The road welcomed her with silence and dust.
A windless stretch of earth cut between rust-colored hills, the path was as much a scar as it was a road—ancient, pitted with the memory of countless wheels, cracked by root and hoof. The world here was sun-bleached and brittle, broken only by a scatter of crooked trees or the occasional crow daring the open sky. Even the sky looked tired—washed to pale gold in the late spring heat.
Liora walked in its wake, a lean figure beneath a patched wool cloak, her boots caked with red dust.
She had no caravan this week, no traveling company to shadow. Just the scrape of her steps, the creak of the leather satchel at her hip, and the soft metallic chime of a compass tucked beneath her scarf.
She didn't mind the solitude. It was better this way.
In the kingdom of Vaereth, not all were born equal, and fewer still were born free.
Here, blood and scent defined a soul more sharply than any creed or coin ever could. Betas, the most common, filled the roads and cities like a river fills a basin. They made sturdy laborers, dutiful soldiers, honest craftsmen. Their bodies bore no scent of power or temptation, immune to the storm of instincts that plagued others. That made them ideal for many tasks—unshaken in the presence of dominance, unmoved by allure.
Alphas, born less often, ruled more often. Command sat easily on their shoulders, the same way a sword did. Their presence bent a room without a word. Their scent carried weight—authority, hunger, power—undeniable to those wired to feel it. They were kings, generals, and warlords. Even in stillness, they were dangerous.
And then there were Omegas.
Rare. Coveted. Feared.
Their beauty was often praised, but only in the way one praised a priceless relic—admired but kept under lock and key. An Omega's scent, in its full bloom, could drive an Alpha mad. It was said that when a true match was scented—when Alpha and Omega recognized one another—nothing short of war could stop the bond from claiming them. The kingdoms called it scent matching. The temples called it sacred.
The courts called it useful.
Omegas were regulated under crown law. Tracked. Owned. Traded. Most were bred into noble lines to ensure "strong heirs." Others were sold into contracts—fertility houses, heat dens, royal holdings. Some called it protection. Others called it prison. The collars worn by bonded Omegas shimmered with gold and sapphire, but they were collars all the same.
Liora had seen enough to know what future awaited her kind.
She had watched an older cousin weep through her first heat, surrounded by strangers. Had heard the bone-deep scream of a girl sold to a borderhouse. Had felt the chill that came when a nobleman walked past her and paused just a little too long, nostrils flaring, his smile curling like he already knew. She didn't want that.
They told her she would die out there.
That an omega alone on the open road was like fresh blood in a river—bait for wolves, for alphas who'd lost their senses, for men who thought themselves gods. That no suppressant could shield her from instinct forever. That freedom, for her kind, was a myth told by graveyards.
But Liora Vayne had always been a girl with graveyard dreams.
So she made a plan.
The suppressants. They were bitter things, smuggled and costly. But they did work. They blanketed her scent, dulled her cycle, silenced her nature. One dose every week kept her clean. She trained herself to be ordinary—unremarkable voice, unremarkable step, nothing in her presence to draw a second glance.
She sold her dresses. Took coin under a borrowed name.
And she ran.
She moved through Vaereth like a wraith—quiet, clever, careful. She stopped at border posts and half-buried inns, where old men talked of storms and trade. She offered her pen for ledgers, her tongue for dialects, her back for lifting crates. Wherever she went, she made herself useful but never memorable.
Most barely remembered her face. That suited Liora just fine. She wore anonymity like a second skin—faded tunics layered with road-worn practicality, a scarf perpetually looped around her throat, and a looseness to her step that suggested she didn't belong anywhere permanent. Her hair, rose-colored and unruly, spilled past her shoulders in soft waves, more windblown than styled. Eyes the color of warm copper missed nothing. It wasn't the beauty of courtly fashion or noble breeding—it was the kind that slipped under a person's guard. Quiet, sun-softened, and easy to forget… unless she smiled. But Liora rarely did.
No questions. No confessions.
Her goal was simple: travel. Trade. Learn the roads of the kingdom and live freely along them. She dreamed of building a caravan of her own one day, with maps inked in her own hand, with clients who paid in gold and goods instead of lies.
And so far, the plan was working.
But on one day, as the land flattened near dusk; the road dipping into a hollow where a thin creek glimmered between reeds. It was quiet. Too quiet. No birdcalls. No wagon wheels. Even the wind held its breath.
That's when she saw the body.
At first, Liora thought it was a shadow—dark, unmoving, tangled in the ditch beside the road. But then the light shifted, and she saw the spill of blood.
A woman lay half-sprawled in the grass, her cloak soaked through, her hair clinging to her forehead in a dark, matted snarl. A sword had fallen just out of reach. Her leg was twisted beneath her in a way that made Liora's stomach lurch.
Blood painted a trail behind her, long and ragged, like a bridal train smeared in war.
Liora froze.
Instinct surged—a cold spike of panic straight to her spine. This wasn't some lost traveler. This was a trap. It had to be. No one traveled alone out here without a reason.
There were no guards. No carriage. No sign of struggle. Just her.
The woman stirred.
Her head lifted, just barely.
"You," her voice cracked, weak but authoritative. "Help me… I command it."
Liora blinked at the absurdity of the situation. Here, this woman was lying broken before her—incapable of even standing—yet daring to speak in such a way? "Command it?" Her voice came as a whisper as she attempted to comprehend the situation. "Are you mad?"
The woman coughed. It was clear she was having trouble speaking. Blood flecked her lips. Her eyes shifted. They were a grey that had seen fire and war and winter. They locked on Liora's, wild and glassy with pain—but sharp. Then she blinked, jaw clenched, trying to push herself up—but her arm buckled. She let out a soft snarl of pain.
"Stay down," Liora said, moving beside her. Her voice was curt. "You're bleeding too fast. I need to stop it, or you'll be dead before I get your name."
For a moment, the woman said nothing. Then, before she collapsed fully, it came in a small breath: "Veyra Halvarin."
The name hit Liora like a stone to the chest.
Veyra Halvarin. The Lion's Heir. The Blade of the North. Alpha-born, crown-raised. The king's only child.
And she was bleeding into the weeds with the last of her pride clutched like a broken sword.
Liora's mind raced. If she helped her, if she got her to Fort Dalen, there'd be questions. Names. Recognition. Liora's last suppressant was still holding—she had yet to find a merchant with a new supply. But, for how long?
This was a living piece of the kingdom's spine dying at her feet. But if Veyra lived, she might remember.
No. No, no.
But she would die if Liora walked away.
No…
In her eyes—bleeding, noble, fierce—there was no Alpha. No royalty. Just a woman asking not to be left behind.
Liora swallowed hard. Her hands trembled.
Still, she took action.
She knelt beside the bloodied woman, reached into her satchel for bandages and salve, and began to work in silence.
The road, ever impartial, bore witness. And said nothing.
Her suppressant still held—but she had a day or two more at most. She would help the Lion's Heir reach the fort.
And then, she would disappear.
Before the truth could catch her.
Before the world remembered that even invisible girls can have blood worth chasing.
No one can know, she reminded herself. Not ever.