Elias POV
I have always known my place in this household.
Not the favored son. Not the cherished heir. Not even a regrettable mistake.
No, I am something much simpler. A burden that is tolerated because it is necessary. An inconvenience swept into the corners of my father's estate, acknowledged only when duty demands it.
Tonight, that duty comes knocking.
"It has been decided," my father says, his tone as smooth and impersonal as the polished wood of his desk.
His hands rest on it—elegant, unblemished. Not rough with labor, not hardened by war. These are the hands of a man who has never needed to fight for what he has. And yet, despite that, there is no mistaking his presence.
Even as age creeps into him, streaking his dark hair with silver, he remains imposing.
"The Dragon King has requested a consort from the House of Ravenspire," he continues.
My stomach knots, but I force my expression to remain still. Seraphina, I think immediately of my sister. It should be Seraphina.
If a royal match was ever to be made, it would be her.
But my father does not say her name.
"Why haven't you mentioned Seraphina?" I ask.
He doesn't hesitate. "Because it is you. The Dragon King wants a true blooded Ravenspire."
I blink once, slowly. "Are you serious?"
Silence.
Ah, there it is again.
The same brief hesitation that filled the room when I was younger, when I first overheard the whispers about why I exist at all.
My mother's bloodline. Not my father's. Not Isolde's. Not Seraphina's.
Mine.
The one thing they could never strip from me, no matter how many times they wished I did not exist.
Because I was born looking just like her.
The first time I saw my mother's face, I was eight years old, staring at a painting hidden away in a forgotten room. She had my hair—pale as winter frost, flowing down her back like silk—and my eyes, the same shade of deep, jewel-bright blue.
I remember standing there for what felt like hours, drinking in the details. The softness in her features, the quiet strength in the way she held herself. And, I saw something in my reflection that wasn't shame.
But that was before Isolde found out.
The next morning, the painting was gone. By the time I discovered what had happened, it was too late. Isolde had burned every last portrait of my mother as if that would erase her entirely. As if it would erase me.
It hasn't.
I still see her every time I look in the mirror.
And that is the real problem. I am not just a bastard reminder of a marriage that should never have happened. I am a mirror of the woman who dared to marry the man she loved first. The woman Isolde can never truly replace.
My real mother was the noble one, the true heir of House Ravenspire. She had been born weak, frail since childhood, but that had never mattered—her bloodline was strong, and that was all they cared about.
She had never been meant to rule. The court would never have allowed it. A sickly heir, an unmarried woman—it was unthinkable. If she had died without an heir, her lands would have fallen into dispute, and the balance of power would have shifted.
So they forced her into marriage, ensuring the Ravenspire title would remain under their control. My father was their solution—a nobleman of lesser standing, a convenient choice. He was meant to marry into power, not wield it.
She never had a choice.
In the end, she was not strong enough to survive it.
She died bringing me into the world, and with her last breath, everything that should have been hers—the title, the estate, the legacy—became my father's by default. His name was never meant to hold power. He was meant to marry into it, to serve as a consort, not a ruler.
But my mother's death changed everything.
And worse—so did I.
Not only was I born her son—I was born a male Omega, a cursed existence. A bad omen. The kind of child noble houses pray never comes into the world.
The Empire has no place for men like me. In the eyes of the court, we are weak, unnatural—an insult to the bloodlines we come from—a stain on a family's legacy.
My father was furious. His wife had died giving him an heir, and the gods spat in his face with the cruelest twist of fate. No Alpha son to carry his name. No precious Omega daughter to sell into marriage. Only me—a burden he could neither erase nor ignore.
And two months later, he changed something else.
Isolde, once his mistress, became his wife before my mother's grave had even settled. The grieving widower act was brief and convenient. After all, he had already gotten what he needed from his first marriage.
And now, his second wife—his true love, the one who gave him the Omega daughter he actually wanted—sits beside him, bored, sipping from a jeweled goblet. As if this is nothing more than a tedious evening discussion, rather than the moment my life is being signed away.
She wears a gown of rich crimson, deep as her wine, trimmed with intricate gold embroidery that glints under the candlelight. The fabric is heavy, luxurious—meant to be seen, to be admired.
Duchess Isolde's hair is pinned into an elaborate twist, not a strand out of place, styled with the kind of precision reserved for celebrations, not farewells.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
"Do not be dramatic, Elias," she says at last.
I arch an eyebrow. "So I should accept this with grace?" Dark humor coats the edges of my words like venom. "Shall I smile prettily as I'm packed into a carriage and sent north to be devoured?"
Her expression tightens at my tone. "You are not being devoured. You are fulfilling your duty."
I let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's a rather generous interpretation of events, my lady. Let's be honest, you never expected him to choose me."
Duchess Isolde finally looks at me. For the first time tonight, her usual boredom fades, replaced with something colder.
