The palace was alive tonight. It pulsed with power, humming through marble floors and shimmering in the golden light spilling from chandeliers. Voices echoed down endless corridors deep, commanding, threaded with laughter sharp as blades. The scent of dominance lingered in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating.
Soren moved like a shadow, his tray balanced with trembling precision, his head bowed so low his neck ached. Every step was a prayer. Every breath, a gamble.
He had learned to breathe shallowly, to keep his scent buried beneath layers of inhibitor and fear. But fear had a smell too, and he wondered if they could taste it in the air. Alphas didn't need eyes to hunt. They needed only a flicker of weakness, a crack in the mask. And tonight, his mask felt fragile.
The great hall loomed ahead, its doors carved with scenes of conquest alphas triumphant, omegas kneeling, betas fading into the background. Beyond those doors, dominance gathered like a storm. He could feel it pressing against his skin, heavy and electric, curling through the air like smoke.
He hated this part of his job, hated stepping into rooms where power dripped from the walls like molten gold. But orders were orders, and disobedience was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Tonight was no ordinary feast. It was a council a gathering of the most powerful alphas in the kingdom. They had come to discuss war and wealth, to carve new borders and tighten chains around those born to obey. Illuminés was the jewel of the realm, and the Palace of Golden Ashes its beating heart. Every decision made here would ripple through the world beyond.
And Soren was here, pretending to be what he wasn't. A beta. Invisible. Safe.
He pushed the door open and slipped inside. Light assaulted him golden chandeliers blazing, polished floors reflecting fractured suns. Velvet curtains framed towering windows, their folds heavy with gold thread. The air shimmered with heat and scent: musk, spice, iron. It clawed at his lungs, made his pulse stutter.
Music floated through the hall, soft and elegant a quartet of strings weaving delicate harmonies, flutes sighing like distant wind, a harp spilling notes like liquid silver. The melody was graceful, refined, meant to soothe and impress. But to Soren, it was a cruel contrast. Every note clashed with the pounding of his heart, every rise and fall mocking the chaos inside him.
Alphas lounged on velvet chairs, their coats heavy with embroidery, their boots polished to a mirror shine. They spoke in voices that rumbled like distant thunder, their laughter sharp and cold. Servants betas, all of them moved between tables with trays of wine and platters of roasted meats, their faces blank masks of obedience.
Soren kept his head down, his steps measured, his tray steady. Invisible. He had to be invisible.
"Wine," a voice barked, sharp as a whip.
He obeyed without looking up, pouring crimson liquid into a crystal glass. Fingers brushed his wrist deliberate, lingering. His breath caught. He risked a glance and met eyes like molten steel. The alpha smiled, slow and knowing, and something in that smile made his stomach knot.
"You're new," the man said, his tone lazy, but his gaze anything but. It stripped him bare, peeled away the layers of powder and lies.
"I've been here two years, my lord," Soren murmured, forcing his voice steady.
"Two years," the alpha mused, tilting his head. "Strange I never noticed you." His eyes slid over Soren's frame, lingering where they shouldn't. "Pretty for a servant."
The words were soft, but they burned. Pretty. The word was a blade, slicing through the years he had spent burying himself in ugliness. Pretty meant danger. Pretty meant death.
He bowed lower, hiding his face. "I'm not," he whispered, and fled before the man could speak again. His pulse thundered in his ears, his breath ragged.
He ducked into an empty corridor, pressing his back to the wall. His hands shook so hard the tray clattered to the floor. He stared at the spilled wine pooling like blood and felt the old terror rise thick, choking, relentless.
He had been careful. So careful. But one look, one word, and the ground beneath him cracked.
Voices drifted from the hall, sharp and clear:
"…the eastern border must fall. The trade routes are ours by right."
"…and the omega laws? Too lenient. They breed rebellion."
"…rumors of a dominant omega nonsense, but if true…"
The words sliced through him like knives. He pressed his hands to his ears, but they couldn't block the truth. If they knew if anyone knew he wouldn't just lose his freedom. He would lose himself.
His skin burned. Heat crawled up his spine, coiling in his gut. Panic clawed at him. He knew this heat. He knew what it meant. His inhibitor was failing.
"No," he breathed, his voice breaking. Not now. Not here. He fumbled in his pocket, fingers closing around the small vial. Empty. He had miscalculated. The last dose had burned through faster than expected, eaten alive by stress and fear. His scent would bleed soon wild, intoxicating, impossible to hide. And in this palace, surrounded by predators, that was a death sentence.
He ran. Not fast enough to draw attention, but fast enough to feel his lungs ache. He needed another inhibitor. He needed to lock himself away before the storm broke. But the corridors twisted like a maze, and every turn brought new voices, new footsteps, new danger.
He slipped into a side hall, heart hammering, and froze.
The air changed.
It was subtle at first a shift in pressure, a weight settling on his skin. Then came the scent, sharp and devastating, curling through the air like smoke. Dominance. Pure, unyielding, absolute. It crushed the breath from his lungs, made his knees weaken. He didn't need to see him to know. The King was near.
Ecclesias.
The Alpha of Alphas. The man whose presence could break the proudest, whose name was carved into the bones of kingdoms. Soren pressed himself against the wall, every muscle locked, every instinct screaming. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. The scent grew stronger, wrapping around him like chains, dragging him to his knees without a touch. His body betrayed him, trembling, bowing to a command that hadn't been spoken.
Footsteps echoed slow, deliberate, inexorable. He heard voices, low and reverent, and then silence. A shadow stretched across the marble, long and sharp, and Soren knew it belonged to him. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying, begging, bargaining with gods he didn't believe in.
The footsteps stopped.
And then a voice. Deep, smooth, threaded with steel.
"Who," it said, soft as a blade sliding free, "is hiding in my hall?"
Soren's breath shattered. His heart slammed against his ribs. He opened his eyes and saw boots of black leather, polished to a mirror shine, inches from his face.