A disquieting realization flitted across my mind. Wasn’t Elian’s birthday coming up soon?
I didn’t let my thoughts appear on my face. “That won’t happen,” I assured him.
“But let’s just say hypothetically,” Elian insisted. “Wouldn’t that makemenext in line for the throne?”
I gave him a cold smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t let that responsibility fall to you.”
He snorted. “Better get knocked up soon, then.”
“Elian. Language.”
A quiet yawn came from behind us. Cecil appeared, still looking a bit drowsy even after washing his face and applying his usual thin layer of makeup. It wasn’t overbearing or gaudy like the way some commoners painted their faces; just a bit of eyeliner to accentuate his long lashes and soft blush to give his pale cheeks some color.
Father was territorial over all his omega sons, of course, but especially so over Cecil, his youngest. I supposed it was because he had been sickly as a baby. Back then, I remembered Father was always been worried and the halls were bustling with physicians and nurses. Even when he stabilized and grew into a normal boy, Father restrained him from spending too much time outside. He was notably paler than Elian and me.
“What are you guys fighting about?” Cecil asked quietly.
“We’re not fighting,” I said.
At the same time, Elian said, “We’re fighting over Seb getting pregnant.”
“Seb’s pregnant?” Cecil mumbled in confusion.
“No,” I stated.
Not yet, anyway.
“I don’t get it.” Cecil yawned again, politely stifling it behind his hand. “I’m going to go have breakfast.”
When he’d gone, I said to Elian, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and confused poor Cecil.”
Elian shrugged. “He’ll get over it.” He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the loud, uncouth growl of his stomach. He flushed in embarrassment. “Now that Cecil mentioned it, I’m hungry too. Last one there’s a peasant!”
I rolled my eyes as he ran off down the hall past servants who were too shy to stop him. It made me wish that one of them would speak out of turn to Elian to put him in his place just once, though realistically I knew that would never happen. Rudeness towards the royal family by an inferior was unacceptable; loss of job and a ruined reputation would be the least of a servant’s concerns.
As I made my way towards the dining hall, another creature joined at my heels. This time, however, it was thankfully not Elian—it was much quieter, and hairier. It was one of Cecil’s dogs.
We had three kinds of dogs on palace grounds: lapdogs, guard dogs, and hunting hounds. Lapdogs were fluffy, inconspicuous little things that blended into the background like furniture, unless it was an untrained one yapping away. They were common inside the palace and among the entire royal quarter. Elian had a lapdog, an aforementioned loud-mouthed thing. Even the servant’s quarters were allowed to have one, so long as it was well-trained and cleaned up after.
Guard dogs roamed the palace perimeter, as well as inside its walls. They were large beasts selectively bred and trained to protect the royal family from assailants. They were imposing, large, intimidating if you didn’t know them—they were a bit like alphas, in that way, but a lot more useful. Contrary to their brutish appearance, the guard dogs were gentle and subservient to their masters.
As they should be.
But the third kind of dog, and my personal favorite, were the hunting dogs. The Gracehounds. They were long-legged, elegant animals that hunted through sight alongside scent. They carried themselves with poise, never unnecessarily loud like a lapdog or slobbering like a guard dog.
There was one difference between the Gracehounds and the rest. It took a skilled hand to train them. Not a heavy hand, but a patient one. A hand that favored a challenge.
The dog beside me now was a guard dog, a short-furred beast of black and orange. It technically belonged to the palace itself, but we all knew it truly belonged to Cecil. He’d named it Fluffy. It was not fluffy in the slightest.
“If you wanted to sneak in, you’re too late,” I told the dog. “My father won’t allow you into the dining hall.”
Cecil was fond of feeding Fluffy under the table in what he assumed was total stealth. Father knew, of course, but found it difficult to scold Cecil about it. He let it slide as long as Cecil brought the dog in quietly and discreetly—or at least, as discreetly as one could tote around a hundred-pound beast. Fluffy was out of luck this morning.
I entered the dining hall. Morning light streamed into the wall-sized windows, illuminating the chamber. Butlers stood on either side of the immense table, ready to obey the command of a royal. They were all betas, of course, just like the rest of the hired servants in the palace, and therefore inherently subservient to us. It was their pleasure to serve an omega.
Father sat at the other end of the table, idly listening to the daily news report from a servant. Cecil and Elian sat opposite each other. Cecil was poking unenthusiastically at a whole-wheat pancake, while Elian wolfed down eggs and sausage like he’d never eaten a meal in his life.
After a moment’s decision, I sat next to Cecil.
