Chapter Text
The carriage wheels rumbled against the uneven stone road, the steady clatter a low heartbeat beneath the suffocating quiet. Chan sat rigid on the upholstered bench, his hands folded tightly in his lap, and eyes fixed on the heavy curtains as though the thick fabric could shield him from the looming dread outside.
Beyond the glass, the walls of Veyra stretched high into the gray sky, its stone blackened with age and soot, built not as a symbol of pride but as a cage to keep its people in. The closer the came, the coldrer the air grew, carrying none of the warmth or freedom of his homeland. Chan’s jaw flexed as the carriage crossed beneath the shadow of the gate. Passing through felt like stepping into the jaws of something that would not easily let go.
His kingdom, Lunaris, could not have been more different. Sprawling coasts kissed by sunlight, open markets alive with music and laughter, a land his father had ruled with compassion and strength. King Christopher had been both firm and fair, a leader beloved by all, until the sudden fever that claimed him two winters ago left the crown far too heavy for his son’s still-young shoulders. Chan had barely had time to grieve before duty demanded he set aside his mourning and take his father’s place as King of Lunaris.
The thought of his father now made his throat tighten. His father had spoken often of Veyra, how he wished to see its truth with his own eyes, to understand why so many omegas and betas fled across Lunaris’s open borders seeking refuge. He never got the chance. Now, Chan had vowed to honor that unfinished dream, and to act where his father could not.
He’d read the desperate letters smuggled across the border, ink sumdged by trembling hands. Betas who begged to be treated as equals, omegas who pleaded for the right to live free, to have names, to claim citizenship. Some letters had been written on scraps of cloth or the back of old ledgers, as though parchment was too precious to spare. Thee words haunted him still: We are less than nothing here. Please, help us.
Chan’s gaze drifted across the carriage, to the companions who had chosen—or rather, been chosen—to make this dangerous journey with him.
Minho sat across from him, a picture of calm elegance, though Chan knew better than to be fooled. Sharp as a blade, Minho had grown up under the contant pressure of nobilitily, his parents pushing for advantage at every turn. They’d once tried to force him into the bed of an older, widowed lord, hoping to secure wealth and power for their house. Marrying the King of Lunaris had spared him that fate, though their union had been nothing more than a necessity for the crown. Chan had never demanded his loyalty of the heart. When Minho found it instead in the arms of his assigned personal knight, Jisung, Chan hadn’t stood in their way. If aything, he was relieved to see Minho smile at someone with such genuine warmth.
Jisung sat close beside Minho, posture straight despite the subtle ease of his hand brushing Minho’s knees, a comfort disguised as duty. A knight by oath, but a confidant and anchor by choice.
Beside Chan, Changbin shifted slightly, ever alert. The King’s chief military advisor, Changbin had risen through both training and merit, a man whose strategies had secured Lunaris’s borders during skirmishes past. Though fiercely protective of Chan, he had a softer side that surfaced only with those he trusted most.
Hyunjin leaned back, long legs crossed with practiced grace, his sharp eyes scanning every movmement around them. As Lunaris’s cultural liaison, his task was to interpret not just words, but unspoken intent, the subtle currents of body language and tone that could mean the difference between peace and war.
Seungmin, composed and calculating, sat with a small leather-bound book balanced on his knees, the quill tucked into the spine. Intelligence reports and diplomatic counsel were his realm, every move considered twice before he spoke it aloud. More than once, Chan had leaned on his clear-eyed logic when emotion threatened to cloud his judgment.
At the far end sat Jeongin, officially his personal guard, Jeongin had trained with a ferocity that was above his years, refusing to let anyone else hold the position so close to the King. Quiet and watchful, with a blade never far from hand, Chan trusted him implicitly.
Together, they were more than just a retinue. They were the backbone of his reign, the ones he relied on when the weight of the crown threatened to crush him, his pack.
Still, as the carriage passed fully into Veyra, the unease in his chest only deepened. The villages that lined the road beyond the wall were muted and gray with neglect. He searched for children’s laughter, for signs of bustling life, but the streets were eerily silent. Few faces even dared to look at the carriage, and those who did quickly looked away. He could not tell if it was fear or hopelessness that dulled their eyes.
His hand curled against his thigh, knuckles whitening. He would not stand by while this rot spread unchecked.
“Your Majesty?”
The quiet voice startled him, pulling him from the storm in his thoughts. Jeongin’s dark eyes were watching him closely, concern etched across his features.
Chan forced his shoulders to ease, though the tension lingered in his jaw. “I’m fine,” he said softly, though the edge in his tone betrayed him. His gaze drifted back to the bleak horizon.
The palace gates of Veyra rose like the spines of some ancient, slumbering beast, black iron twisting into an arch that caught the pale winter light. The stone towers on either side were pitted and weather-worn, the flags above them snapping sharply in the wind, and colored a deep crimson with a black crest that looked almost like a claw mark. Soldiers in armor of the same color stood shoulder to shoulder before the entrance, halberds resting upright against their shoulders, their faces set in grim and expressionless masks.
The carriage wheels ground to a halt on the gravel path. The sound of hooves shifting, harnesses jingling, and the faint crackle of the banners overhead filled the silence that fell over the courtyard.
The words of greeting came as Chan stepped down first, the rolling consonants and clipped vowels of Veyra’s language, fluid and formal, but heavy with an undertone that most of his party would not catch.
Chan, Hyunjin, and Seungmin understood every syllable. Hyunjin—as cultural liaison—let the fluency show in his polite nod and soft-spoken reply. Chan and Seungmin, however, remained outwardly neutral, letting the others believe they were relying entirely on Hyunjin to bridge the gap.
As Chan stepped forward, the men and women waiting beyond the soldiers inclined their heads in practiced unison. This was the welcoming party, a collection of richly dressed alphas whose silks caught the light in ripples of gold, ruby, and obsidian. Jewels glittered at their throats and fingers, but there was nothing warm in their smiles. Their eyes were sharp and measured, and fixed on Chan alone.
One by one, the alphas stepped forward to greet him. Their bows were shallow but precise, their eyes assessing. The formal words they spoke to Chan translated neatly in his head: We welcome you, King of Luaris, and honor your presence in our humble court.
He could almost admire the smoothness of their performance, until Minho descended the carriage steps behind him.