She tilts her head slightly, taking her time. Then, with the slow precision of a blade sinking between ribs, she says:
"Because he did not choose you." Isolde's fingers tighten around the goblet. "Tell me, Elias. Have you been outside without the tonic?"
The words lash across the room like a whip.
I don't answer.
The tonic. The bitter, choking liquid that turns my hair a dull brown, darkens my eyes just enough to erase what I am. A disguise I've been forced to wear since childhood.
Isolde leans forward. "Answer me."
I keep my chin lifted, my silence deliberate.
But the air between us has already shifted. And she knows it.
A slow breath escapes her, tight with frustration. She turns to my father. "You told me he never left the estate."
My father doesn't look at me, but his hands curl into fists against his desk.
He stays still. The room feels too quiet. My breath is too loud in my ears.
Because we all know what she means.
Seraphina is the perfect choice—the golden daughter, the treasured one. A noble Omega raised with soft hands and whispered promises of a prosperous match.
She was bred for this. I was not.
And why would I be?
Of course, he hasn't chosen me.
How could he?
He doesn't even know I exist.
Because that is the truth—there is no intended rejection, only ignorance. The Dragon King has asked for a consort of Ravenspire blood, but he has never spoken my name, never singled me out. Because to the world, only those with white hair are true Ravenspire—but that is an unspoken secret.
I have never been presented to court. Never been given the coming-of-age ceremony that all noble children receive, the one that announces their place in society. I have never been shown to the world as a son of this house.
Because I am not one. Not in their eyes.
I was hidden away, tucked into the shadows of my father's estate like an inconvenient afterthought. My existence was tolerated but never acknowledged.
Only a handful of others even knew I existed.
And yet, despite all their careful planning, despite all their desperate attempts to erase me—it hasn't mattered.
The Dragon King only asked for a true Ravenspire blooded.
And that is the moment my father's carefully constructed illusion shatters.
For the first time, they have no control over their own game.
Isolde stops swirling her wine.
The silence stretches a little too long this time, and something clicks into place.
I blink, looking between them, before letting out a slow breath. "Oh, I see," I murmur, my voice almost thoughtful.
I let the weight of realization settle over the room.
I drop my head, feeling something cold bloom in my chest.
"You are so afraid of the Emperor that you wouldn't dare refuse. Because he knows." I exhale slowly, shaking my head. "That you are nothing but a fraud."
A sharp clink breaks the silence. Isolde slams her goblet onto the table and wine sloshes over the rim, staining the white lace of her sleeve, but she doesn't seem to notice.
A dreading silence falls over the room, and then I add, "Because you have spent years trying to erase my mother and me from existence. You wanted the world to forget she was the true Ravenspire—so that everyone would believe it was you. But now, when it matters, even you know the truth. You aren't. And neither is Seraphina."
Isolde's lips press into a thin line, but she does not deny it.
Because they can't.
No matter how much they tried to bury the past, the Dragon King has dug it back up with a single demand.
The truth now stands between us—ugly, undeniable, absolute.
Because I was never meant to be the future of this family.
My eyes burn before I can stop them.
The heat builds, slow at first, creeping up my throat, tightening around my ribs. A sharp, searing ache, one I recognize too well.
I tilt my chin up, trying to will it away, trying to force the tears back down where they belong—hidden, unseen, useless.
But my body doesn't listen.
The sting behind my eyes grows unbearable, a slow, humiliating burn that refuses to fade. I blink once, twice, the motion too quick, an act of desperate resistance.
I dig my nails into my palms, welcoming the bite of pain. Something I can still control. My breath hitches, but I swallow it down.
Tears threaten to spill anyway. My vision wavers, blurring at the edges, and my throat clenches around words I will not say.
Because if I cry here—if I let them see even an inch of that weakness—they will have won.
And I will not let them have that.
Duchess Isolde recovers first. She picks up her wine and takes a slow sip, as if my words haven't just broken something inside her.
"You should be grateful, Elias," she says, her voice light and patronizing, as though speaking to a wayward child. "A lesser Omega would not be given such an opportunity."
I meet her gaze, my lips curving in something that is not quite a smile.
"Yes, how fortunate I am. A lifetime of being ignored, only to be handpicked as the sacrificial offering to a cursed king."
Her lips purse. "You are hardly being sacrificed. You are being wed. There is a difference."
"Is there?" I raise an eyebrow. "Because the stories I have heard suggest otherwise. They say the Dragon King devours his mates. That no Omega survives bonding with him, but I suppose it must be an honor to be the next body in line, yes?"
Her mouth opens, but my father finally speaks.
"The decision has been made, Elias."
His voice is not cruel, not warm—just final.
And that is it.
This is not a discussion. There is no plea to be made, no argument that will sway them.
I have always known my place in this house.
Tonight, they are simply sending me somewhere else to die.