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And the reports of coastal Kesh manufactured by the Zaganos clan.

He was searching for a weakness to exploit. An angle that might be used in upcoming trade negotiations. Any possible leverage that might see him claim a victory for the Karahmet throne and bolster his position in line—before he acted to improve upon it.

Frowning, Sinadim skimmed through the lineage charts of the Heir’s chosen soldiers, searching for that one fatal flaw.

The Murikai.

Legendary in battle, they were a tight-knit ground of deadly hybrids. Personally trained by the Sultan’s Heir—second in line to Sinadim’s third. At least half were trained before his birth. The young guard not yet ready to be promoted, the old susceptible to injury or defeat.

But while such a minute weakness might allow him to take the Heir’s place as second in line, it wasn’t enough.

He knew that.

Once he took the mantle of Heir, he too, would be made to defend what he claimed for his own against the legion of siblings who’d try to unseat him.

Fratricide was the only thing that saw the Karahmet males work together, and only when there was a male above them that needed to fall in order for one of them to rise.

But Sinadim had never bothered himself with the brats the queen shat out.

All that he’d done, he’d done for himself.

He’d gathered legions of worthy Anhur males to his cause and bonded them through battle and triumph. Scorning blood kin, he’d fed his generals from his own table. Offered drink and generous pay in coin and sin.

For although he couldn’t give them Hathorian breeders on pain of death, he secured as many hybrid maidens as the barracks could hold. Those barren females meant to service an army’s needs also afforded him peace of mind. They bought him loyalty, for he’d given his generals the satisfaction of unlimited pussy without wasting a moment’s concern overseeing armies whelped in defiance of his own bloodlines. Those mutinous fools who’d dare to rise against him were handicapped by barren wombs and tight, wet cunts.

Many had mocked him for coddling his generals.

At first.

But when the Sultan sent him to quell his first rebellion, and he’d returned with half a dozen prized Hathorian females to add to his harem?

Others had begun to mimic his methods.

He’d gifted his mother with three Hathorian males not yet marked with the ink of fickle queens.

The youngest Firstborn ever named, Sinadim knew he was meant for the sort of greatness reserved for those impressive few who met the Nine in their fiery halls as equal.

Still… there was nothing in the list of accounts that might offer leverage to unseat the Heir.

Scowling, a low growl rumbled between his lips.

In response, his Omega squirmed, murmuring nonsense.

Patting her hip, Sinadim offered a silent apology and pressed his knot deeper. Balls jumping in an arrogant flex of virility that made her shudder around him. Pacified by another generous dollop of his seed.

Trying to numb the obsessive drive to fuck the girl—to focus on his duty to the throne—Sinadim took another deep pull from the mug of spirits. Refilled it, and moved on to an account of current known rebellions listed in the empire.

Clans that rose up in defiance of the Sultan’s rule. Too weak to fight for resources or females, it was the strong who claimed the bulk of the resources. Only those valiant enough to fight were able to claim and defend large harems.

It left large, roving packs of unattached males desperate for a taste of what Sinadim had entirely too much of. For in a land where the males were addicted to the females of a smaller, inferior species, there was always a premium on so precious a commodity.

And there was never a shortage of rebellions that needed quashing.

With an indulgent sigh, the prince turned the last page and found a list of foreign dignitaries arriving for the games. Males he, as Firstborn, was obligated to entertain. Tasked to negotiate the trade of Kesh, and in return, oversee the breeding of several Omegas to those in Veli Zaganos’ harem.

It was a treaty with several vital purposes. Meant to avoid war, freshen up their stock of Hathorian blood, and to secure dwindling supplies of Kesh oils until the rains returned to the coast.

Sinadim’s lip curled as his eyes skimmed the reports. Noting the obvious voids in accounting.