Alphas—beings whose lifespans and physical abilities far exceeded those of ordinary humans—were, by their very existence, a nation’s most critical military asset and source of power. After long years of conflict, borders had finally been clearly defined, and it had been quite some time since large-scale wars between nations had ceased. Even so, the number of Alphas forming the upper echelon of the nobility remained a clear symbol of a country’s national strength.
For that reason, in order to preserve national power, high-ranking nobles were required to leave behind Alpha heirs—and this was especially imperative in the case of exceptional Dominant Alphas. Duke Mihail Castiya, himself a Dominant Alpha, bore the grave obligation of producing a legitimate successor, and regrettably, he had no grounds on which to refuse the Emperor’s command.
In any case, if the intent had been merely to harass his younger brother, there would have been no reason to issue orders to Ilya as well.
Ilya Vasari was not of imperial blood, but he was Mihail’s full-blooded brother, born of the same Omega mother. The two had grown up together from a young age, and unlike Mihail’s relationship with the Emperor, theirs was one of genuine closeness—as brothers and as friends. That the Emperor had secretly issued separate orders to Ilya, the one person who still held some influence over Mihail, indicated a hardline determination entirely separate from any sadistic pleasure in tormenting a sibling: the Duke of Castiya could no longer be allowed to delay producing an heir.
“That bastard of an Emperor really has nothing better to do,” Mihail muttered, chewing on the words as if he wanted to grind them to pieces.
Ilya erased the Emperor’s secret directive from his thoughts and gave a small shrug, as if in agreement.
“What can you do? Making your life miserable is one of his main hobbies. And this time, he’s got an ironclad excuse. If you don’t produce an heir, he’ll probably drag you straight to the Imperial Palace and force you into breeding.”
“Fucking bastard.”
Mihail’s face twisted into something vicious, as though he might stab the Emperor on sight. The fact that Castiya Castle lay a considerable distance from the Imperial Palace was, at least, a blessing. Had Mihail been any closer in that moment of fury, he would have charged off without hesitation and thrown a punch at the Emperor—and the Emperor, for his part, would have gladly met him in a blood-soaked brawl.
“Either way, it’s an imperial decree backed by solid justification. For now, let’s at least bring an Omega into the castle to show compliance. That should give us an excuse to keep putting things off, don’t you think?”
“An Omega?” Mihail snarled. “I feel like vomiting just from smelling their pheromones, let alone seeing their faces. Useless creatures who can’t do a damn thing with their own hands—wandering around, popping out brats, then living off the rest of their lives in exchange. Why the hell should I mate with garbage like that?”
Each word he spat out was steeped in dense, undisguised revulsion. The rumors about the Duke of Castiya’s extreme aversion to and hatred of Omegas were not exaggerated in the slightest—if anything, they failed to capture the full extent of it.
At Mihail’s blatant contempt, a conflicted, troubled expression crossed Ilya’s face. As both his friend and his lord—and also his full-blooded brother—he knew all too well where Mihail’s loathing for Omegas originated.
“You have to leave an heir eventually, no matter what. Think of this as getting an unpleasant task out of the way.”
“I’ve got at least several more decades before I need to worry about heirs.”
Mihail wasn’t wrong. The lifespans of Alphas and Omegas were two to three times longer than those of ordinary humans, and Mihail—just barely past fifty—still had a good forty or fifty years before it would truly be an appropriate time to see to a successor.
“And even then, not every heir survives to adulthood,” Ilya muttered under his breath.
Alphas, as a species, were notoriously savage and prone to violence. Especially among the young and inexperienced, many failed to rein in their tempers—picking fights with stronger, more seasoned Alphas, throwing themselves recklessly into wars, or killing each other in bloody struggles over Omegas. Deaths were alarmingly common.
And yet, it wasn’t as though one could simply chain up young Alphas at home. In fact, surviving those brutal trials was precisely how an Alpha earned recognition as a true Alpha. To ensure a proper line of succession, one had to produce at least two or three Alpha children before feeling any sense of security.
“There are a few families who’ve been sounding out marriage proposals lately. How about at least taking a look at some portraits? I’ll only show you Omegas from good families—obedient types, easy on the eyes.”
Ilya offered with a smile. Mihail immediately shot him a glare sharp enough to kill. The muscles in his clenched jaw visibly twitched.
Omegas from good families. Obedient. Beautiful.
For most Alphas, such words described an irresistible prospect—but Mihail was nothing like most Alphas. Good family. Obedient. Beautiful. Omega. Every single word that left Ilya’s mouth would have sounded nauseatingly foul to Mihail. The fact that they were Omegas alone was enough.
Before Mihail could open his mouth, Ilya raised a hand in a placating gesture and nodded.
“Of course you hate it. Anyone, anywhere, would be unbearable to you. So let’s at least pick an Omega who fits conditions you might find… marginally less horrific.”
