"Before he dies," she finishes softly, and there's genuine sympathy in her voice. "I'm sorry. I know how difficult this must be."
Her compassion shouldn't surprise me—I've seen her capacity for empathy throughout her transformation. But it strikes me that she's offering comfort for my loss while sitting here as evidence of my greatest cruelty.
The main Frost Court palace makes my own holdings look modest by comparison. Towers of crystal and ice spiral toward the sky, their surfaces alive with magical patterns that shift and flow like living things. The very air thrums with power accumulated over millennia.
Other claimed omegas move through the halls with synchronized grace, their transformed beauty making them seem like living art pieces. They wear expressions of serene contentment, speak in soft voices, move with fluid precision that speaks of perfect conditioning.
Elise fits among them seamlessly, her own transformation complete enough that she belongs in this environment. But I find myself watching her face as she observes these other omegas, searching for any reaction to seeing her potential future.
"They're beautiful," she murmurs, and there's no irony in her voice. Just honest appreciation for the aesthetic perfection surrounding us.
"They're empty," comes a voice from the shadows.
My brother emerges from an alcove, and the sight of him stops my breath. Kieran has always been larger than life—commanding, powerful, the perfect embodiment of Frost Court nobility. Now he's a shadow of himself, the illness eating him from the inside until only bone and determination remain.
But his eyes are as sharp as ever, and they fix on Elise with unsettling intensity.
"So this is the Montgomery girl," he says, circling her with the predatory grace that survives even terminal illness. "The first successful transformation in centuries."
Elise drops into a perfect curtsy, her training asserting itself automatically. "Your Majesty. I'm honored to meet you."
"Are you?" His laugh is bitter. "Look around you, child. Look at what you've become."
I start to intervene, but he silences me with a gesture that carries absolute authority despite his weakened state.
"No, brother. Let her see. Let her understand what perfect success looks like."
He leads us through the court's main halls, where dozens of claimed omegas go about their daily routines. They tend gardens with mechanical precision, serve meals with practiced grace, attend their alphas with devoted attention.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" Kieran observes. "Perfectly obedient. Completely content. Never a harsh word, never a moment of defiance."
One omega passes close enough for me to see her eyes—lovely, transformed, completely vacant. When her alpha snaps his fingers, she responds immediately, but there's no spark ofintelligence behind her gaze. No hint of the person she might have been before her claiming.
"They're broken," Elise whispers, and I hear the first crack in her composure since her transformation completed.
"Broken?" Kieran smiles, and it's not a pleasant expression. "Or perfected? Tell me, what's the difference between perfect submission and death of the soul?"
One omega whispers to Elise when I'm momentarily distracted by court business: "It stops hurting after the first year. You just... stop feeling anything."
Elise has no answer for Kieran's question, and neither do I.
He takes us to his private chambers, where the smell of sickness hangs heavy in the crystalline air. Even here, surrounded by luxury that speaks of absolute power, my brother looks diminished. Mortality finally claiming someone who thought himself above such concerns.
"Leave us," he tells me, settling into a chair that seems too large for his wasted frame. "I want to speak with her alone."
Every instinct rebels against the idea. She's mine, my omega, my responsibility. But this is still his court, and he's still my king until death claims him.
"I'll be right outside," I tell Elise, though the words feel like a promise I'm not sure I can keep.
The heavy doors close behind me with a sound like finality.
Through the crystal walls, I can hear the murmur of their voices but not individual words. My brother's tone carries the weight of confession, while Elise's responses grow increasingly strained.
Twenty minutes pass before the doors open and she emerges, her face pale as winter snow. Behind her, Kieran watches with something that might be satisfaction.
"What did you tell her?" I demand.
"The truth," he says simply. "About Lyria. About what you did to her. About what you're doing now."
