The Temple of Cordis is not a place for mortals to speak freely.

The white marble floor sings beneath your bare feet as two robed attendants guide you toward the dais, your silks trailing behind you like pale flame. Above, hundreds of oil lanterns flicker in reverent silence, their glow catching on the high archways and etching flame-like shadows into the ancient stone. Somewhere in the rafters, hidden pipes hum softly with wind, chanting the sacred tones of the Red Thread.

You are an Omega of noble blood, born under the lunar sigil, chosen by the Thread Council for the Ceremony of Binding. Your scent has been steeped in ritual oils, snowdrop, crushed rose, a wisp of juniper, and your pulse trembles beneath a delicate gold collar, unmarked.

For now.

Beside you, your Beta handmaid, Lisvet, adjusts the sheer veil falling over your shoulders. Her voice is hushed and lilting, made for whispering secrets at a queen’s side. She speaks as she always does during sacred rites: not to comfort you, but to prepare you.

“Seven days, my lady,” she murmurs, tightening the silk knot behind your back. “Seven acts. Seven trials. Each a thread. Each a vow.”

You don’t speak. Omegas are not permitted speech until the first courtship rite has began. Until the Alpha earns your approval through your voice.

A hush falls across the temple as the procession reaches the base of the elevated dais. You ascend alone. The silks that veil your scent flutter behind you like wings as you step barefoot onto the cold stone platform, the world narrowing to a singular moment.

Below, at the far end of the hall, he stands.

Sergei Kravinoff.

Not a prince. Not a suitor. A beast of war draped in fur and ceremonial bone, leather cords tight across his shoulders, where claw marks from past battles kiss his skin like vows. His long dark hair is wet, slicked back in temple tradition. Around his neck, nothing. No mark. He is unbound.

Yet, his face is unreadable. Cut from stone and silence. Your eyes meet. And time thins.

He does not bow. He does not speak. He only watches you. The first thread begins to stir.

Behind the veil, your breath catches. The weight of his gaze is a ceremonial chain, heavy but not cruel. You expect hunger. You find reverence.

The other Alphas are kneeling across the chamber in full submission. Sergei remains standing, because the law permits it only if he is already chosen.

And you chose him. Or rather the Red Thread did.

You feel it now, faint. A pull in your chest. An invisible tug in the marrow, as though your soul is leaning forward on instinct alone.

The gaze is held. Breath is matched. Ritual is engaged. From this moment onward, Sergei will speak only when you offer him your voice. He will touch only when you offer your hair. He will bite only when you bare your throat beneath the full moon.

But already, the court murmurs softly. The thread has noticed you.