Eira lay on his small mattress, cocooned tightly in his covers as though trying to shield himself from the world. The room, although uncluttered, felt confining—a space far too modest for the son of a duke. In truth, few would consider him worthy of even that title, given his gender.
As dawn crept through the cracked window, Eira savored the cool breeze against his bruised skin and the nightly lullaby of crickets. These small comforts were his solace, a brief reprieve before the daylight arrived to remind him of his misfortunes.
But with the morning sun came the cruel reality—the light seemed to mock him for seeking comfort in the night, as if the new day existed only to reawaken his pain.
Beyond his door, the sound of hurried footsteps signaled the servants beginning their day. Eira, however, was isolated from the family, relegated to a room near the servants' quarters instead of the family's lavish west wing. His father considered even this a favor—reminding Eira it could have been worse, that he could have been put with the help.
A gentle knock at the door, a daily ritual since his childhood, broke the morning silence. Eira didn't move; he already knew it was Lilia, his maidservant, whose soft yet rough-edged voice instructed him to rise and prepare for the day. Lilia's manner spoke of a life grown harsh in the slums, but her presence was one of steady care.
Eira clung to his blankets a moment longer before reluctantly releasing them. Though awake, the dread of another day weighed heavily on him.
"I'm up, Lilia," he mumbled, sitting up and offering her a faint smile. Lilia, well into her thirties, had been a constant presence since Eira's manifestation ten years prior—more family than servant.
"You say that, but you're still on the bed," she retorted, already pulling out his clothes for the day.
Eira let out a small huff of amusement, finally throwing off the covers and standing to face the day, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he approached her.
He asked, half-joking, "And what must I make haste for today? I doubt I'll be invited to breakfast or any family gatherings. Omegas aren't welcome, unless they're there to serve the alphas or favored betas."
Lilia's familiar laugh filled the room. "Of course not. But you should still be ready to be seen at any moment. You don't want the family, especially the duke, to see you looking a mess. You still have bruises from the last time—" Her voice turned serious, but Eira cut her off quickly, not wanting to revisit that memory.
"I know," he said, grabbing his clothes and heading to the bath Lilia had already prepared. The memory of abuse lingered—his heart pounding at even the mention of it.
The hands rained down on him—a nightmare from the week before. It began with a slap, followed by the mocking voices of his father and older brother. When he refused to submit, the blows intensified. Overcome by the alpha's pheromones, he was left weak and helpless, suffocating in a scent he had grown to dread. It smelled of ash and rot that clogged his throat with every breath he tried to take.
Eira forced himself to shake off the memories as he undressed, catching his own reflection in the mirror. Blue eyes, dulled by years of hardship, stared back. Bruises marred his body, all concealed beneath his modest clothing. His stark white hair set him apart—a difference used to torment him further. He slipped into the bath, letting his thoughts drift and wondering if this was all his life would be.
Pain and isolation were familiar. If not for Lilia and Able, his guard, he would know little of the world beyond the mansion's walls. No omega could leave before coming of age. At just seventeen, Eira counted the days—three months remained until he turned eighteen.
He had a plan. The night before his eighteenth birthday, he, Lilia, and Able would slip away, using a hidden stash of money to escape his father's domain. Perhaps there was somewhere less cruel, a quiet village at the edge of another noble's territory. He clung to tales from forbidden books—places where omegas were not mere possessions. Maybe, he hoped, he could find one of those places.
As the bathwater cooled, Eira pulled himself from his daydreams. He dressed quickly—his clothes simple but neat, chosen to maintain the family's reputation, however limited his own role. The outfit fit well, masking the bruises beneath.
He checked his reflection again. With his body covered, he cut a striking figure, though he was still too thin. Just as he turned away, Lilia knocked again.
"Impatient," he muttered, opening the door. Lilia briefly inspected him before guiding him to a chair. She worked gently through his white hair, braiding it as she murmured, "Your hair really does suit you, little one. It's just like the snow."
Eira teased, asking how she could know what snow was like, since even he had never seen it. Neither of them has since it didn't snow in Assinia. She explained she'd heard stories from other servants, who described snow as whiter than clouds and soft to the touch. "It does sound wonderful," Eira mused, eyes closed as she finished his hair.
As Lilia finished, two firm knocks signaled another visitor—Able, his guard, entered in uniform. Eira noted her unusual early arrival and sensed her worry. Her message was serious: "Little lord, your father has asked for your presence at the breakfast table." Her voice was steady, but her unease was obvious.
Eira was shocked; his father had never invited him to a family meal. Used to eating with the servants, he couldn't help but ask, "Why?" Able could only shake her head, offering no answer.
Lilia placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Well, you best not make him wait. That only brings more harm than good. Let us make haste. You shall know when you get there." Able waited by the door, keenly aware of the risk.
Eira glanced in the mirror one last time, knowing it mattered little how he looked—his father would never see more than an inconvenience. He nodded to himself and moved toward the door, with Lilia and Able following closely behind.