Minho descended from the carriage behind him, one hand lightly resting on the arm of Jisung. His movements were smooth with his expression remaining carefully neutral, but Chan caught the way his gaze flicked to each greeter, waiting for his turn.
Chan caught the moment the eyes of the welcoming party slid past Minho without pause, their smiles tightening ever so slightly. He was given no greeting, not even an acknowledgment. In Veyra’s tongue, one alpha even murmured to the next, They send an omega queen? Curious.
The first alpha greeted Changbin next, offering a curt nod as the military advisor introduced himself. Another turned to Hyunjin, bowing just enough to acknowledge his position as liaison. Seunmgin received a smiliar greeting, as did Jeongin, though the young guard’s eyes narrowed at the stiffness in the man’s voice. Even Jisung, standing a half-step behind Minho, was addressed by name and title.
Minho was not.
He wasn’t given a glance, not a word, not even the barest dip of the head. The alphas stepped past him as though he were no more than an attendant carrying someone else’s baggage.
It was deliberate, and everyone in their party felt it.
Chan’s jaw tightened, but before he could intervene, Minho spoke, his voice even and cool, carrying over the courtyard like a clear bell.
“Queen Lee Know of Lunaris,” he said, the title precise and deliberate. “It is an honor to set foot in your country.”
The ripple of discomfort was immediate. A younger man toward the end of the line visibly stiffened, his nostrils flaring. Another, broader in the shoulders, frowned outright, opening his mouth as if to respond. Several exchanged sharp glances, the kind that carried entire arguments in silence. In their own language, someone muttered, An educated omega? Dangerous.
Chan stepped forward before anyone could voice whatever words they were weighing.
He caught Minho’s hand in his own, turning toward him with a smile that was warm on the surface but razor-sharp beneath. “My Queen,” he said softly, though just loud enough for every alpha in the line to hear. He bent and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to Minho’s knuckles, holding the gaze of the man who’d frowned.
The message was unmistakable: He is my equal, and he will be treated as such.
Minho’s lips quirked with the barest hint of a smile as he inclined his head to Chan. Around them, the welcoming party rearranged their expressions into something closer to polite neutrality, but the stiffness in their posture betrayed the effort.
At last, a tall man with broad shoulders stepped forward from the center of the group. His dark hair was combed neatly back, and his deep red tunic was perfectly pressed. He wore a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes.
“Your Majesties,” he said in Veyran, and Hyunjin translated smoothly for the rest of their group. “Allow me to welcome you on behalf of our royal household. I am Lord Halric, steward of the palace. If it pleases you, I would be honored to guide you on a tour before showing you to your chambers.”
Chan gestured for him to lead the way, though his gaze lingered for a beat longer on the others, memorizing the faces of those who had so clearly chosen to ignore his Queen.
Inside, the palace was grand, but in a different way than Lunaris’s sunlit halls. Here, the ceilings arched high overhead, supported by massive columns carved with scenes of war. Dark wood and cold marble dominated, and the air was cool enough that the faint scent of burning oil from the wall sconces was sharp in the nose.
Halric spoke at length about the history of the stone halls, the banners, and the victories carved into marble. Hyunjin’s translations came crisp and polished, his timing perfect. Chan and the others remained silent, absorbing not only Halric’s words but the ones he didn’t speak, the subtle phrasing that placed omegas outside the stories, as if they had no part in Veyra’s history worth mentioning.
There were no omegas. Not among the footmen who opened the doors, nor the heralds who carried scrolls, nor the pages who darted between corridors. In Lunaris, designations held no bearing on position; omegas could and did serve as heralds, attendants, and even advisors. Here, the absence pressed against him like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.
They turned down a narrower hall, two knights in crimson armor leading at the front. The echo of their boots rang off the stone. Chan was about to ask a question when a sudden blur of movement shot from a side corridor.
There was a soft thud as a slight figure colldied with the leading knight, stumbling back with a sharp intake of breath. Before Chan could move, the figure dropped to their knees, head bowed so low their hair fell forward to hide their face.
“I—I’m sorry,” the voice stammered, light and trembling. “Forgive me, I didn’t—please forgive me—”.
Chan’s eyes sharpened, catching the shape of his frame, and the slight tremble in his hands.
For just a breath, Halric’s mask slipped. Something like alarm flashed in his eyes before he smoothed it away.
“It’s quite all right,” Halric replied in a tone that was too warm to be genuine. “An accident, nothing more. Stand up.”
The boy obeyed without hesitation, gaze still fixed on the floor.
“Go to the storeroom and fetch supplies to clean the east wing’s windows,” Halric said, his tone returning to brisk formality. “We’ll speak later.”
“Yes, my lord,” came the soft reply, and the servant slipped away as quickly as he’d appeared.
When Halric turned back, the smile was in place again, but it was tight at the edges. “Shall we continue?”
The private wing they were given was pristine, but it felt more like a gilded cage than a gesture of hospitality. A heavy oak door closed behind them with a deep, echoing thud that seemed to seal them away from the rest of the palace. The corridor was long and hushed, lined with tall windows draped in deep crimson velvet, with floors so polished that the torchlight shimmered in them like water.
Lord Halric moved at a measured pace, his voice smooth in Velaryn. “These chambers have been prepared for Your Majesties and your attendants. Dinner will be served in the Great Hall at the seventh bell. I will come personally to escort you there.”
Hyunjin, walking just behind Chan, repeated it in Lunarian for the others, his tone perfectly neutral.
Chan gave Halric a polite nod. “Thank you, Lord Halric.”
The steward’s eyes flicked to Hyunjin. “A moment, if you please,” he said, the phrasing formal but carrying the weight of an instruction rather than a request. Hyunjin’s brows rose slightly before he stepped aside with him, lowering his voice as they spoke.
While they murmured, Chan drifted toward the nearest tall window. The courtyard beyond was a narrow stretch of cobblestone, walled on either side by the palace’s gray stone wings. Servants crossed it in steady lines, their hands full of linens, tools, or baskets of supplies. Every head was bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. No voices. No smiles. Not even a passing glance between them.
A knot tightened in his chest.
