Chapter 18 Broken Patterns
Elias
I did not slow until the corridor bent away and the air changed.
Stone gave way to open space. The narrow press of the pen dissolved into wider streets, and the low, constant hum of the city pressed in around me. Only then did I realise my pace had quickened—enough that my shoulders ached, enough that my hand had curled without my noticing.
Irritating.
I forced my stride into something measured. Forced my breathing down until it no longer scraped my ribs. Inspections ended the same way every time: out, reset, return to pattern.
Which made the break in it stand out like a cracked gear.
I had not been assigned to that pen.
The thought followed me down the street, persistent, abrasive. I replayed the moment without meaning to—the space in the line, the absence where a body should have been.
I had noticed it instantly. That alone annoyed me. Omegas were meant to blur together.
She hadn’t.
Worse—I had gone looking.
I hadn’t flagged it. Hadn’t summoned a guard or logged the discrepancy. I had changed direction and followed the absence where it led me, boots echoing down a corridor I had no reason to walk.
Why?
The question formed and dissolved immediately. An anomaly. Nothing more.
Her scent had been wrong. Fear was expected here—omegas lived steeped in it—but hers hadn’t matched her posture. She had smelled afraid, yes, but she had moved like someone conserving energy, not bleeding it out through panic. That was not how fear behaved.
And her hands—
I frowned faintly as I crossed into a busier thoroughfare, nodding to a passing patrol without breaking stride. Drakovian Sign Language was drilled into omegas young. It became reflex. Instinct. Hers hadn’t been. The signs were careful. Measured. A fraction too slow, as though she were choosing movements instead of letting them happen. Learned late, then. Not raised here.
The city closed around me—lamps flaring to life, merchants packing up stalls, the smell of oil and spice and sweat thickening the air. Alive.
Another image surfaced without warning: her hand, flattening over her abdomen. Protective. Immediate. Done before she had even looked down. Before I had consciously registered the faint curve beneath the loose fabric, the way her weight favored one leg.
She was beginning to show. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to be dangerous.
Pregnant omegas drew attention. Sympathy from some. Predation from others. Oversight from the Triune.
My jaw tightened.
Had she lost her mate when she was taken? Or had the pup been sired in Drakovia?
The thought came sharp and unwelcome, dragging the ghost of an Aelorian noble’s voice behind it. Dry, exhausted, speaking of an omega lost in retreat. Of importance.
A ma-no, I corrected immediately. Ruthlessly. I was not thinking that. Anomaly.
Still.
I should have written her name down.
I slowed half a step, forcing myself back into rhythm. I had not asked hers. I had not reported her absence. I would have to go back. Tomorrow.
Three days. Two had passed, counting today. Tomorrow was the last. By then, the Triune would expect a name. An omega chosen from the pens. A public affirmation. Proof that Elias Veras remained obedient to the system that armed him, fed him, and sent him to bleed on foreign soil.
I turned onto the broad avenue leading inward. Banners thickened overhead. Stonework grew cleaner the closer we crept to power. The city polished itself as it rose, as if filth could be scrubbed away by elevation alone.
I was not struggling because I wanted someone. Desire did not register.
I was struggling because choosing meant participating. Choosing meant endorsing a system that turned people into proof.
My silence and hesitation had already been noticed. I could feel it in the way guards straightened as I passed, the way clerks’ eyes lingered a beat too long.
I was running out of time.
\-------
The city woke loudly. Bells rolled through stone and bone alike. Streamers crossed the avenues in bright, defiant colour. Flower petals carpeted the streets, crushed beneath boots and wheels, releasing sweetness that clung to the air.
I rode at the head of the procession, armor polished, cloak clasped at my shoulder. Familiar. Grounding. I knew how to be this man.
The crowd surged at the edges, voices rising in cheers that struck like surf. Children perched on shoulders, hands reaching as if victory itself might brush their fingers.
They adored me.
And I felt the danger.
They didn’t know me. Only what I represented.
At the edge of the route, half-shadowed beneath an awning, a cluster of veiled omegas watched in silence. For a split second—irrational and sharp—I found myself scanning for silver eyes.
I looked away immediately. Jaw tightening. Focus.
The procession wound onward toward the king’s manor. The Triune waited on the dais. Applause measured. Smiles fixed too tightly. Compliments would come later. Lavish. Poisoned.
Inside the manor, light blazed. Music drifted through high ceilings. Nobles clustered in silk and jewels, laughter bright and hollow. The prince presided near the center, all charm and polish, a living emblem of approval.
I moved silently, trying to remain invisible.
Lady Vespera intercepted me near a laden table. Her smile sharp.
“Lord Veras,” she purred, eyes flicking pointedly to my unmarked collar. “How lovely to see you among us again. The city is simply aflutter.”
I inclined my head politely. “My lady.”
Her gaze drifted deliberately toward the veiled omegas lining the hall’s edges. “One forgets how much joy the people take in strong leadership,” she continued lightly. “And in seeing their betters settle properly.”
My grip tightened around the glass.
“I hear,” Vespera went on, lilting, “that some alphas are… reluctant to prove their loyalty. Strange, isn’t it? To deny oneself such a simple pleasure?”
Nobles perked up. One leaned in. “Have you chosen yet, Lord Veras? Surely there must be offers waiting. Both pen and noble omegas, eager to align themselves.”
Another chimed in. Laughter thin. “Your three days are nearly up, aren’t they? Tonight, I believe.”
The room closed in. I did not look at the omegas. I stared into my glass, watching the surface tremble faintly.
“No,” I said, clipped. “I have not.”
A beat of silence.
Vespera smiled wider. “The council will, of course, assist if you continue to delay.”
Heat flared behind my sternum. For one reckless second, I imagined saying it—saying no one, saying never, saying go to hell. Retort heavy on my lips.
Then—
“You’re scaring the crystal.”
Asha.
She appeared at my side, eyes sharp and knowing. I released the glass, set it down without a word.
“It’s good to see you alive,” she said softly. “I was beginning to think you enjoyed avoiding me.”
A ghost of a smile touched my mouth. “You always find me.”
“Yes,” she said, unbothered. “I do.”
We moved aside, scent mingling lightly in familiarity. She studied me openly.
“Wine,” she noted softly, lips quirking. “That’s new.”
I huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Is it?”
She stared a moment. “You seem… further away each time we meet.”
I met her gaze. Something unguarded flickered. “The kingdom hasn’t changed,” I said. “Perhaps I have.”
Asha nodded slowly. “I think you’re finally seeing it clearly.”
Her gaze softened. “You did everything you could,” she added, voice low. “For the kingdom and Alin.”
The memory rose unbidden—snow-stained ground, blood on my hands, a body gone still despite my efforts.
Armor cracked.
I set my jaw. The noise of the banquet was suddenly unbearable. I stepped back, curt nod to Asha, and turned away.
Corridors blurred as I descended, leaving silk and laughter behind for stone and shadow. Down past guards. Past storerooms. Down into the lower pens, where the air grew damp and heavy.
If I didn’t look again—
The thought didn’t finish.
I reached the familiar corridor. And there she was.
Hands scraping stone. Fingers digging into vine and mortar. Careful. Determined. Wholly unconcerned with being watched.
Alive. Leaving.
Something in my chest went tight and unfamiliar—sharp, almost angry.
And this time, I didn’t stop myself from rushing forward.