As if such a thing exists.
Mihail’s savage glare made his thoughts painfully obvious.
Still, Ilya was the person closest to Mihail—the one who understood him best. And so he knew the conditions that might make an Omega slightly—by no more than a chick’s speck of eye discharge—less intolerable to him.
“Since we have to bring an Omega into the castle anyway, I’ll handle everything. Mihail, you just…”
Ilya trailed off, swallowing the rest of his words.
…quietly produce an heir with the Omega I bring you.
***
It was on an autumn day that a luxurious carriage arrived at the Duke of Castiya’s castle. The wind had turned sharp enough to warrant pulling one’s collar tight, yet the sky was brilliantly blue—dazzlingly beautiful. By the time the procession, escorted by more than a dozen armed soldiers at both front and rear, passed through the castle gates, a noisy crowd of onlookers had already gathered inside.
When the rider leading the group reined in his horse in the open space just beyond the gate, the entire procession came to a halt. The man at the front swung down from his mount in one smooth motion. The powerful black horse he had ridden snorted and tossed its head.
“Count Vasari.”
The man addressed the person standing at the center of those welcoming the procession. A blond, strikingly handsome man with unmistakably aristocratic features—Count Ilya Vasari—gave a slight nod in response.
“You’ve come in person, Marquis Lucius. Have you brought him safely?”
“Of course. He is my younger brother, after all. It was only right that I see him here myself.”
Andre, Marquis Lucius—the man leading the procession—gestured toward the carriage. At the signal, an armed retainer stepped forward and opened the carriage door. As the door, draped in ornate, luxurious fabric, swung open, a pale white hand emerged from within. The onlookers jostled one another, craning for a better view of whoever was stepping out.
Two people descended from the carriage. The first, helped down carefully, possessed honey-soft, lustrous blond hair and a beauty so striking it drew involuntary gasps. Wrapped in refined, high-quality garments, his body was flat-chested, making it clear that he was male.
He was the Omega Count Vasari had personally tracked down under the Emperor’s command. Following him came another person—so small and thin he barely seemed past boyhood. His dull, frizzy brown hair lacked any sheen, swallowing up his facial features entirely. Judging by his shabby appearance, he looked no more than a servant or menial laborer.
“You must’ve had a difficult journey, Nile.”
It seemed they were already acquainted, as Ilya Vasari greeted the blond beauty directly. The man called Nile returned the greeting with a faint smile.
Good heavens, he’s far more beautiful than any Omega I’ve ever seen.
Of course he is. He’s the Omega the Lucius Marquisate brought here after handing over an entire small fief. Shouldn’t he be the most beautiful person in the country?
Castle workers whispered among themselves as they stared at the arrival. Most of the onlookers were Betas, yet even they were already half-entranced by the Omega’s overwhelming beauty.
“With someone like that, even the Duke might fall head over heels, don’t you think?”
A man murmured dazedly. Most of the men around him nodded with similar expressions.
“No chance. His Grace won’t budge an inch. Do you know how many beauties like that have been proposed to the Duke already? And besides, that man may wear the Lucius name, but in truth he’s just some unknown-blood orphan the Marquisate bought and adopted for his looks. And no matter how beautiful that Omega is, he doesn’t hold a candle to our Duke. Would His Grace ever find an Omega uglier than himself acceptable?”
A young maid snapped, shooting the man a glare.
In truth, the maid wasn’t entirely wrong. The Lucius Marquisate had, for generations, amassed immense wealth by purchasing Omegas of low birth but exceptional looks and scent, adopting them, raising them with care, and then selling them off to high-ranking noble families in exchange for political or material gain. Andre, the current Marquis Lucius, had inherited this legacy intact and continued to run the family in the same fashion. As a result, many referred to the Marquis Lucius behind his back as the Empire’s slave trader.
The man who heard the maid’s words let out a scoff.
“So what if they bought him to sell him later? Just look at what he’s wearing. One outfit like that could feed my family for months. And those accessories—sell just one of them and you could buy a house and still have change left over. Omegas who are even halfway decent-looking get traded for money or politics, sure, but they’re treated like noble ladies. Have you ever seen Omegas like that eating coarse food or wearing rough clothes?”
The young maid bit her lower lip. Envy and resentment swirled thickly in her eyes. As the man said, even if beautiful Omegas were bartered away for politics or coin, their treatment was guaranteed. There were only two reasons for that: their beauty, and their ability to bear Alpha heirs for Alphas.
“It’s so unfair,” the young maid muttered, her gaze sharp with jealousy.
That sentiment, at least, drew no objections. Everyone wore expressions of silent agreement. And yet, no one truly seethed over it. These were Alphas and Omegas—people under the same sky, yet never of the same world. Even standing right before one another, they could never belong to the same reality.