For a moment, the scene blurred into another, bright sunlight on pale stone, his father’s deep voice beside him. He was twelve again, watching the old stablemaster bow low after delivering a report on the royal mares. His father had rested a hand on his shoulder. “Remember this, son. While they may stand below us in station, that does not make them less than people. Every servant in this palace has value. Every life here is worth your attention.”
The warmth of that lesson clashed hard against the cold silence outside the glass.
He was pulled back sharply by the sound of Minho’s voice, taut with barely contained anger. “I refuse to wear that.”
Chan turned from the window. Hyunjin stood in the center of the room, holding up a garment draped over his arms, a dull brown dress, cut high at the neck and long in the sleeves, falling shapeless to the floor. The fabric was heavy, concealing, and meant to hide rather than flatter.
“It’s part of their court rules,” Hyunjin explained quietly, though his gaze flicked to Chan with something like warning. “Omegas must dress this way in public.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “I am the Queen of Lunaris, not some shadow to be hidden away.”
Jisung moved to his side, resting a careful hand on Minho’s arm. “Min, let’s just… take a breath, yeah?”
“No,” Minho shot back, his voice cracking with frustration. “This is humiliating. It’s—”
“Minho.” Chan’s tone cut cleanly through the rising tension. He crossed the space between them, taking the dress from Hyunjin’s hands and placing it gently on the bed. “I need you to play nice for now,” he said, his voice firm but steady. “If we push them too hard, too fast, they’ll close every door we need open. Let me have the conversations I came here for first.”
Minho’s eyes searched his, fire still burning there. After a long moment, he exhaled through his nose and gave a reluctant nod.
“Fine,” he muttered, the word sharp as a blade. “But Jisung comes with me.”
Chan inclined his head. “Of course.”
With a final glare at the offending garment, Minho gathered it up and swept into the adjoining chamber, Jisung close behind. The door shut firmly.
Silence settled for a beat before Changbin spoke. “That servant earlier—the one who ran into the knight—he wasn’t just startled. He was terrified.”
Seungmin leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “And not just him. I’ve barely seen any omegas since we got here. Even betas are scarce.”
Hyunjin’s expression hardened. “Halric told me—” his eyes slid toward Chan “—that in order not to upset the court, Minho should refrain from speaking in public.”
Chan’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he looked away.
Jeongin straightened slightly. “There’s something else. The guards at the gate… I don’t think they were there just for ceremony. The way they watched us—especially Queen Minho—it was like they were waiting for him to step out of line.”
The weight in the room thickened. Chan exhaled slowly, but the heaviness in his chest didn’t ease. The seventh bell was still hours away, yet already he could feel the walls of Veyra pressing in.
-
The wing they had been given was quiet in the way a tomb was quiet, heavy, unmoving, and almost reverent. Chan found himself pacing it alone not long after Halric left, the steady rhythm of his boots on the polished floor the only sound.
The corridor stretched further than he’d expected, lined with arched windows draped in velvet so thick it swallowed the winter light. He passed closed doors in carved walnut, their metal handles polished to a dull gold gleam. Occasionally, an oil painting broke the monotony—landscapes of snow-capped mountains, portraits of men in deep red military coats—but all of them depicted alphas, shoulders squared, and eyes fixed outward in cold confidence.
It was halfway down the hall when he came to a darker set of double doors, their brass handles worn smooth. When he pushed one open, a breath of cooler air rolled out, bringing with it the dry scent of paper and ink.
A library.
The room was narrow but two stories high, with shelves that climbed almost to the vaulted ceiling. Dust mites swirled lazily in slanted bars of sunlight that filtered through tall, thin windows. Wooden ladders stood at intervals along the walls, their rungs polished by years of climbing hands.
He ran his fingers along the nearest shelf until they found a spine stamped in gold leaf: A Chronicle of the Kingdom of Veyra, Vol. I. Its leather creaked faintly as he pulled it free and carried it to one of the small reading tables tucked between the stacks.
The book’s opening chapter began in the year 102 A.R., “After the Raising,” the founding of Veyra as a unified kingdom. He skimmed past the early genealogies and into the histories proper. It didn’t take long for a pattern to emerge.
One entry described the Battle of Haveric Pass in 328 A.R., where “Lord Commander Harun Velric led the Alpha Guard to victory against the Korrash hordes, securing the northern frontier for all time.” Not a single mention of who fought beside him, save for a passing note that “his wife remained in the capital, tending to domestic matters.”
Another section told of The Golden Decade in 512 A.R., crediting “His Majesty King Rodrik IV and his council of alphas” for an era of trade prosperity. Buried halfway through the paragraph was a single line: “A number of omegas from the merchant classes were married into noble houses, ensuring favorable alliances.” No names. No achievements. Just tools in an alpha’s strategy.
He flipped further. The Siege of Tarn Keep in 674 A.R. spoke of a cunning feint by General Varric Dane—an alpha—that broke the enemy lines. The sole omega mentioned was “a harlot who entertained the general’s men the night before battle, bolstering morale.”
Chan’s brows drew together. Nearly a thousand years of history, and not one significant accomplishment by an omega? That wasn’t just unlikely—it was absurd.
He pushed the tome aside and reached for another: The Pillars of Veyra, dated 189 years ago. Same narrative. Alphas conquering, alphas inventing, and alphas ruling wisely. Omegas as footnotes, at best.
It was then he noticed something else, the dates. None of the books he’d seen so far were older than two centuries. For a kingdom as ancient as Veyra, there should have been volumes from every century stacked here. Instead, every spine bore dates between 180 and 200 years ago, as if the past before that had simply… ceased to exist.
Frowning, he began pulling volumes at random, moving down the shelves. Every one he checked was the same crisp with relatively new pages, and their bindings still strong. Not a single book bore the marks of true age.
By the time he’d exhausted every shelf within reach, his pulse had a restless beat to it. Either every older record had been moved elsewhere… or they had been removed entirely.
He let out a low huff and replaced the last volume, the weight of unanswered questions following him as he left.
The walk back to their chambers felt longer. When he stepped inside, he found Seungmin and Hyunjin seated at the small table near the window, their heads close together, voices pitched low. Both looked up when he entered.
“Any recent wars?” Chan asked without preamble. “Or a change in the crown’s lineage?”
Hyunjin’s brows drew together in confusion. “Why?”
