The sun had not yet risen when the gates of the southern palace courtyard creaked open. Cloaked figures moved quickly and quietly under cover of dawn, slipping through the shadows of tall stone walls and into the old royal training arena—a secluded space used only by Rythe's most trusted inner circle.
Lareth stood at the edge of the grounds, flanked by Rythe's most elite knights—Basen, Sorell, and Eryk—all handpicked by Rythe himself. Word had not been sent to the court. No announcement made. No banner raised.
This was a trial cloaked in silence.
The fifty omegas stood in neat lines, their weapons in hand, their backs straight despite the trembling in their limbs. Dressed in simple training garb—no frills, no embellishments—there was nothing to mark them but their resolve.
And then came Rythe.
He walked into the field without flourish, dressed in dark training leathers, his hair tied back, his sword strapped to his back. The air shifted with his presence—the knights straightened, and the omegas instinctively dipped their heads.
He stopped before them, letting the moment settle.
"No crowd," he said. "No nobles. No court watching. No judgment... except mine."
The omegas lifted their gazes.
"You don't have to impress them," Rythe continued. "You only need to prove yourselves to me."
Then he turned and nodded to Lareth, who stepped forward with a scroll.
"Your names will be called in pairs. You will fight each other. Show form. Restraint. Precision. Discipline. Anyone who breaks formation, gives in to anger, or shows cowardice is out."
He paused.
"You'll also face my knights," Rythe added, gesturing to his three elite warriors. "If you pass them, then you pass me."
There were murmurs—soft, barely audible—but none backed away.
And so it began.
One by one, the omegas sparred—against each other and, later, against Basen, Sorell, or Eryk. The matches were brutal, unflinching, and raw.
Some lost teeth. Some bled. But none gave up.
Even those who were disarmed quickly rose again and asked to try once more.
Even the smallest of them fought with fire.
Hours passed. The sun climbed high, and sweat drenched every body on the field. The knights, though surprised at first, had long since shed their skepticism. By the time the last pair of omegas fought, even Lareth's arms were crossed in approval.
And Rythe… Rythe said nothing for a long time.
Then, slowly, he walked into the center of the grounds.
Every omega dropped to one knee.
Rythe looked over them all—faces flushed, lips bloodied, eyes burning with quiet hope.
"You came to fight because the world wouldn't let you stand," he said. "But you stood today. You bled for it. You earned it."
He drew his sword—not in aggression, but in recognition.
"I name you all knights of the empire," he declared. "You will train, you will serve, and you will wear my banner. You are mine now—my sword, my shield, and my fury."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then one omega—the grey-eyed leader from before—bowed deeper and whispered, voice trembling, "Thank you, Your Highness… You've given us what the world never did."
Rythe simply nodded once.
Then turned to Lareth and said, "Have the smiths prepare armor. Have the tailors begin designs. My court will meet their new knights by the next full moon."
Lareth smirked. "You really are going to cause a riot."
"Let them riot," Rythe muttered, watching his new knights rise to their feet. "They'll learn soon enough."
The grand hall of the court was full.
The court nobles, council members, commanders, and lords from various provinces had all gathered under the golden dome. The emperor sat at the center, flanked by his children. Elendra, now reinstated, sat at his side as queen.
There was a sense of ceremony in the air. A rare full attendance.
Prince Rythe, clad in dark formal armor trimmed with silver, stepped forward to address the assembly.
Lareth stood to his right. Behind them, in a perfectly organized formation, stood fifty knights in newly forged armor—sleek, custom-fitted for speed and agility. The colors of the empire shimmered on their crests, though their faces remained partially hidden beneath helms.
The hall quieted.
Rythe's voice was strong, deliberate.
"Today I present to you a new unit of knights—trained in secrecy, tested in combat, and chosen not for their bloodline, gender, or designation, but for their loyalty, discipline, and unmatched skill with the blade."
A few heads tilted. Curious murmurs.
Rythe let the silence build, then:
"They are omegas."
A ripple of stunned gasps echoed through the hall.
"Yes," Rythe repeated, eyes sweeping the room. "Omegas—dismissed by our traditions, denied the right to serve, overlooked in war. And yet, when given the chance, they fought harder, faster, and smarter than many of the alphas and betas you hold in high regard."
The silence gave way to outrage.
"This is unprecedented—"
"Your Highness, it's dangerous—"
"Omegas in armor? In combat? It's scandalous—"
"They're too emotional! Too weak!"
Rythe raised a single hand.
The hall fell still again.
"Weak? Tell that to the scars on their backs. To the cracked ribs and bruised jaws they suffered in training. Tell that to the knights they bested. Tell that to me, for I tested them myself. And they passed."
He stepped forward, just a few paces down the marble steps. His voice dropped, but carried sharper than before.
"I will no longer allow strength to be dictated by tradition. We are at war—not just with enemies outside our borders, but with the rot within. If you still believe status is what wins battles, then perhaps you should step down and let these knights show you how wrong you are."
A sharp, stunned silence. Even the emperor didn't speak.
Then a voice cut through the tension.
"I support this," said Crown Prince Maleus, rising from his seat.
One by one, Rythe's siblings rose in support—Vaela, Rhalia, Elion, Dain, even Kael.
The emperor leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he studied the warriors lined behind Rythe. His voice was low and gravelly.
"If they serve you, and you vouch for them… then let the empire watch and learn."
Rythe bowed his head briefly to his father.
"They will wear my banner. Their honor is mine to protect."
The emperor nodded once.
But the court remained a churning storm beneath the surface—noble lords exchanging furious glances, whispering behind fans and sleeves. There would be resistance, but Rythe had moved the first unshakable stone.
The fifty omegas stood proud—silent, composed, and ready.
And history had been rewritten.