“I have decided,” my father announces, turning back to the crowd. “This Omega’s betrayal cannot be forgiven. Her disobedience sets a dangerous precedent that must be addressed. Therefore, she will be executed. Immediately.”
CHAPTER 33
Maya
The blade presses against my throat, cold steel biting into soft flesh. Not enough to draw blood—not yet—but a promise of what’s to come. The executioner’s grip on my arm is bruising, fingers digging into muscle with unnecessary force. I don’t flinch. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
King Leopold stands before me, his face twisted with rage and something else—disappointment, perhaps. As if he expected better from me. As if my attempt to poison him was somehow a personal betrayal rather than an act of war.
“Bring her here,” he commands, stepping back toward the dais. “I will make the killing blow myself.”
The executioner drags me forward, his movements rough and eager. The crowd of nobles parts before us like water, their faces a blur of morbid fascination and bloodlust. These are the elite of Melilla—the wealthy, the powerful, the privileged—and they’re about to watch my execution as if it’s the evening’s entertainment.
My gaze sweeps the room, searching for Logan and Ares among the sea of faces. I find them standing rigid in their stolenguardian uniforms, their expressions carefully blank beneath their balaclavas. Only their eyes betray them—Logan’s burning with barely contained fury, Ares’s dark with calculation.
They’re outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. Any attempt to save me now would be suicide.
I lock eyes with Logan across the crowded throne room, trying to convey a message without words: Don’t. My life isn’t worth sacrificing the entire rebellion.
The executioner forces me to my knees before the dais, my silk gown pooling around me like spilled wine. The marble floor is cold against my skin, the chill seeping through the thin fabric. The king looms above me, ceremonial sword gleaming in the chandelier light.
“Look at her,” he says, addressing the crowd rather than me. “So beautiful. So defiant. Even now, facing death, she refuses to show proper submission.”
He’s right. I’m not cowering, not begging for mercy. My spine is straight, my chin lifted. If I’m to die tonight, I’ll do it with dignity intact.
“It’s almost a pity to waste such fire,” the king continues, circling me slowly. “In another life, she might have made a suitable royal mate. A queen, perhaps, with the right guidance.”
A murmur ripples through the assembled nobles—agreement, amusement, anticipation. They’re enjoying this, these vultures in fine clothes and expensive perfumes. Enjoying watching a woman about to die for daring to challenge their king.
My gaze finds Logan again. He hasn’t moved, but something has changed in his posture—a subtle shift from tension to readiness. I recognize it his intent. He’s preparing to act.
No. Not like this. Not when it means certain death.
But I can see the decision forming in his eyes, hardening into resolve. He’s going to try to save me, consequences be damned.Foolish, noble, infuriating man. Always thinking he can fix everything through sheer force of will.
The king raises the sword, its polished blade catching the light. “Any final words, Omega? A plea for mercy, perhaps? A confession of your sins against the crown?”
I meet his gaze directly, refusing to look away even as death hovers above me. “I regret only that I failed,” I say, my voice carrying clearly through the hushed throne room. “That your reign of cruelty will continue for another day.”
Anger flashes across the king’s face, his grip tightening on the sword. “So be it,” he says, his voice cold with finality. “Let your death serve as warning to all who would defy the natural order.”
He lifts the blade higher, muscles tensing as he prepares to bring it down in a killing arc. I don’t close my eyes. If this is my end, I’ll face it head-on, unflinching. My only regret is that I couldn’t do more—couldn’t save more Omegas, couldn’t stop the king’s atrocities, couldn’t free Poe from his chains.
The sword begins its downward journey, a silver blur cutting through air?—
“ENOUGH!”
The voice rings out like a thunderclap, freezing the king mid-swing. The throne room falls silent, every head turning toward the source of the command.
Logan stands in the center of the room, balaclava torn away, his face exposed to all. Even with the dyed hair, there’s no mistaking him—the golden eyes, the aristocratic features, the regal bearing that no disguise can fully conceal.
Prince Logan Corellian, heir to the throne of Melilla, standing in open defiance of his king and father.
“What is the meaning of this?” the king demands, sword still raised above my head. His face contorts with shock and fury as recognition dawns. “Logan?”
“I challenge you, Father,” Logan says, his voice carrying to every corner of the vast room. “By the ancient laws of Melilla, by the right of blood and succession, I challenge you for the throne.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd, nobles pressing back against the walls as if to distance themselves from the treason unfolding before them. The king’s face drains of color, then flushes with rage.