Chan only raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Seungmin was the one who answered. “Yes. The dynasty that ruled for the first eight hundred years was wiped out during the Great Plague. The survivors were either too young or unable to have children. The current royal line took the throne afterward, which was just under two hundred years ago.”
Chan leaned against the doorframe, his frown deepening. “Strange. I didn’t find a single record of that in their own histories.”
Before either man could speak again, the outer door swung open. Changbin stepped in, shutting it firmly behind him. His eyes swept the room, his expression grim.
“There’s something you need to see,” he said.
The air grew cooler the further Changbin led him from their main chambers, the torchlight thinning until the shadows stretched long across the hall. This part of the wing felt older, less used, the scent of polished wood giving way to a faint tang of dust and linen left too long in storage.
They stopped at a plain, narrow door tucked behind a carved pillar. Changbin glanced once over his shoulder before pushing it open, and the hinges gave a low groan.
Inside, the room was long and dim, and smelled faintly of cedar and old cloth. Stacks of rolled banners leaned in one corner, their faded colors hidden under sheets of gauze. Along one wall, a massive tapestry rested upright, half-covered with a protective cloth.
Changbin crossed to it, pulling the gauze back to reveal a scene woven in intricate detail. The colors had dulled with time, but were still striking, showing a royal family assembled on the marble steps of a palace. At the center stood an alpha king and queen, surrounded by their children. But at the far left, the weaving ended abruptly in a ragged, empty cut. The space that should have held a figure was gone, the missing section’s edges long frayed.
Beneath, the embroidered caption listed the names of each figure, except there was a gap where the missing person should have been.
“You see it?” Changbin’s voice was low, but it carried a weight. “Someone’s been cut out. And not just anyone, look at the height, the placement. Whoever it was, they were important.”
Chan’s gaze lingered on the torn edge before looking up. “They were deliberately erased.”
“That’s not all.” Changbin moved to a small table at the back of the room and picked up a slim leather-bound book, the cover cracked with age. “Found this here too. It’s in Velaryn, I figured you could read it.”
Chan took it, the leather warm from Changbin’s hands. The handwriting inside was elegant and sure.
12th Day of Frost, 799 A.R. — Today Father announced the council’s decision. The treaty with Dravaria will proceed. I will remain as Crown Prince, my role unchanged. They still will not trust an omega to command, though I am better educated than most of their generals.
Chan frowned faintly. “Dravaria,” he murmured. “Have you ever heard of it?”
Changbin shook his head. “Never.”
Chan flipped forward, reading more entries: mentions of unrest in the southern provinces, whispered dissent in the Guard, allies “growing restless” and “doors locked at night.” The final page bore a short, clipped note.
4th Day of Thaw, 801 A.R. — I hear the Guard outside my chambers after dark. Perhaps it is nothing. But the walls feel different, as though they know something is coming.
The rest of the journal was blank.
Changbin crossed his arms. “Seungmin told me the plague wiped the family out. But if that’s true, why is there nothing about this prince? Why cut him out of the tapestry?”
Chan closed the book slowly, the leather whispering under his fingers. “That’s exactly what I want to know.”
A deep, resonant toll rang through the wing, cutting off further thought. Then another, and another, until there were seven in total.
“Dinner,” Changbin muttered.
They made their way back, the quiet between them thick with questions. When they entered their shared chambers, the first thing Chan saw was Minho standing stiffly in the center of the sitting room. He was dressed in the drab, high-necked gown of dull brown fabric, its shapeless folds swallowing his frame. His expression was flat, but his eyes burned.
Chan stopped in front of him. “Thank you,” he said quietly, the words meant only for Minho. Then he turned to face the rest of them.
“I need all of you to play by their rules for now,” he said, voice low but firm. “Something is going on here—I can feel it—and if we push too hard before I understand it, we’ll lose our chance to find out what.” His gaze shifted briefly to Seungmin. “And no one says a word that we understand Velaryn. That stays between us.”
He looked back at Minho then, letting the steel in his voice soften. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
The moment held just long enough for the door to open. Halric stepped in, perfectly composed. “If you will follow me, Your Majesties, the court awaits.”
Chan inclined his head, and one by one, they followed him out toward the Great Hall.
The Great Hall of Veyra was a cavernous space of cold grandeur. High stone arches loomed overhead, the vaulted ceiling painted with murals of battle and conquest. The long banquet table stretched nearly the length of the hall, its polished surface gleaming under the glow of iron chandeliers.
At the far end, in a high-backed chair carved from blackwood, sat King Maelor Veyra. An alpha in every sense of the word—broad-shouldered, with hair dark as ink and a sharp, angular jaw—his presence alone dominated the room. The moment Chan and his party stepped in, the man’s pheromones rolled over them like a physical force, oppressive and hot, sharp with the bite of dominance. It clung to the air like smoke, making it impossible not to feel it in every breath.
When the Lunarian party was announced, his eyes swept over them with slow precision. Then they fixed on Minho, and stayed there. It wasn’t the polite acknowledgment of a fellow royal; it was an openly measuring and lingering look, the kind that made Chan’s jaw tighten before he could stop himself.
Halric led them forward, reciting their titles in Velaryn. Hyunjin translated for the others, but Chan didn’t need the words. Maelor didn’t rise, merely gestured lazily toward the chairs at his right.
Once everyone was seated, servants flowed in with the first course, platters of roasted pheasant dressed in herbs, baskets of dark bread, and bowls of root vegetables glazed in honey. Chan began with the usual points of courtesy, speaking through Hyunjin as though it were necessity: admiration for the craftsmanship of the hall, the artistry of the banners, and the majesty of the surrounding mountains.
Maelor’s replies were civil enough, but there was a weight in his tone that made every word feel like a test. He spoke of Veyra’s “unbroken strength,” of its military victories, its unmatched breeding stock of warhorses. Every few sentences, his gaze drifted back to Minho, slow and deliberate.
Chan tried to draw him toward safer topics, trade between their ports, mutual interest in rare metals, and even the restoration of old mountain passes. Maelor entertained the discussion only briefly before steering it back toward himself, speaking of his bloodline, of the discipline of his people, of the “natural order” that kept his kingdom strong.
It was after a long sip of wine that he finally spoke directly to Hyunjin in Velaryn, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between a smile and a sneer. “Is your queen fertile?”
