Illuminés. The City of a Thousand Lights. They said it never slept, that its streets paved with gold reflected the glory of kings and the dominance of alphas. But for Soren, that name sounded like a threat. He wasn't born in this brilliance. He came from the Gray Lands, a forgotten hamlet where the wind screamed between cliffs and misery clung to the skin. There was no grandeur there, no promise only hunger, fear, and the law of the strong.
In this world, everything was ruled by the ABO hierarchy. Alphas dominated, betas served, omegas obeyed. Alphas were strength incarnate kings, generals, predators. Their presence alone could crush a room. Betas, neutral and invisible, kept the wheels of society turning. And omegas… omegas were bodies. Wombs. Toys. They were trained to please, to breed, to stay silent. But there were anomalies. Dominant omegas. So rare their existence was almost myth. Creatures capable of bending an alpha, reversing the food chain. For the powerful, they were living weapons, jewels to lock away.
Soren was one of those anomalies. And he knew it.
Today, he walked the endless corridors of the Palace of Golden Ashes, a fortress of light and shadow where every fresco sang of alpha glory and omega submission. His boots sank into velvet carpets, muffling his steps. The tray in his hands trembled slightly, but he clenched his jaw. He had to be invisible. He had spent years perfecting that art vanishing. Because one glance too long, one breath too deep, could destroy everything.
The palace smelled of power polished wood, burning incense, and something sharper beneath, like iron and musk. Alphas were everywhere here, their presence heavy in the air, their pheromones lingering like invisible chains. Soren kept his head down, his breath shallow, his pulse a frantic drumbeat. He had learned to move like a shadow, to blend into the silence between footsteps. Servants passed him without a glance. Good. That was how it had to be.
His reflection flickered in a polished column. He turned away quickly, but not fast enough to escape the sting of memory: sharp cheekbones, full lips, eyes like frozen lakes. A face so perfect it seemed unreal. A beauty that could start wars. A beauty that, in this world, was a curse. His fingers brushed his cheek, feeling the dull powder crack beneath his touch. He had learned to make himself ugly. He had learned because he had no choice.
His mother had been beautiful. A dancer whose body spoke in silken arcs, whose laughter once promised fire. Amber eyes, sun-kissed skin, movements like liquid flame. Men watched her like starving wolves. She believed beauty could buy power. She believed she could seduce an alpha, trap him, keep him. She drugged him, offered herself, but he never loved her. He took what he wanted and left her behind. From that day, she hated everything that reminded her of failure. And Soren… Soren was the living reminder. Because he had inherited the best of both. His father's sharp, aristocratic lines and his mother's sensuality. A perfect blend. A divine mistake.
"You stole my life, Soren. If you hadn't been born, he would have loved me."
He heard those words a thousand times, spat between blows. He learned to stay silent, to shrink, to vanish. Because even as a child, he drew stares. And one day, those stares almost destroyed him.
He was ten. The barn smelled of hay and sweat. A rough hand clamped on his arm, a voice thick with lust and liquor whispered:
"You're too pretty to be alone, boy…"
Panic exploded in his chest. He screamed, clawed, bit. His teeth sank deep into flesh until copper filled his mouth. The man cursed and let go, and Soren ran. Ran until his lungs burned, his heart pounding like war drums. That day, he understood his beauty was a weapon and a danger. That day, he vowed never to let it be seen again.
He stole charcoal to smear his cheeks, bitter balm to dull his lips. He coated his hair in dust, drowned his glow in grime. He learned to disappear. He learned because survival demanded it.
But nothing could stop the truth from surfacing. At sixteen, his body betrayed him. Heat surged, a fever that stole his breath. And then the scent. Wild, intoxicating, impossible to hide. It curled through the air like smoke, thick and sweet, a siren's call. He wasn't beta. He wasn't safe. He was omega. But not just any omega. An Omega Dominant. A biological anomaly. A creature so rare that the most powerful alphas would kill to own him. Because an Omega Dominant could bend an alpha to his knees. His pheromones were a weapon. His beauty, a curse.
Fear gripped him like ice. He scoured books, stole inhibitors, mastered the art of masking his face. He learned to vanish. His mother died soon after fever, infection, or maybe hatred that burned her hollow. Soren didn't cry. He took what he could pills, coins and fled. Toward Illuminés. Toward the unknown.
Illuminés was another world. Its streets glittered under lantern light, its towers pierced the sky like spears of glass. Perfume and smoke curled through the air, mingling with the metallic tang of wealth. Alphas strode through the markets like predators, their coats lined with gold thread, their eyes sharp and hungry. Omegas moved in their wake, collared and perfumed, their smiles brittle masks. Soren kept to the shadows, his hood low, his breath shallow. He had come here to disappear. And for two years, he almost succeeded.
Now, he works in the Palace of Golden Ashes, a monument to power and submission. Its halls are vast, its ceilings painted with scenes of conquest alphas triumphant, omegas kneeling, betas fading into the background. The air hums with dominance, thick and suffocating. Soren is a ghost here. He scrubs floors, carries trays, empties basins. A minor servant. Perfect for invisibility. Every dawn, he rises before the sun, paints his face in dull tones, hides his body in loose garments. He lowers his gaze, avoids eyes. Because one glance too long could shatter his mask.
Today, as he rounds a corner, voices drift from the great hall deep, commanding, threaded with laughter. Alpha voices. His pulse spikes. He presses himself against the wall, waiting for the sound to fade. But it doesn't. Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate. The scent hits him first sharp, electric, dominance curling through the air like smoke. His throat tightens. He bows his head as two figures pass, their coats heavy with gold, their eyes flicking over him like knives. One lingers. Just a fraction too long. Soren feels it a weight, a question, a spark of interest. His stomach knots. He grips the tray until his knuckles ache, praying the powder on his skin holds, praying his scent stays buried beneath layers of inhibitor. The alpha smiles faintly, then moves on. Soren exhales, shaky and silent. Too close. Far too close.
He lives with fear coiled in his gut the fear that an alpha will scent what he is. The fear that one day, his fragrance will slip through the cracks and summon predators. And in this palace, there are many. Including one he has never met. The King. Ecclesias. The Alpha of Alphas. A man whose mere presence could break the proudest. Soren prays that day never comes.