If you were given the choice between remaining inside all day with a novel, losing yourself in pages of adventure and escape, or stepping outside to wander alone, talking to the wind and your own echoing thoughts, you'd pick what suited you best, wouldn't you? If novels were your sanctuary, you'd curl up by the fire, turning pages until the world faded. But if conversation fueled your soul, you'd seek out a friend, sharing laughter and stories under the open sky. Some might even blend the two—tucking a book under their arm and heading to a companion's home, where both could revel in the joy of reading together.
Ah, but choices. Such simple, luxurious things.
Now imagine a starker dilemma, forced to choose between marrying a stranger—a man shrouded in dark rumors, already bound to another, making you his second mate, his secondary husband—or remaining in the stifling confines of your parents' home. This man, twice your age, known for his ruthlessness, his wickedness. Whispers painted him as a tyrant who had built a harem only to dismantle it, leaving just one survivor: his current mate, who had endured through sheer cunning or luck. A man despised by all, called the devil, the demon. And you? You'd be his concubine, not even a noble consort, though the title promised a life of opulence, living like royalty in his shadowed palace.
Which would you select? The unknown horror of that union, or the familiar cage of your family's indifference?
Of course, you'd cling to home. To peace, if it existed there. To comfort, where you could at least pretend to be yourself, unburdened by a stranger's touch or a court's cruel gaze.
Right. You'd choose freedom, however illusory.
But you can choose because choice is your birthright. Mine? It was stripped away long before I even learned of this betrothal. My future had been etched in stone, inked in treaties, decided in smoke-filled council rooms where my name was just a pawn on a board.
I should be terrified, shouldn't I? Quaking in these silk trousers, tears streaming down my painted cheeks. I should fall to my knees before my parents, begging them to reconsider. Perhaps they'd listen this time, as they had to my elder brother—sparing him this fate and thrusting it upon me instead. Maybe a tyrant's bed was a price too high, even for political gain.
As if. They didn't care. They never had. This palace, with its towering spires and endless corridors, had never been a home. What difference would it make if I lingered here or vanished into the north? Comfort? Peace? Those were myths in these walls. All I'd known was torment—endless bullying from family and courtiers alike, their sneers like barbs in my flesh. I was less than nothing, a shadow in my own life. Even the slaves held more value,they had tasks, routines, a semblance of purpose. I? I was the overlooked omega, the spare heir no one wanted. Too willful, too flame-haired, too much of everything they despised.
The air in my chamber hung heavy with the scent of beeswax candles and the faint, unfamiliar perfume of the oils they had rubbed into my skin. It was a cloying mix—lavender for calm, they said, though it did nothing to still the storm raging inside me. I stood before the full-length mirror, its gilded frame tarnished at the edges from years of neglect, and stared at the figure gazing back. Was that truly me? The second prince of Valerion, dressed in white like some sacrificial lamb on his wedding day?
White, the color every omega wore for their bonding ceremony. Purity, submission, a blank canvas for the alpha to claim. My top was a masterpiece of lace, delicate threads woven into patterns of swirling vines and half-bloomed flowers that hugged my shoulders and chest, leaving hints of skin visible beneath like forbidden secrets. It felt light, almost weightless, yet it bound me tighter than any chain. The bottom—trousers of plain white silk—flowed straight and unadorned to my ankles, their simplicity a stark counterpoint to the ornate lace above. They paired perfectly, the trousers grounding the ethereal top, creating an illusion of elegance I had never possessed before. A long veil rested on a nearby stand, ready to be draped over my head, its sheer fabric embroidered with silver threads that would catch the light like falling snow.
I tilted my head, watching the way my red hair gleamed under the candlelight. It had been gathered into an intricate updo, curls pinned with jeweled combs of pearl and sapphire, each stone cold against my scalp. Makeup adorned my face for the first time in my life—subtle rouge on my cheeks to mimic a natural flush, kohl lining my eyes to make their green depths sharper, more piercing. My lips bore a soft tint, the color of crushed berries, drawing attention to a mouth that had too often been silenced. I looked... beautiful. Ethereal. Like a prince from one of those fairy tales whispered in the servants' quarters. But beauty was a weapon here, or perhaps a curse. As the second prince of a kingdom as vast and unforgiving as Valerion, one might assume I had been pampered, draped in finery from birth. Yet I had nothing. No luxuries, no affections.
This transformation was not born of my family's generosity but of the king's command. He—the man I was to wed—had sent his own attendants to prepare me. They had crafted these clothes, asked his people to apply this makeup, even asked for my preferences on the wedding details as if my opinion mattered. What style of lace? What jewels for my hair? I had mumbled responses, too shocked to argue.