Hyunjin hesitated before translating, the words sounding uglier in Lunarian than they had in Velaryn.
Chan’s fingers tightened on the stem of his goblet, but before he could speak, Maelor added in that same unhurried tone, “Strange that you have no pups. Do you keep him only for show?”
Chan set his goblet down, meeting the king’s gaze squarely. “My Queen’s worth is not measured by the children he has given me,” he said, his voice crisp with quiet steel.
For a beat, Maelor’s eyes sharpened, and Chan thought the man might press, might turn the exchange into a contest of wills right here in front of the court. But the king leaned back instead, a low hum in his throat as though weighing the value of further provocation.
Chan seized the moment to redirect. “When,” he asked through Hyunjin, “will I have the honor of meeting your queen?”
Maelor’s answer came with a deep, humorless laugh. “I am not sure. My omega does not enter the court. Nor certain parts of the castle. I am unsure if you should ever see her.”
Hyunjin’s brows drew together. “Why would the queen of Veyra not be allowed in her own court?”
Maelor didn’t even blink. “Omegas should not be burdened with matters of governance. Education is wasted on them. Their purpose is to bear children, tend their mates, and keep the home.”
Chan’s hands curled under the table. His mother’s face came to him in a rush: Queen Eunah, omega consort and equal partner to his father, who had ridden out into the lowlands to negotiate peace after the Three-River skirmishes, who had secured grain shipments during the drought of 784, and who had personally overseen the rebuilding of the northern ports after the great flood.
And Minho, who had, in the past year alone, expanded three orphanages, organized winter relief for displaced families, and met with guildmasters to mediate trade disputes before they could turn into strikes.
All of that, reduced to breeding and keeping house.
Minho’s hand slid into his under the table, his fingers warm and steady. The squeeze was deliberate, a quiet tether pulling Chan back before the anger in his chest could boil over.
He exhaled slowly and forced his shoulders to ease, though the taste of Maelor’s words lingered bitter at the back of his throat.
The rest of the meal passed in a brittle sort of civility. Maelor’s attention shifted between his advisors, Hyunjin’s translations keeping the conversation moving. Servants cleared away the last course, and goblets of spiced wine were refreshed for the final toast.
As the court began to rise, Maelor’s voice cut through the shuffle of chairs. “Walk with me, King Chan. Alone.”
The request wasn’t truly a request. Chan met Minho’s eyes for a heartbeat, felt another squeeze of his hand, then rose to follow Maelor from the hall.
The deeper they walked into Maelor’s private wing, the more the air changed. The faint bustle of the palace faded behind them until only the soft echo of their footsteps remained. Here, the corridors were narrower, cloaked in shadow, and the walls hung with dark velvet banners stitched in silver thread. The sconces burned lower, casting a golden, flickering light that softened nothing, instead, it deepened every shadow, making each turn of the hall feel secretive.
Maelor walked a pace ahead, his posture loose but deliberate with his hands clasped behind his back. Even without turning, the king’s presence filled the space between them. The weight of his pheromones pressed in the air, an unbroken tide of dominance that wasn’t meant to intimidate subtly, it was meant to remind Chan that he was on another alpha’s territory.
When he spoke, it was in flawless Lunarian, his voice low and deliberate. “I know you understand more Velaryn than you allow the others to think.”
Chan kept his gaze forward, his expression neutral.
Maelor’s mouth curved faintly. “That is… shrewd. I admire the patience in it. But I am… confused.” He glanced sidelong, eyes narrowing slightly. “And disappointed at how much you rely on your omega.”
Chan’s voice came tight and even. “My Queen’s name is Lee Know. I would ask you to refer to him as such.”
The king’s smirk deepened, showing a flash of teeth. “Very well. I will play to your wishes, out of courtesy to you.” He said it like the word was ornamental, his tone carrying just enough mockery to suggest it meant little to him.
They reached a set of tall double doors of dark wood, polished to a mirror sheen. Maelor paused just long enough to glance at Chan. “And as a gesture of goodwill, I would like to present you with a personal gift… for the length of your stay.”
He pushed the doors open himself.
The chambers beyond were larger than Chan’s own audience hall back home. Tall, arched windows stood hidden behind heavy drapes, the only light coming from a sprawling fire in the hearth and the scattered glow of candle sconces. The warmth was immediate, wrapping the room in the scent of sandalwood, leather, and something faintly metallic.
Near the center, kneeling on a thick crimson carpet, was a figure with his back to the door.
He was small-framed, his posture held straight but with a tension that clung to every line of him. Soft blonde hair curled gently where it brushed the nape of his neck. Across the crown of his head and behind his ears, dark leather straps pressed flat against the strands, buckled tight and firm.
Chan’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly what those straps were for. And he prayed—uselessly—that it wasn’t what he thought.
Maelor’s voice was almost conversational. “One of my personal servants.”
Chan stepped closer, slow and wary, circling until the kneeling figure came into full view.
The boy’s head was bowed low, and his eyes were fixed on the carpet. The leather muzzle fitted over his mouth and jaw was simple but uncompromising, the edges worn smooth by long use. His lashes were long, casting shadows against pale cheeks, and though his skin looked smooth, the faint hollow at his cheeks suggested meals that had been missed or thinned. He didn’t move, not even to shift his hands from where they rested loosely on his thighs.
Chan’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
Maelor moved to stand just behind the omega, his shadow falling over him. “While you and your attendants remain here, he will serve as your personal attendant.”
Chan inclined his head just enough to acknowledge the words, unsure that anything he said aloud right now would come out steady. His eyes stayed locked on the omega’s bowed head.
“He is… competent,” Maelor went on, the word dipped in faint disdain, “for an omega. I trust he will fulfill all your needs…” His pause was deliberate, his tone sliding into something heavier, more suggestive. “…no matter the task.”
Something cold settled low in Chan’s chest.
“What is his name?” he asked, his voice clipped.
Maelor tilted his head as though considering. “I’m not entirely sure. You may feel free to ask him yourself.”
From an inner pocket, the king withdrew a small brass key, holding it between two fingers. “This will remove the muzzle. I trust you will make good use of him.”
Before handing it over, Maelor crouched slightly, close enough that the omega flinched almost imperceptibly. “Look at me,” he commanded in Velaryn.
