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When an Akielon heir is born, the gods send a kitten.
It is small and soft and helpless at first, barely able to lift its head, but it is sacred all the same. The kitten is the physical manifestation of the heir’s heart and soul. It grows as the heir grows, sleeps when the heir sleeps, and one day, when the heir dies, it dies too. No Akielon questions this. It has always been so.
If the heir wishes to marry, the cat must approve.
The cat is never wrong.
Once it chooses, it will never leave the heir’s future wife or husband. It will follow them from room to room, sleep curled at their side, bare teeth and claws for anyone who threatens them. Many alliances have failed because of a cat’s indifference. A few wars have been narrowly avoided because a cat chose quickly and decisively.
Damen’s cat is brown, with darker stripes along his back, soft brown eyes, and a ridiculous pink nose. He is particular to the point of rudeness, unlike his human. He allows closeness only from Damen himself, Nikandros, and Theomedes. Kastor and Jokaste and those whom are close to Damen are permitted a brief touch—one or two strokes at most—before the cat coolly removes himself from their reach.
As for Damen’s various suitors over the years, the cat has treated them all with polite disdain.
He has never hissed or scratched. He has simply ignored them. Turned his back. Walked away, tail twitching.
The nobles whisper about it, as nobles always do. They worry that the gods are displeased, or that Damen’s heart is flawed in some way. That perhaps Akielos will be left without a proper alliance, without a queen or king chosen by divine will.
Damen does not worry.
He trusts his cat. He trusts the gods.
The cat will choose when he is ready.
The Veretian royal family arrives in Akielos at the height of summer, their banners snapping in the hot wind as they ride through the gates. They come to speak of treaties, borders, and the long peace that exists between their two nations, kept alive and safe only due to the careful actions of those on both sides.
Prince Laurent is not what Damen expects.
He is beautiful, yes, golden-haired and sharp-featured, his eyes calculating and cold, but he is not large like his brother. He is slim where Auguste is broad, fine-boned where Auguste is solid. There is something coiled and dangerous about him, like a blade made delicate on purpose.
He is also seventeen.
Too young.
If he were older, Damen thinks—briefly, and then forces himself not to—he would be courting Laurent.
The negotiations stretch over days. Laurent speaks little, watching everything, saying just enough to remind everyone in the room that he is not to be underestimated. Damen finds himself watching him more than he should, measuring each flick of expression, each precise word. Something in the youngest prince seems to call to Damen.
Still, Damen’s cat does not appear which, admittedly, is not out of the normal.
Until the third day.
The doors to the council chamber are open to let in the breeze when the cat pads inside, tail high, utterly unconcerned with the gathered royalty. Damen glances down automatically, then stills.
The cat stops.
He goes rigid, eyes locked on Prince Laurent.
The room is silent as people notice the cat.
Then the cat begins to purr.
It is loud—shockingly loud—filling the chamber with a deep, vibrating sound that seems to echo in Damen’s chest. Before anyone can move or speak, the cat breaks into a run, crossing the polished floor and leaping directly into Laurent’s lap.
Gasps ripple through the room.
Laurent freezes, startled, hands hovering uselessly in the air as the cat settles himself with unmistakable intent. The purring intensifies. The cat rubs his face against Laurent’s chest, his neck, his jaw, scent-marking every inch he can reach as if claiming him before witnesses.
The Akielons stare.
This cat, who barely tolerates being touched, who has never shown more than mild curiosity toward anyone Damen has ever brought before him, is openly adoring a Veretian prince.
“Hello,” Laurent says stiffly in Veretian, voice tight with awkwardness and slight embarrassment at being the center of attention.
The cat answers by butting his head under Laurent’s chin and purring even louder.
Damen feels his face heat. His heart—his soul, given fur and breath—is choosing. Publicly. Unapologetically. In front of gods and nobles and the entire Veretian delegation.
Laurent looks up, eyes sharp and searching, and meets Damen’s gaze.
Something unspoken passes between them. Recognition, perhaps. Or inevitability. Now there can be no one else for Damen.
Nikandros exhales softly. Theomedes smiles.
The gods have spoken.
From that moment on, the cat does not leave Laurent’s side.
He follows him through the palace corridors, curls up beside him during meals, sleeps on his bed as though it has always been his. When a Veretian lord speaks too sharply to Laurent, the cat bares his teeth. When Damen approaches, the cat watches him carefully, then—after a long moment—allows Damen to sit close.
