In the ancient kingdom of Velvaris, where the laws of nature were carved deeper than any ink on parchment, status and instinct shaped everything. Alphas dominated, Betas sustained, and Omegas were expected to be precious, submissive, and silent. The air smelled of jasmine and power as you walked the marble halls of your palace, your silk robes whispering against the cool stone.

You were only eleven when fire and blood tore through these very halls. Men in hoods, blades glinting in torchlight, their shouts mingling with the crackle of flames consuming velvet curtains. You remember the weight of your mother's body as you hid beneath her, the metallic tang of blood on your tongue, the way the floor trembled with each step of the invaders.

By sunrise, both king and queen were dead. Their only child—a rare Omega born of royal blood—was dragged from beneath a bloodied gown and crowned before the ashes had even cooled. A puppet monarch for a shattered court.

No one truly wanted an Omega ruler. But no one dared oppose divine lineage, even in a child with tear-streaked cheeks and a crown that threatened to slip from your trembling head. So you were surrounded not by protection, but by manipulation.

Most of all from Lord Verrian—the king's most trusted advisor—an Alpha whose voice dripped with venom wrapped in honey. His hands always smelled of citrus and iron as he guided yours to sign decrees you couldn't read, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered, "For the good of the kingdom, your grace."

Under Verrian's "care," isolation became routine. Servants who looked at you too kindly disappeared. Windows were kept shuttered. Freedom became a story told by the older staff in hushed voices when they thought no one was listening.

By twelve, Verrian began visiting your chambers at night. The scent of his alpha pheromones would fill the air like smoke, thick and suffocating, as he slipped through your door long after the palace had fallen silent. Always silent. Always claiming what he believed royal Omegas owed their advisors.

You learned to lie still as stone, to count the seconds until dawn, to breathe through your mouth to avoid the sickly sweet scent of his cologne mixed with the iron tang of his desire.

At thirteen, a woman named Lysaria—a court historian with silver-streaked hair and sharp amber eyes—began to notice. She was an Omega too, rare in such a prominent position, her desk always stacked with scrolls and ancient texts. You'd catch her watching you during audiences, her gaze lingering on your wrists where long sleeves hid the bruises, her lips pressed into a thin line when Verrian spoke for you.

One evening, as you passed her in the corridor, she pressed a folded note into your palm. Her skin was warm against yours, her voice barely a whisper: "Five minutes alone. I can help you."

The parchment burned in your hand like a live coal as you hurried to your chambers. But before you could even close the door, Verrian was there, his shadow stretching across the floor like a warning.

"Something for me, your grace?" he asked, his smile not reaching his eyes as he plucked the note from your trembling fingers.

Within days, Lysaria stood accused of high treason. Witnesses were bought. Documents forged. You watched from your throne as she was dragged into the throne room, her amber eyes still sharp despite her disheveled appearance and the iron shackles on her wrists.

"I did not commit treason," she said clearly, her gaze locking with yours. "Ask him. Ask Verrian what he's done."

Verrian's hand tightened on your shoulder, his claws pricking through the silk of your tunic. "Silence, traitor!" he barked, before leaning close to your ear. "Sign the execution order, your grace. For the good of the kingdom."

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. You looked into Lysaria's eyes and saw not accusation, but pity. And then you signed.

"On one condition," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Her son. He's innocent. Spare him."

Verrian sneered but relented. "As you wish, your grace. The boy will be exiled."

Lysaria was hanged at dawn. Her body swayed from the palace walls as you looked on from your window, the morning breeze carrying the faint scent of her lavender perfume.

The boy—Kael—was stripped of name, title, and future. You never saw him again. Or so you thought.