omega. An ordinary omega would be ideal, but in any case, only low-grades will be available. His origin should be as humble as possible, but his conduct must be as elegant as a well-bred young noble. He must not be frivolous or servile. His Excellency the Duke is not a patient man. He must be skilled in bed and have good manners. His Excellency will learn about intercourse through that omega. And most importantly—”

The Count paused there for a moment.

“He must know his place. He must never harbor foolish ambitions just because he has shared the Duke’s bed. He must understand his station. Also, naturally, he must be handsome. He needn’t be an extraordinary beauty, but he must be attractive enough to stir His Excellency’s interest.”

A male omega.

Of humble birth, yet possessing courtesy and dignity, and beautiful enough to move the Duke’s heart.

He must have no ambitions, nor involve himself with the Duke more than necessary. After serving as a bed companion and instructing the Duke on the omega body, he must withdraw cleanly once his usefulness is over. He must have the intelligence to understand what is required of him, and he must know his place—so as not to harbor vain dreams.

“The Duke has an affliction.”

And from this point on, it was highly classified information—the Duke’s mental condition, known only to a few of his closest confidants.

“He cannot embrace others. But to receive the Emperor’s recognition, he absolutely needs one thing, and that is—”

“An heir.”

“An heir.”

Gerard smiled faintly. As if to say, “You knew, of course.”

Sirarund was a vast frozen wasteland attached to the North. This land sprawled out as if wearing a crown atop the Empire’s head.

A place where half the year was winter. Until barely a hundred and fifty years ago, that land had been worthless—regarded as little more than a buffer zone along the border with other nations. That is, if not for the sudden earthquake.

The unexpected earthquake pushed gold, long buried deep, up to the surface. People were stunned to discover countless gold mines that had surged up like a tidal wave.

Not only gold—there were also innumerable iron mines and treasures. After that, Sirarund transformed into a land flowing with veins of gold. The world’s eyes turned to that land.

Sirarund was torn apart by invaders coveting its jewels. To defend their land, the rulers of Sirarund gave their lives without hesitation. As a result, those who now carried on the house of Sirarund—including children and women—numbered fewer than could be counted on five fingers. It was near annihilation.

The problem was Sirarund’s people. They were Northerners, and Northerners were as insular as the cold climate they endured.

For a thousand years, they had refused to serve anyone not of Sirarund’s bloodline, who had ruled the North. Even if a member of the Imperial family came, it was the same. No, even if the Emperor himself came in person, it would be useless.

That suffocatingly strong sense of community.

The people of the North would bow only to one who had lived alongside them, defending the frozen earth, one who had likewise been baptized by the North’s cold breath.

That is, they would never lower their heads except by command of the Duke of Sirarund.

Impiously, they had no loyalty even to the Emperor. Three hundred years ago, the Duke of Sirarund had knelt, and so they had knelt with him—but in truth, they did not serve the Empire.

Through over a century of war, the Sirarund family had led the North from the very front lines of the battlefield. In that process, the Sirarund family had been nearly annihilated. When all their grown sons had died on the battlefield, chaos descended. The North was about to fracture.

After such events repeated themselves several times, the Emperor of the Empire established a rule: whoever wished to become Duke of Sirarund must marry and bear children. Anyone who could not bear children and prove their fertility, even if of direct lineage, would never inherit the ducal title.