Approval, tentative but real.
The court erupts into speculation. Diplomats scramble. Letters are written and rewritten. No one dares suggest ignoring the cat’s choice. To do so would be to defy the gods themselves.
Laurent pretends indifference, but Damen notices the way his hand drifts unconsciously to the cat’s fur, the way his shoulders ease when the cat is near. He notices how Laurent begins to look at Damen differently—not as an opponent, not as a political inconvenience, but as something… unavoidable. There is heat in those cool eyes.
When the Veretians depart, the cat remains.
Laurent pauses at the gates, stunned, as the cat curls possessively around his legs and refuses to move.
Damen steps forward. “He won’t leave you,” he says gently. “He’s chosen.”
Laurent looks at the cat. Then at Damen.
“Then,” Laurent says slowly, “it seems I will have a choice to make.”
The cat purrs, loud and satisfied.
The cat lives in Laurent’s rooms long before the wedding takes place.
It is not a question or a discussion. The morning after the whole spectacle with the cat, Laurent wakes to find the cat already there, curled against his ribs as though he has always belonged. When Laurent tries—once—to protest, the cat flicks an ear and settles more firmly, making it clear he has no intention of moving.
Damen, when complained to, only smiles.
The court watches the years pass.
Two, then nearly three. Treaties become habit. Hostility softens into cooperation, then into something that looks suspiciously like trust, given how the gods have spoken. Their princes shall be wed when they choose to. Laurent grows into himself, sharper and more dangerous and so very beautiful in ways that make Damen proud to be one day called his. Damen learns Laurent’s silences, his sharp edges, the way his love hides.
Through it all, the cat remains devoted.
He follows Laurent everywhere, but at night he sleeps between them, a solid, warm presence pressed into the hollow of shared space. It is understood—without ever being said—that this is deliberate. The gods do nothing without reason. They will wait until their wedding night.
When the wedding day finally comes, it is quiet by royal standards. Sacred rather than lavish just as they prefer. Laurent wears white edged with Veretian blue. Damen wears Akielon red. The cat walks between them down the aisle, tail high, utterly pleased with himself.
The vows are spoken simply.
The gods are satisfied.
That night, their chambers are lit only by low lamps and moonlight. The celebrations fade into distant sound, then into nothing at all. It is just the two of them, the weight of years finally settling into something real and unbreakable.
The cat jumps onto the bed before either of them can stop him.
Laurent laughs softly, breathless and disbelieving, and says, "I am not fucking when he is in here." Damen reaches out to stroke the familiar fur. The cat purrs, deep and resonant, and circles once—twice—before settling precisely between them.
It is tradition, though few speak of it aloud.
On the wedding night, the cat sleeps between the heir and their chosen. Heart and soul bearing witness. Binding what the gods have already approved.
Damen lies back, watching Laurent in the dim light. Laurent’s hair has come loose, his sharpness softened by exhaustion and happiness. He looks young in this moment. He looks safe.
“I think,” Laurent says quietly, fingers brushing the cat’s ear, “he is very pleased with himself.”
“He should be,” Damen replies. “He waited a long time.”
The cat purrs louder, as if in agreement.
When Laurent shifts closer, their hands find each other naturally, fingers threading together over warm fur. The cat does not stir. He only presses closer, anchoring them, a steady, living heartbeat.
Later—when the lamps are dimmed further, when kisses turn needy and Damen is trying to figure out how to get the cat to leave—the cat rises.
He stretches, steps carefully over tangled limbs, and leaps down from the bed.
The door, left slightly ajar for they have several corridors of rooms to themselves right now, opens wider on a soft breeze.
Laurent watches him go, something tender and awe-struck in his expression.
“He’s leaving,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” Damen says. His voice is steady, but his chest feels full. “He knows we don’t need him between us anymore.”
The cat pauses at the threshold and looks back once, eyes bright and knowing. I will be back, they seem to say. Thank you, Damen thinks.
Then he is gone.
Damen pulls Laurent close, forehead to forehead, breath mingling. No gods watching now. No symbols required to finally be Laurent's and Laurent his.
Outside, the palace settles into sleep.
Inside, Damen’s heart is exactly where it has always meant to be.