Elias POV
I have always known my place in this household.
Never the favored son. Never 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 the hands of a warrior, yet undeniably powerful. The hands of an Alpha who has never needed to fight for his dominance because his presence alone has always been enough.
Even as age creeps into him, streaking his dark hair with silver, he remains imposing.
"The Dragon King of Valtheris 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.
"Then why am I sitting here and not my sister? Surely, this has nothing to do with me."
A muscle tics in his jaw as he grits out, "The Dragon King wants a true-blooded Ravenspire."
I blink once, slowly. "I'm not following."
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. 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 a ghost 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 household name was strong, and that was all the court cared about.
But, a sickly heir, an unmarried woman—it was unthinkable. If she had died unmarried, 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.
She never had a choice.
In the end, she did the one thing they never intended—she bore a child. And it killed her.
She died bringing me into the world, and with her last breath, everything that was hers—the title, the estate, the legacy—became my father's by default.
But I changed everything, and my father was furious.
The gods had spat in his face with the cruelest twist of fate, a burden he could neither erase nor ignore.
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.
Two months later, he did what he could to erase me.
Isolde, once his mistress, became his wife before my mother's grave had even settled. After all, he had already gotten what he needed from his first marriage.
And now, his second wife—his true love, the one who holds this household in the palm of her hand—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, a reflection of the Alpha she is.
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, you know what your father means," she says at last.
I arch an eyebrow. "Honestly, I don't. 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 when I'm nothing to this family?"
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, considering I have never been an option."
Duchess Isolde finally looks at me. For the first time tonight, her usual boredom fades, giving way to a tight-lipped stare, eyes dark and fixed on me in a cold glare.
She tilts her head slightly, taking her time. Then, with the slow precision of a blade sinking between ribs, she says:
"Of course not. You always have been just an inconvenience."