The boy obeyed slowly, lifting his gaze until warm amber eyes met the king’s. They were striking, but dulled, their light smothered into something quiet and resigned.
Maelor’s mouth curved faintly. “Be good.”
Only then did he drop the key into Chan’s palm with a soft clink of metal, straightened, and stepped aside. “I hope you enjoy him, King Chan.”
-
The walk back to his private wing was a taut wire pulled tight between anger and restraint. Chan kept his strides steady, but his lungs ached with the effort of breathing evenly, Maelor’s smug voice still lingering in his ears. The omega followed silently at his side, the muffled sound of his breath behind the muzzle barely audible. Since the king had ordered him to look up, he hadn’t raised his head once.
Chan’s gaze stole toward him in quiet intervals, unwilling to stare outright but unable not to look. Even under the cruel confinement of the muzzle, there was no denying the boy’s beauty—delicate and precise—like something carved with care, but alive. He was unlike anyone Chan had seen within Veyra’s walls. Where most bore the pale skin and dark hair that spoke of lives lived under cold skies, this boy’s hair was a vivid, sunlit gold. His skin, though pale now, carried a faint warmth beneath, a ghost of a sun-burnished hue that did not belong to this place.
And then there were the scent patches, thick, and heavy-duty squares pressed to the skin just above the collar of his tunic, where they clung stubbornly to the omega’s neck. The edges were slightly lifted, the flesh beneath swollen and irritated. He’d been wearing them far too long. The sight made Chan’s teeth grind.
They reached the wing, and Chan pushed the heavy door shut behind them with a sound that rang like a closing vault. The echo faded into silence. His hand lifted almost unconsciously, guiding the boy forward with a light touch at his back.
The omega flinched.
It was small, but sharp, the quick recoil of someone who had learned to fear contact. Chan’s jaw flexed painfully before he withdrew his hand altogether, stepping ahead instead, and putting himself in front so the boy could follow without the weight of his touch.
When they entered his chambers, the quiet deepened.
The others were there, his entire pack gathered, and watching the doorway. The omega froze in place, his body going taut, and his head still bowed.
Minho was the first to rise, no longer wearing the drab, shapeless dress forced on him earlier. His voice was cool but edged as a blade. “What’s the meaning of this? Who is this boy?”
Chan let out a slow, measured breath. “This is to be our personal servant. A ‘gift’ from the king for the duration of our stay.”
His gaze swept over the others, their shock and anger tangible in the air.
Changbin’s jaw worked, his broad shoulders squared like he was already imagining breaking something, or someone.
Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, his arms folding tight across his chest, every line of him wound like a whip ready to strike.
Seungmin’s expression was unreadable at first glance, but the hard set of his mouth betrayed his fury; his eyes flicked over every visible mark and detail like he was cataloguing evidence.
Jeongin’s fingers flexed slowly at his sides, his usually calm face dark with a fierce, and protective focus.
Jisung was utterly still, his gaze locked on the omega with questions sharp and silent in his eyes.
Chan reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around the brass key. Stepping close to the omega, he softened his voice into fluid, deliberate Velaryn. “Look at me.”
It took a moment, but the boy obeyed and lifted his head. Amber eyes met Chan’s, framed by the sweep of long lashes. The depth of them was startling, warm in color but dimmed, the light in them muted as though pressed down over and over until only embers remained.
“This is to stay within the boundaries of our wing,” he said gently. “Is it all right if I touch you?”
A flicker of confusion crossed the omega’s face, but after a moment, he gave a small, and tentative nod.
Chan raised his hands slowly, letting the boy see the movement before his palms came to rest against his cheeks. His skin was cool, softer than he expected. At the contact, the omega inhaled sharply, his eyelids fluttering in a reflex he didn’t seem to understand.
The key turned easily in the lock at the base of the muzzle with a soft click. Chan eased the straps away with meticulous care, working each one free without catching the boy’s hair. When the last buckle came loose, he slid the device off, his hands steady but his chest tight, and set it aside—no, threw it aside—onto a distant rug as though it might burn him.
The muzzle had barely hit the rug when the omega’s knees hit the floor.
It was instinct, not thought, the clean, and practiced motion of someone who had been taught to obey before they’d been taught to breathe. His back stayed straight, his hands folded behind him, and his chin dipped just enough to keep his mouth open in silent, unspoken invitation.
Chan’s lungs locked. That one small, devastating motion told him everything about what this boy believed his purpose to be. His stomach rolled cold and sour.
He hadn’t moved yet—hadn’t even remembered to—when Minho surged forward. The sharp rip of fabric adhesive split the air, his scent patch tearing away in one clean motion. His natural scent flooded the room, edged with distress sharp enough to sting. His expression was one of pure, undiluted horror. He pulled the omega up with both hands, the urgency in his touch impossible to mistake.
“That isn’t expected of you,” Minho rushed out, his voice tight, his tone as fierce as Chan had ever heard it. “It never will be.”
The words tumbled out in Lunarian, but Hyunjin was already moving, his own voice a smooth undercurrent in Velaryn. The translation slipped easily into the air between them.
The omega’s eyes—wide, dark-lashed, and impossibly young—flickered between Minho and Chan. Shock settled there like frost, sharp and still. His posture didn’t change. It was as though he was waiting for the reprimand to fall, waiting for the strike.
Chan’s throat ached. He couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t push through the pounding in his ears.
“Chan,” Minho said again, snapping his name like a command. Not yelling, but the bite in it left no room for delay. “He needs to hear it from you.”
The boy startled at Minho’s tone, glancing quickly at Chan again. It was obvious that in Veyra, omegas didn’t speak to kings like that, and they certainly didn’t survive the encounter if they did.
Chan nodded, swallowing against the tightness in his chest. He stepped forward, and lowered his own voice into the language the boy knew. “May I touch you?”
The confusion that flickered across the boy’s face nearly undid him. The fact that the question didn’t make sense to him—that it had likely never been asked—made Chan’s fists twitch at his sides. But the boy nodded.
Chan’s fingers closed around his hands, small, bird-boned things, the skin cool to the touch. He brushed his thumbs gently across the knuckles, a steady rhythm meant to soothe. Then, carefully, he peeled the thick scent patch from his neck and he let his own pheromones slip into the space between them—low, warm, and deliberate—the way one might lay a cloak over someone shivering in the cold.
