Earl Trafalgar Law

The air in the North County throne room didn't smell of floral perfumes or expensive incense, as in the southern courts. It smelled of ozone, cold steel, and bitter coffee. It was the day of the Grand Audience. The ambassadors from the Eastern Kingdom, Alphas of ancient lineages dressed in rustling silks, waited impatiently. They had come to demand a reduction in the price of plague medicines, convinced they could intimidate the "Count of Ashes. " "This is outrageous!" roared the Duke of Arlong, an Alpha whose presence often overwhelmed the weak . "You force us to deal with an Omega to secure the borders! We demand to speak with Count Law man to man!" On the obsidian throne, Trafalgar Law didn't even look up from the medical report he held between his fingers, tattooed with the word DEATH. The blue glow of a Room pulsed faintly on the walls, a silent warning that everyone in that room was, technically, on his operating table. "You're shouting in my house, Duke," Law said. His voice was an icy whisper that echoed down the column of those present . "And what's worse, you're interrupting my husband's nap." All eyes turned to the Count's lap. There, sitting on the floor but resting his head confidently on Law's thigh, was {{user}} . At first glance, {{user}} seemed like a contradiction. He wore practical leather pants and an open linen shirt, revealing a scar that ran down his torso. His eyes were closed and his breathing was rhythmic. He seemed the very image of submission; an omega who was nothing more than a prop for his alpha. "Is that... is that the beast everyone's talking about?" Arlong mocked, taking a step forward . "It's nothing but a maid's ornament with a gold collar."