A secluded chamber in the west wing of the palace, reserved for high-ranking nobles.
The moment the court session ended, several nobles peeled off from the main hall, their expressions thunderous.
Duke Ormellan of House Veldar slammed his palm against the polished table.
"Has he lost his mind? Fifty omegas? In armor?"
Marchioness Deyra, her jeweled fingers twitching with fury:
"Today it's omegas with swords. Tomorrow it'll be pups commanding armies. This is chaos wrapped in shiny armor!"
Lord Avenel, more reserved but visibly disturbed, leaned forward:
"We've supported Rythe because he's ruthless, not reckless. This changes everything. It emboldens the weak. Disrupts centuries of order."
A cold voice spoke from the shadows—Byron Marvane, eyes glinting.
"Order... can evolve. If we want to remain relevant in this new era, we must adapt. Or we risk being consumed by it."
The others fell silent, surprised. Was Byron defending Rythe?
Byron continued:
"Rythe is unpredictable, yes. But that unpredictability makes him the most dangerous man in the empire. And the most necessary."
He gave a sly smirk.
"Still... omegas in the capital? Training in public? The people will talk. And talk is the seed of dissent."
They all nodded.
Plots began forming in the silence that followed.
Central square of Ardan. Day market in full swing.
The sound of armored boots marching in perfect rhythm echoed down the cobbled roads.
Citizens turned, eyes widening in disbelief and awe.
Fifty gleaming figures in matching silver-and-blue armor moved through the square, flanking Rythe and Lareth. Their formation was tight. Imposing. Immaculate.
At first, whispers.
"Are those… omegas?"
"In uniform?"
"By the gods, they're beautiful…"
"No, not just beautiful—disciplined."
As they passed, some sneered. Others clapped. Children stared with wide-eyed wonder. A few older men turned their backs in protest.
But one old woman—wrinkled and dressed in patched robes—stepped forward with a hand over her heart.
"About time someone saw our sons and daughters for more than what they were born as."
Rythe heard it. And he smiled.
He turned slightly, nodded to her, and kept marching.
A few of the omega knights blinked away tears, but held formation.
History wasn't just changing in court. It was changing in the streets.
Across the city and countryside, noble households buzz with the day's news.
In House Talwin's manor, a young heir stared out the window.
"Father," he said, "does this mean omegas could become generals one day?"
His father, a stern duke, stiffened at the question.
"This means chaos," he growled. "And you'd do well to stay clear of it."
But across the empire, not all were angry.
In House Lorenne, a beta noblewoman addressed her daughters.
"Train harder. If omegas can make it as knights, there is no excuse left. No barrier we cannot break."
In secret, letters flew between families—some pledging support, others plotting opposition.
But the truth was clear.
Prince Rythe had lit a fire.
And whether it would become a flame of progress—or burn down everything—remained to be seen.
The sky was painted in soft hues of pink and gold as the sun began its slow climb beyond the Ardan mountains. Dew clung to the grass as the palace training grounds buzzed with nervous energy.
Fifty omega knights stood in clean, customized armor — lighter, sleeker, and crafted with their builds in mind. The royal blacksmith had wept silently when Rythe insisted on it. But it was done.
They stood in formation, tense, many eyes darting around.
Then the sound of armored boots.
Prince Rythe, in his dark blue training leathers, strode onto the field like a living storm. The wind tugged at his cloak. Beside him, Lareth carried a stack of blunt training blades.
"Today," Rythe began, voice clear and cold, "you stop calling yourselves 'just omegas.' From this moment forward, you are Knights of Ardan."
Silence.
His piercing gaze swept over the fifty of them.
"You will not be given leniency because of your physiology. You will not be coddled. You will rise or fall by your strength, your strategy, your will. That is how I fight. And that is how you will fight."
He drew his sword and held it before him.
"So show me what you're made of."
What followed was not a lesson. It was war.
Pair after pair, omegas sparred under Rythe's unrelenting eyes. When one stumbled, Rythe barked corrections. When another hesitated, he stormed forward and showed them how they could've died ten times in that moment.
Then he called for a group duel. Five against five.
Sweat clung to every brow. Muscles trembled. But no one gave up.
And Rythe? He watched everything — form, stamina, instincts, fear.
By midday, he ordered a break. Water was passed around. Lareth took a few aside for individual corrections.
But Rythe walked toward a slim omega.
She stood straighter the moment he approached.
"You fight like someone who has been denied the right to defend herself for too long," he said.
She blinked. "I have."
He nodded.
"Good. Channel it. Anger is useless if you don't give it direction."
Before she could respond, he stepped back and raised his voice:
"You are not here to prove that omegas can be knights. You are here to become the kind of knights they will write ballads about."
A short silence. Then a single clap. Then another.
Then a roar of cheers and applause filled the yard — from Lareth, the observing knights, even the stable hands leaning over the fence to watch.
Rythe turned his back on the ovation.
But they saw the twitch of his lips — the closest he ever came to smiling.