“I do not expect that of you,” he murmured in Velaryn, locking eyes with him so the words would have weight. “I will never ask it of you. No one in my court will. We believe it is cruel to muzzle anyone unless it is for safety, never for control.”
The boy stared at him as though the ground had shifted. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Chan let his gaze linger on the faint indentations pressed into the boy’s skin from the muzzle. Most were red and angry; one along the cheekbone had broken open, a bead of blood trembling there. “Does it hurt?” he asked softly.
A small nod.
“Seungmin,” Chan said in Lunarian, turning his head but keeping the boy’s hands in his own. “Bandage it?”
Then, to the boy in Velaryn: “Would it be all right for Seungmin to help you?”
Another nod.
Chan guided him to the edge of the bed, stepping back only when Seungmin approached. The beta crouched before him, his voice soft as a lullaby. “I will not harm you,” he said, carefully tilting the boy’s chin to examine the wound.
Chan stayed close until Minho’s scent cut sharply again, and pain threaded through it like smoke. When he looked over, his Queen’s eyes were bright with tears. Minho, usually so immaculately composed, had no shield left in place.
Chan’s chest tightened. He caught Jisung’s gaze, flicking his chin toward Minho. The knight was already moving, one steadying hand on Minho’s back as he guided him into the adjoining room.
When Chan looked back, Jeongin was standing rigid, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache, and his nostrils flared faintly. The faint tremor in his hands told Chan exactly how close the young alpha was to losing control.
The omega noticed too, Chan saw the way his eyes darted toward Jeongin between each of Seungmin’s gentle touches, like a bird tracking a predator.
Chan crossed the room in two strides, laying a steadying palm on the back of Jeongin’s neck. “Breathe,” he said quietly. “You’re frightening him.”
Jeongin blinked hard, looking away. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice raw.
Once Seungmin finished cleaning and bandaging the small cut along the omega’s cheekbone, Chan’s gaze lingered, not on the wound, but on the thick scent patches still clinging stubbornly to his neck. Up close, they looked worse. The adhesive edges were frayed in places, pulling at the skin, while angry welts spread out from beneath the corners like bruised petals.
“May we take these off?” Chan asked quietly in Velaryn, his voice carrying the careful weight of a request, not an order. “They look painful.”
The boy’s hands, folded neatly in his lap, and stilled entirely. His fingers were pale, the tips faintly reddened where the skin had been pressed too long against itself. He didn’t lift his head, but after a few breaths, he nodded, small, and hesitant.
Chan moved slowly, lowering himself onto the bed beside him, keeping his body angled so there was a respectful handspan between them. Even so, he felt the subtle ripple of tension along the omega’s shoulders, the way his posture tightened like a bowstring at the faint shift of weight on the mattress.
The first patch came away with an ugly sound, peeling back from skin that was swollen, glossy with irritation. Chan winced despite himself, his thumb brushing lightly over the edge. “I’ll be careful,” he murmured.
The boy’s breath hitched, and a small, trembling whine escaped before it was abruptly cut off, as if clamped down on mid-sound. Chan froze, withdrawing a fraction. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
By the time the second patch was gone, the air between them felt thick. He set both patches far out of reach and finally looked at the boy fully. “What is your name?”
The omega’s lips parted, but no sound came. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and when his voice emerged it was low, and unexpectedly deep for someone with such a delicate frame. “Yongbok,” he said, and the name seemed to hang in the air, unshakable.
Hyunjin stepped forward, curiosity tempered with gentleness. “How old are you, Yongbok?”
“…I’m not sure,” came the quiet reply. “I think… twenty-four.”
Hyunjin frowned. “You’re not sure?”
Yongbok’s fingers tightened together, his gaze flicking up for the briefest moment before Chan spoke again, steady and deliberate. “Anything you say here will remain in this wing. We will not harm you for it.”
The boy’s throat worked, then—barely above a whisper—“Omegas are not permitted to see the calendars.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to feel in the air. Hyunjin’s voice was subdued as he translated for Changbin and Jeongin, whose faces darkened instantly.
Changbin’s voice had a dangerous undercurrent when he asked, “What do you mean?”
Yongbok’s gaze dropped further. “Omegas are not permitted to read or write here.”
The words struck Chan like a blow to the chest. His mind stalled, horror and disbelief flooding through him. It was only in the quiet that followed that something else registered. Yongbok had said it in his language, not Velaryn.
The boy seemed to realize it at the same time. His eyes went wide, darting quickly around the room, scanning for signs that anyone had noticed. Chan caught the panic there and, deliberately, looked away, offering him the unspoken gift of pretending nothing had happened.
The adjoining door opened then, and Minho reappeared. His eyes were red-rimmed, and the skin beneath them faintly swollen. He approached with a quiet firmness, carrying a folded set of their own clothing.
“You’re getting out of that gown,” Minho said, his voice clipped but shaking faintly at the edges. “And changing into these.”
Hyunjin translated, and Yongbok stiffened immediately. His eyes widened in alarm, and he shook his head, voice catching. “I can’t—”
Minho placed the clothes in his hands with no room for argument. “You can. And you will,” he said, then softened the tone only slightly, a gentle pressure guiding him toward his own chambers.
Yongbok’s gaze shot to Chan as though looking for confirmation, and Chan inclined his head, meeting his eyes. “It’s all right,” he murmured in Velaryn.
The boy hesitated, then let Minho lead him from the room, the fabric still clutched tightly in his hands.
Once the door closed behind Minho and Yongbok, the air in the room seemed to press down on them all. It wasn’t just quiet, it was heavy, the kind of silence that made every shift of weight on the floorboards sound too loud.
Chan’s gaze lingered on the adjoining door, his jaw tense, before he finally turned toward Jisung. “Is Minho alright?” His voice was controlled, but there was a thread of concern in it that only those who knew him well could hear.
Jisung let out a slow, frustrated breath, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s furious,” he said, the word carrying the weight of more than just anger. “He doesn’t want to be cordial with these people—not after that.” His voice softened only slightly as his eyes flicked toward where the omega had been moments ago. “Seeing him—seeing what the omega thought he had to do—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “He and I both are horrified.”
From near the window, Jeongin’s voice came unexpectedly, quiet but firm. “His name is Yongbok.”
