Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 449: Too Early

Days later, ’not yet’ stopped sounding like a countdown and began to sound like a lie told to oneself because there was nothing else to do.

Arion’s eyes were changing with alarming speed.

The faint ring that had first appeared at the edge of the iris had widened day by day, with the brown pushing back as if something was flooding in from the outside and claiming territory. The physicians called it progression. Otto called it a nightmare. Dax called it what it was: an infection that took the shape of a child.

They kept Arion sedated more often than not, not because they wanted him unconscious, but because waking meant fear, and fear meant pheromone spikes, and spikes meant unknown variables. Even asleep, he sometimes flinched as if his body were fighting something it didn’t understand.

The hospital section stayed locked down.

Guards didn’t rotate in and out so much as trade places like pieces on a board. PPE became second skin. Sterile procedures stopped being procedures and became religion. Nobody touched Arion without gloves. Nobody entered without being cleared.

They met in a small conference room two corridors away from Arion’s isolation suite.

The room was clinical: a table, a wall monitor, two sealed cabinets of emergency supplies, and a window that looked into nothing interesting. The air smelled of disinfectant and recycled ventilation.

Otto sat at the head of the table like a man who hadn’t slept in a week and didn’t intend to start now.

Dax stood to one side, arms folded, posture still and controlled in the way it became when his anger was being held back by force. His pheromones were leashed so tight they felt like wire under skin.

Chris was there too, his coat off, sleeves rolled, hair pinned back in a way that looked neat but wasn’t quite. He’d arrived two days ago and hadn’t left. He’d been moving between the suite and the hospital wing, between Nero and Arion, refusing to let the situation become ’someone else’s emergency.’

On the wall monitor, Minerva’s face filled the screen.

Her connection was crisp.

She looked like she’d been living on coffee and spite, eyes sharp, cheekbones too prominent from stress and missed meals. Behind her, Dax could glimpse the edge of a different office - Alamina’s palace, still under siege by her investigation.

"Report," Minerva said, no greeting, no softness. Just a demand.

The lead physician, Dr. Varga, gray-haired, a man who looked like he’d never blinked in his life, stood at the far end of the table with a tablet in hand. Two other physicians sat beside him, masked, gloved, and with hard eyes.

Dr. Varga didn’t waste time.

"The ocular change is accelerating," he said. "The gold pigmentation has progressed beyond the outer ring. It’s moving inward at a rate that contradicts earlier predictions."

Otto’s hand tightened on the table edge. His knuckles went white.

Chris’s face didn’t change, but his eyes cooled.

Dax’s jaw flexed once.

"And symptoms," Minerva said.

"Neurological irritation," Dr. Varga replied. "Intermittent tremors when awake. Sensory hypersensitivity. Elevated resting cortisol. Pheromone markers remain pre-manifestation, but the volatility is increasing."

Otto’s voice was low. "Meaning."

"Meaning his body is under siege," Dr. Varga said, evenly. "And it is losing ground."

Silence landed heavy in the room.

Minerva’s expression sharpened into something murderous. "Tell me you have a solution."

Dr. Varga’s gaze held steady. "We have one viable intervention left."

Otto’s eyes snapped up. "Then say it."

Dr. Varga tapped his tablet once, and the wall monitor shifted to a chart: hormone levels, developmental ranges, projected manifestation windows.

Chris leaned forward slightly, reading fast.

Dax stared at the chart like it was a threat.

Dr. Varga didn’t soften the words.

"We push manifestation," he said. "Immediately."

Otto went very still. "He’s eight."

"Yes," Dr. Varga said. "And under normal circumstances, dominant alpha manifestation occurs later - typically mid-adolescence. Fifteen to eighteen is the common range."

Minerva’s voice cut in, sharp. "And you want to force it now."

Dr. Varga nodded once. "Yes."

Otto’s mouth opened, then closed. His throat worked like he was swallowing something bitter and hot.

Chris’s voice was quiet, controlled. "How?"

Dr. Varga didn’t flinch. "Hormonal induction. Aggressive dosing. We mimic the endocrine cascade of puberty and dominance awakening. We force the body into a defensive state it isn’t naturally scheduled to reach yet." 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Dax’s voice came out like ice. "And the risks?"

Dr. Varga met his gaze. "Significant."

Otto’s chair creaked under the tension of him leaning forward. "Define significant."

"Cardiovascular stress," Dr. Varga said. "Neurological overload. Temperature dysregulation. Potential organ strain. Psychological fallout if he wakes up through it. He may experience an early rut onset pattern - rare, but not impossible. He may experience aggression, fear responses, and dissociation. There is a nonzero risk of fatal cascade."

Minerva went utterly still on the screen.

Chris’s hand curled into a fist on the tabletop.

Otto’s eyes looked glassy again. "And if we do nothing?"

Dr. Varga’s tone remained clinical. "Then the infection continues to progress unchecked. The gold will overtake the iris entirely. The neurological symptoms will worsen. At a certain threshold, his body will begin to restructure."

Dax’s stomach turned cold.

Otto’s voice went hoarse. "Restructure into what?"

The physician held Otto’s eyes. "Into something that is no longer your son."

The silence after that was so thick it felt physical.

Chris was the first to speak, because Chris always spoke when rooms went silent in front of catastrophe.

"How soon?" he asked.

Dr. Varga replied, "We are not comfortable delaying beyond tonight."

Otto’s hands clenched. He looked at the chart, then at the physicians, then at Minerva’s face on the screen like he was trying to find a loophole inside her fury.

Minerva’s voice was very quiet. "If we do this, do we have an antidote?"

"No," Dr. Varga said. "This isn’t reversing the infection directly. It’s changing the battlefield. Manifested dominance has demonstrated immunity to infected blood exposure. If we can force his body to awaken, we increase his odds of rejecting the progression."

Chris exhaled slowly. "So we either shove him into the fire and hope his body learns to burn it out..."

"Yes," Dr. Varga said.

Otto’s eyes closed for a heartbeat, like he was holding back a sound that didn’t belong in an emperor’s mouth.

Dax watched him.

Watched the man who’d stood in wars, who’d made decisions that moved armies, now pinned by the brutal helplessness of being a parent.

Dax’s voice was low. "He’s eight."

Otto’s eyes snapped open, violent with pain. "I know what he is."

Minerva’s gaze on the screen hardened. "Otto."

Otto didn’t look at her. "Don’t."

Minerva’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t leave you to make this choice alone."

Otto laughed once, ugly. "Arion is my son..." He swallowed and moved his gaze to the window. "Do it."