Or perhaps it’s always been this way, and I simply never noticed until I returned as an enemy rather than a son.
We enter the palace through the grand entrance, the soaring ceilings and polished floors exactly as I remember. Servantsscurry about, preparing for the revel, carrying trays of food and drink toward the throne room. None spare us more than a glance—guardians with prisoners are a common enough sight in these halls.
Our escort leads us through a series of corridors, taking a route I know well—the most direct path to the throne room from the main entrance. As we walk, I catalog escape routes, note the positions of guards, identify potential weapons. Old habits, ingrained through years of military training and paranoia.
“The revel sounds lively,” Ares comments as the distant sound of music and laughter grows louder.
One of our escorts snorts. “The king’s been in a generous mood lately. Promising new Omegas to any Alpha who pledges loyalty. The nobility are falling over themselves to curry favor.”
New Omegas. The fertility clinics. My stomach turns at the implication, at the casual way the guard mentions what amounts to slavery and forced breeding. This is what we’re fighting against: not just my father’s tyranny, but the entire system that treats Omegas as commodities to be traded.
Maya’s step falters slightly, the only indication that she’s heard and understood. I resist the urge to reach for her, to offer comfort or reassurance. We’re still playing our roles, still guardians and prisoner, not allies or pack.
We approach the overly large doors of the throne room, the sounds of revelry now clear and distinct—music from the royal orchestra, laughter, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of dozens of conversations overlapping. Two guards stand at attention outside, their posture perfect, their expressions blank beneath their balaclavas.
“Prisoner for the king,” our escort announces. “The fugitive Maya Tantamount, captured attempting to return to the city.”
The guards exchange a glance, then one nods. “Wait here,” he says, slipping through the doors to inform someone of our arrival.
We stand in silence, the minutes stretching interminably. I keep my breathing steady, my expression neutral, though my heart pounds so loudly I’m certain everyone must hear it. Maya remains perfectly still beside me, the picture of Omega submission, though I can sense the tension radiating from her.
The guard returns, holding the door open. “The king will see your prisoner,” he announces. “Enter and wait to be acknowledged.”
We move forward, crossing the threshold into the throne room. The space is exactly as I remember—vast and opulent, with soaring ceilings painted in scenes from Melillan history, massive chandeliers casting warm light over the assembled nobility, the throne itself raised on a dais at the far end.
My father sits upon that throne, resplendent in royal regalia, a golden crown gleaming on his head. The power he radiates remains unchanged, the authority that has kept Melilla united through decades of potential civil war.
The revel is in full swing, the throne room packed with Alphas in their finest attire. I recognize many faces—nobles from the provinces, military leaders, wealthy merchants who’ve bought their way into the upper echelons of society. All here to curry favor with the king, to secure their place in whatever future he envisions for Melilla.
We move to the side of the room, positioning ourselves where we’ll be visible when the king chooses to acknowledge us. The nobles pay us little attention—guardians and prisoners are beneath their notice, especially when there’s wine flowing and power to be gained.
“Fuck,” Ares murmurs, his voice barely audible over the music and conversation. “Look there.”
I follow his gaze to the wall beside the throne, where a figure hangs suspended in chains. My breath catches in my throat as recognition dawns. Poe. His body is limp, his head hanging forward, dark hair obscuring his face. Blood stains his torn clothing, evidence of brutal treatment. From this distance, I can’t tell if he’s conscious, or even alive.
Beside me, Maya stiffens, a small sound escaping her before she catches herself. She’s seen him too. I want to reassure her, to promise we’ll save him, but the words die in my throat. I don’t know if Poe can be saved. I don’t know if any of us will leave this room alive.
“Patience,” I whisper, the word meant as much for myself as for my companions. “Wait for the right moment.”
The king raises a hand, and the music stops abruptly. The conversation dies away, all eyes turning to the throne. My father smiles, the expression not reaching his eyes, and rises to address his guests.
“My friends,” he begins, his voice strong despite his apparent physical decline. “My loyal subjects. I have gathered you here tonight to share in a vision of Melilla’s future. A future of strength, of prosperity, of abundance.”
The nobles murmur their approval, raising glasses in salute. My father acknowledges them with a regal nod, then continues.
“For too long, our kingdom has been limited by scarcity. Too few Omegas for worthy Alphas. Too few heirs for noble houses. Too much competition for too few resources.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “But no more.”
He gestures to a group of men standing to one side of the throne—scientists, by their attire, looking both proud and slightly nervous to be the center of attention.
“Thanks to the brilliant work of our royal researchers, we have developed a method to ensure that every Alpha in this roomwill have as many Omegas as he desires. As many heirs as he requires. As much pleasure and power as he deserves.”
The crowd erupts in excited murmurs, glasses clinking as nobles toast this announcement. My stomach turns at their eagerness, their unquestioning acceptance of what amounts to institutionalized rape and forced breeding.
“The first fertility clinic is already operational,” my father continues once the noise dies down. “With more to follow in every province. Within a year, we will have processed hundreds of Omegas, with thousands more to come. All I ask in return is your continued loyalty. Your unwavering support for the crown.”
The nobles cheer, raising their glasses higher. My father basks in their adoration, his smile widening to show too many teeth—a predator pleased with his hunt.
“Of course,” he adds, his voice hardening slightly, “loyalty must be absolute. There can be no half-measures, no divided allegiances.”
