Elias POV
No noble son should carry his own luggage through the grand halls of his estate. But then again, I have never been a noble son.
There is so little to take with me. My entire life reduced to one small trunk. A shameful display for a Ravenspire heir, but fitting for an unwanted burden.
Even my clothing reflects that truth. No fine embroidery, no rich silks or brocade, only a plain, dark tunic, worn at the edges, and a sturdy wool cloak that does little to shield against the spring chill. My boots are scuffed but serviceable, meant for travel rather than courtly halls. The only indication that I am anything more than a commoner is the Ravenspire crest, stitched in muted thread at my collar—so faint it might as well not be there at all.
Beside me, Nanny Yvette walks in quiet steps, her small frame moving slower than usual. Her gray hair is neatly braided, the same shade it has always been, untouched by age, unchanged since the first time I remember seeing her.
Nobody knows exactly how old she is. She never speaks of it, and no one dares ask. It's as if she has always existed.
Once, she was my mother's nanny. When my mother died, she should have left, as any other servant would have.
But she didn't.
There was no reason for her to stay. Not in a house that erased my mother's name the moment her body went cold.
And yet, she remained.
I have never asked why.
Maybe because I already know the answer.
She is the last piece of my mother that still exists. The last living soul who remembers her as more than a name, more than a burned portrait, more than a vessel for a legacy that was stolen from her the moment she drew her final breath.
Yvette has always smelled of spiced cookies. It was nothing like the comforting scent of an Omega mother—well, I nevner had one—but it was familiar, and it was hers.
But she has never been just a silent witness.
She fought for me.
Not even my father or Isolde dares to challenge her directly. Perhaps they find it easier to ignore her existence, to pretend she is nothing more than an aging relic of a past they wish to forget.
But Yvette makes sure I am not forgotten.
She is the only one who has ever advocated for me.
Because of her, I have tutors. Because of her, I learned history, literature, and arithmetic. And because of her, I learned etiquette.
Not the way Seraphina is taught.
Seraphina's lessons take place in grand halls, with noble tutors praising her grace, her charm, and her potential as a future duchess. She has gowns fitted to match the latest courtly trends, dinners arranged so she can practice the art of conversation, and balls where she rehearses the perfect curtsy before her audience.
I have none of that.
What I learn, I learn in stolen moments, in hidden corners of the estate.
Yvette teaches me how to hold a glass, how to present myself, how to bow—not to please, but to never be mistaken for anything less than what I am.
She refuses to let them strip me of my birthright.
She cannot make them acknowledge me as a noble son, but she makes certain I know how to carry myself as one.
And now, as I walk toward a future I never asked for, I will not leave her behind.
She says nothing, but she doesn't have to.
She has always understood my silence better than anyone.
Yvette is the only one I refuse to leave behind.
Outside, the black carriage waits.
It arrived minutes ago—silent, foreboding.
The moment Isolde laid eyes on it, she stiffened. The sight of it alone enraged her. Then, without a word, she spun on her heel and stormed back inside.
And looking at it now, I understand why.
This is no ordinary royal carriage.
The horses—if they can even be called that—are not creatures of this land. Their eyes burn a dull, eerie red, their massive bodies covered in thick, black fur that shimmers like the night sky before a storm.
I barely suppress the shudder that crawls down my spine. The North is already swallowing me whole, and I have not even set foot in it.
The carriage itself is just as wrong. Sleek, menacing, and constructed from blackened steel, it is devoid of the usual gold filigree that marks the Empire's royal transport. Instead, its details gleam in pale, glacial silver. I find myself staring at it longer than I should, unsettled by its absence of warmth.
Dragons hoard gold, don't they? The thought drifts through my mind, absurd yet persistent. So why does their king dress his emissaries in silver?
The driver wears a mask.
A smooth, featureless thing of polished onyx, concealing everything except the faintest gleam of eyes behind the narrow slits.
And then there is the man standing outside the carriage. For a moment, I wonder if he is a butler, a courier. But no.
He is tall and unnervingly still, dressed in all black, a heavy military-style coat lined with silver trim. His posture does not change, his expression blank, but he exudes a quiet, suffocating authority. Not a servant. Not a mere attendant. The King's Guard.
There is no scent coming from him, no hint of an Alpha, Beta, or Omega presence, just an empty, chilling coldness that seeps into the air around him.
The King's Guard's skin is a deep, rich brown, the morning sunlight casting a warm sheen over it, making the silver embroidery of his coat catch and reflect the light in contrast.
His hair is shorn close to his scalp, intricate lines carved into it. Against the brightness of the morning, he should seem less ominous.
But he doesn't.
He stands there, his hand pressed to his chest, his head slightly bowed, as if sculpted from stone.
He does not move. He does not speak.
And somehow, that is far worse.
When my father steps forward, the man simply delivers a sealed letter into his hands.
The wind shifts as a harbinger, and my cloak stirs, the fabric slipping just enough to expose what lies beneath.
The King's Guard's composure falters. It lasts only a second.
He notices.
I have not used the tonic.
For the first time in years, my true features are revealed in broad daylight. My hair, pale as winter frost. My eyes, the same jewels deep blue as my mother's. The proof of who I really am.
The moment passes as quickly as it comes.
Then, just as before, the King's Guard returns to his position—back straight, one hand pressed to his chest, head slightly bowed.
Like a statue.
Like something that is not entirely human.
A chill rushes through me.
This… this is what I am being sent to.
An abomination. A kingdom of monsters.
And my father does not say a word. He does not even glance at me.
He simply turns on his heel and walks away, disappearing into the estate without a word.
I breathe.
Or try to.