The soft crackle of the hearth filled the otherwise silent chamber. Scrolls lay scattered on Rythe's desk, maps, letters, troop reports—but his attention was fixed on the chair across from him, where Lareth leaned back with a goblet in hand.
Rythe swirled his untouched wine. "Lareth."
The older man glanced up. "Yes, Highness?"
"Explain it to me again. The hierarchy. Alphas, betas, omegas... I want to understand it, beyond the politics and court whispers."
Lareth blinked. He wasn't expecting the request.
Still, he sat forward, setting the goblet down with a faint clink.
"All right." He folded his hands, then began in that careful, instructive tone he used when tutoring squires in warcraft or young nobles in diplomacy.
"Alphas," he said, "are born leaders. They're driven by instinct to dominate, protect, and claim. In most societies, they end up in command—military, political, even spiritual. Their presence demands attention. And people—often subconsciously—follow."
Rythe didn't speak, simply nodded once.
Lareth continued.
"Betas are the middle ground. Level-headed. Practical. They don't have the volatile instincts of alphas or the biological vulnerabilities of omegas. They run the world behind the scenes—scholars, advisers, craftsmen, and mediators. Often overlooked, but indispensable."
He paused, studying Rythe's face. Still nothing.
"And Omegas..." Lareth's voice softened. "They're... complicated. They're nurturers by nature, yes. But not weak. Not lesser. Just different. Their physiology makes them vulnerable in certain ways, especially during ruts and heats. But they're also... incredibly resilient. Emotionally intuitive. When not abused or diminished, they're the heart of any empire."
He leaned forward slightly, watching Rythe now with sharpened awareness.
"Alphas lead," Lareth said, "betas build, and omegas bind. That's the true order."
Rythe didn't react. Not at first.
Then, softly, he asked, "Bind what?"
"People. Families. Kingdoms, even." Lareth's gaze narrowed slightly. "A good omega doesn't just follow. They anchor. They give alphas something worth protecting, something to come home to. Omegas make empires worth the blood it takes to build them."
Silence fell again.
The fire crackled.
Lareth sat back, eyes now watching Rythe like a hawk.
"You've never asked about this before, Rythe. Not once. Why now?"
Rythe's jaw tightened faintly. He looked away toward the hearth.
"I'm not planning anything, if that's what you're worried about."
Lareth gave a small, skeptical grunt. "You're always planning something. And you never ask questions without purpose."
Rythe's voice came lower this time. "What if an alpha's instincts don't protect the people they should? What if they destroy instead?"
Lareth looked at him for a long, unreadable moment.
Then he replied, just as quietly, "Then they stop being an alpha… and become a beast."
Rythe looked up.
Lareth stood, walked over, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"But beasts can still learn to become men again. Especially when someone reminds them what it is they're fighting for."
Rythe said nothing. But his eyes, for the first time in days, looked distant… and deeply troubled.
He wasn't asking about structure.
He was asking about himself.
The sun had already begun to scorch the open roads, gilding the empire in golden heat. Rythe and Lareth rode in silence, their mounts kicking up dust as they patrolled the far edges of the kingdom. They had left before dawn, inspecting markets, outposts, and garrisons—checking for weaknesses, unrest, or signs of infiltration.
They knew not who the next enemy was. But Rythe was determined to meet it head-on.
Now, as they crested a gentle hill near the forest line, the sound of swords clashing caught their attention.
Rythe raised his hand, bringing Lareth to a stop beside him.
Below them, on a flat, sun-soaked field, about fifty figures moved in disciplined formations—swords flashing, feet gliding with trained precision. The scene looked like any combat training… until their scents hit him.
Sweet, soft, instinct-stirring pheromones.
Rythe inhaled deeply, his sharp senses immediately identifying them.
"Omegas," he murmured.
Lareth turned sharply. "Are you… all right?" he asked, noting the stiffness in Rythe's shoulders. "We can keep riding, if you want to avoid—"
"No," Rythe cut in. His gaze didn't waver from the group. "They're not ordinary."
Lareth followed his eyes—taking in how the so-called 'weaker sex' moved with purpose, even elegance, as their swords whirled through the air. Small-framed, yes. Physically softer. But their control, their intent… it was undeniable.
"They're good," Rythe said, admiration quietly threading his voice. "Damn good."
Without another word, he nudged his horse forward.
Lareth followed, slightly wary.
As they approached, the entire field went still. Then, as one, the omegas dropped to their knees in formal reverence.
"Your Highness," the one at the front—a lean, grey-eyed omega—said clearly, sweat still dripping from his brow.
Rythe dismounted and walked toward them, hands clasped behind his back.
"What is this?" he asked. "A hidden battalion of traitors? Or something else?"
The leader flushed, quickly bowing lower. "Forgive us, Your Highness. This is not rebellion. Only… purpose."
Rythe raised a brow.
"We train here because we're good with the sword," the omega continued. "But no one wants us. Not for combat. Not for defense. Not even for show. We're told it's unnatural. Unfit for omegas."
He swallowed.
"But this is what we're good at. So we gather. To stay sharp. To have something for ourselves."
Rythe was silent for a long while.
Then, softly, he asked, "Would you like to be a part of my knights?"
The silence that followed was thunderous.
Lareth's head snapped toward him, brows raised in disbelief. The omegas glanced at each other, stunned into stillness.
The grey-eyed one found his voice first. "I—I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," Rythe replied. "Three days. Come to the palace. I'll put you through trials. If you pass, you'll wear my colors."
Tears welled in a few of their eyes. One of them clutched the hilt of his sword like a lifeline.
Lareth, still dumbfounded, stepped closer and leaned in. "The court won't take this lightly," he murmured under his breath. "Knights are sacred, Rythe. Omegas have never—"
"I'll fix it," Rythe said, voice hardening.
He turned back to the group, his tone clear, authoritative. "Three days. Don't be late."
Then, with a swift turn of his cloak, Rythe mounted his horse again, leaving behind fifty breathless omegas and one speechless Lareth.
And for the first time in a long while, hope burned brighter than fear in the eyes of those left behind.