Jisung’s eyes widened as he turned to him. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Chan interjected, raising a hand to stop the apology before it could spiral. His tone was steady but edged with something heavier. “The boy is terrified of how Minho speaks to me. He may never have seen an omega in power before.”
The thought lodged itself in his chest, uncomfortable and sharp. What kind of life did you have to live where the idea of an omega with authority was so foreign it seemed impossible?
Before anyone could respond, the atmosphere shifted abruptly.
Minho’s scent hit them in a sudden wave, thick with distress, and laced with the bitter heat of anger. It curled around Chan’s senses, coiling tight in his lungs. Jisung’s entire body went rigid, and he was moving before Chan could speak, crossing the space in long, tense strides to the adjoining door. He gripped the handle, but it didn’t turn.
“Minho?” Jisung called, his voice tinged with worry. “Are you alright?”
A pause. Then Minho’s voice came through, sharp as a blade. “Leave us be. Yongbok-ah is changing, and you are not permitted inside until I allow it.”
Jisung hesitated, the muscle in his jaw jumping before he stepped back.
Chan moved forward, close enough for his voice to carry clearly through the door. “That’s perfectly fine,” he said in an even, and deliberate tone. “No one will disturb you.”
The words settled into the stillness, and Chan took a slow breath, only to catch something new in the air. Faint, elusive, but there. Beneath the sharp burn of Minho’s emotions, another scent emerged—Yongbok’s. It was tense, yes, knotted with unease, but threaded through with something warmer, softer, and almost like cinnamon. Buried and dulled, but still there.
It hit him harder than he expected.
His hands curled loosely at his sides before he exhaled and turned to the others. “Go to bed,” he instructed quietly. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”
One by one, they obeyed, though not without glances at the closed door, some worried, and some simmered with silent fury. Jisung lingered the longest, his eyes dark with concern, before following the others out.
Chan stayed where he was for another long moment, staring at the door, listening to the muffled sounds inside. The heaviness in his chest didn’t ease.
Time slipped strangely after he was left alone. The firelight in Chan’s chambers flickered low, shadows stretching long across the stone walls as he paced. Chan’s pacing had worn a faint track into the thick carpet, his boots dragging now and then when the thoughts crowding his mind grew too heavy to carry in silence.
He kept hearing his father’s voice—the deep, steady cadence that had once made courtrooms go still. Veyra is an opportunity, Chan-ah. They’re strong allies if treated with respect. Their customs are unusual, yes, but trade will flourish, and stability will follow.
Chan wanted to believe his father had truly meant those words. That if his father had seen what Chan saw tonight, he would have slammed the door on any alliance. He wasn’t perfect—no king was—but he’d never tolerated cruelty to the powerless. If he had known about the muzzles, the scent patches that burned into skin, the way an omega could be treated as if they were less than a person…
Chan stopped by the fire, one hand braced against the mantel, the other curling into a fist. His reflection in the darkened window looked harsher than he felt, with his shadowed eyes, and the way his jaw was set too tightly. He had to get Yongbok out. Not just Yongbok, all of them. Every omega bound and muzzled within these walls.
The calculation formed quickly, cold and clear: removing them would almost certainly mean war. His heartbeat didn’t falter at the thought. If that was the cost, he would pay it.
The image of Yongbok dropping to his knees, head bowed, his shoulders curling forward as if bracing for use, flashed behind his eyes again, and the coil of rage inside him turned molten. He would burn this land to ash before he let it happen again.
But then…the tapestry. The journal. How did a kingdom go from omega heirs and ruling queens to this in just a few generations? A plague could not erase centuries of respect. No, this was deliberate. Something had been buried here, something they didn’t want outsiders—or omegas themselves—to remember.
The sound of a latch turned his head sharply. The door to Minho’s chambers opened a fraction before the queen slipped out, closing it softly behind him. The firelight caught the faint sheen at Minho’s eyes, though his shoulders were squared in practiced composure.
Chan straightened. “Are you alright?”
Minho nodded once, not trusting his voice.
“And Yongbok?” Chan’s tone was gentle, but there was an edge under it.
Minho’s breath faltered. “He’s asleep. In my bed.”
Chan’s brows lifted slightly—his Queen was notorious for guarding his own space, down to the firmness of his pillows—yet here he was, allowing a stranger into it.
Minho seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m not sure he’s ever laid in a bed before.” His voice dropped low, rough. “He looked… scared of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I told him to get in, he shook his head and said, ‘omega no,’ like it wasn’t for him. Like it wasn’t allowed.” Minho’s jaw tightened. “When he changed clothes…” He broke off, his breath hitching, and for the first time that evening, tears slid freely down his face. “His back, Chan. He has whipping scars. Some are old, some are new. I asked him what he’d done to deserve them, and he just—” Minho swallowed hard—“he just said, ‘omega bad.’”
The words seemed to echo off the walls.
“I told him he wasn’t bad. He panicked at my words. I scented him to calm him down, and—” Minho’s voice cracked—“he went scent-drunk almost instantly. He nearly collapsed where he stood.”
Chan crossed the space between them in three long strides, pulling his Queen against him. Minho was stiff at first, then sagged, his forehead pressing into Chan’s chest. Chan held him there, one hand firm at his back, the other cradling the base of his neck.
“How long,” Minho whispered, “does it take—how long does an omega have to go without being scented—for that to happen?”
“I don’t know,” Chan admitted quietly. “But we’ll fix it. I swear it.”
Minho pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, then gave a short, decisive nod. “I’m sleeping in Jisung’s quarters tonight. If anyone—anything—disturbs Yongbok…” His voice steadied into a threat as sharp as a blade. “I will cut your cock off myself.”
Despite himself, Chan huffed a short laugh, half in amusement, and half in relief. “He’s safe. I’ll protect him.”
“Good.” Minho swiped the back of his hand over his eyes and left without another word.
Chan dragged a chair to the wall between his room and Minho’s, angling it toward the door. He sat heavily, elbows on his knees, and his eyes fixed on the grain of the wood as the fire died down to embers.
Sleep wasn’t even a question. Not while that boy lay on the other side of this wall. Not while every instinct in him screamed to guard that room with his life if he had to.
And he knew with certainty down to his very marrow that if it came to it, he would.