The silence after birth was deceptive.
Elias could hear everything—the rustle of fabric, the clinking of tools, the sterile whispers of attendants. But it all felt too far away, like a dream he had yet to wake from.
Only the burning sensation in his lungs reminded him that this was real.
He was reborn.
He had died in his world—a young man full of unanswered questions, unspoken words, unresolved feelings—and now here he was again, breathing.
Tiny.
Helpless.
An omega.
He couldn't move much, but he was aware. Sharp and clear and painfully conscious, trapped in a body that didn't yet understand itself. He couldn't see well, his vision was blurry, but he could make out soft golden lights above his crib and shadows of people moving around him like figures in a fog.
From the murmur of voices, he learned things.
He had been born into nobility—House Virelle. Prestigious. Feared. Powerful.
But not proud of him.
A woman with a voice like ice looked down at him, arms crossed.
"So he's the omega," she muttered, not bothering to mask her disappointment.
A man beside her, tall and rigid, replied, "Unfortunate. Still, if raised correctly, he could become... useful."
Useful.
The word scraped across Elias's mind like sandpaper.
He wanted to scream, to speak, to say: I'm not your tool. I'm not your property.
But all that came out was another wail.
The nurse—gentle and kind-eyed—lifted him and cradled him softly. "There, there. You're safe."
But Elias wasn't safe.
Not in this world. Not in this body.
He was trapped.
And yet, behind his newborn tears, his mind was racing.
The days passed like drifting clouds—slow but unstoppable.
The world he was in was different from anything he had known. It was like stepping into a fantasy novel brought to life, one with strict roles, rules, and traditions layered in centuries of instinct and structure.
Here, society was divided by designation—alpha, beta, omega.
It wasn't just a label. It defined everything.
Alphas ruled. Powerful. Dominant. Leaders in both politics and family.
Betas ran the machinery of the world. Intelligent. Efficient. Expected to be rational, emotionless, dependable.
And Omegas… were owned.
Soft. Emotional. Beautiful. Born to be claimed, courted, bred.
They were rare.
And therefore, valuable.
And therefore… caged.
Elias had read about this world in fiction. But fiction gave choices, voices, escape.
This reality had none.
As weeks turned into months, his new body began to develop. He couldn't walk or talk, but he began to see clearly. He memorized faces, voices, rooms.
His mother—Lady Ismara Virelle—was coldly stunning. Tall, silver-haired, eyes like storm clouds. She held him with arms that felt more like porcelain than flesh. He rarely saw her smile.
His father was absent. Rumors whispered through the manor that he was stationed at the northern borders, leading military campaigns. Elias didn't care.
He didn't need parents.
He needed power.
And patience.
His room was a golden cage—ornate, expensive, suffocating. Silken sheets, carved wooden cradles, chandeliers that sparkled even during the day. He was dressed in soft lace, wrapped in embroidered blankets, and bathed in milk-scented oils.
But none of it was comfort.
Everything screamed property.
Every coo, every whisper, every glance from servants carried the same weight:
He is omega. He is to be protected. Controlled. Owned.
They spoke around him, never to him.
And he listened.
He learned quickly.
That omegas were rarely educated past their basic language and etiquette training.
That they were matched to alphas, often through contracts, even before puberty.
That those in high houses were paraded around like exotic pets.
And worst of all, that some liked it.
Some believed their role was sacred. Others surrendered to it for safety. Elias, however, burned with quiet defiance.
He had lived a life before.
A life where he wasn't seen. Where he loved in silence. Died in silence.
This time, he'd carve a space for his voice.
Even if he had to scream to be heard.
When he was around one year old, he began walking.
Servants were shocked.
"He's advanced," one said.
"A gifted omega?" another whispered, suspicious.
He kept his expressions neutral. Eyes wide. Head tilted. He let them think he was just a clever child.
But in his solitude, he practiced balance, learned to climb the furniture, explored the edges of his world. He memorized the layout of his wing. The timing of servants. The way light fell through the curtains in the morning.
Because freedom required strategy.
And Elias would not be locked away forever.
By age two, he was speaking.
Slowly. Deliberately. Mostly in single words.
"Moon."
"Book."
"No."
They called him precious.
He called it performance.
Every gesture, every word, every hesitation was calculated. He had learned long ago that people see what they expect to see.
And no one expected resistance from an omega.
One rainy afternoon, he met Rowan again.
The alpha boy.
He had visited the day of Elias's birth, but this was their first real interaction.
Rowan was older by three years. Tall for his age. Sharp-featured. His presence carried weight already, like a storm waiting to form.
He stared at Elias with narrowed eyes.
"You're the omega everyone whispers about," he said bluntly.
Elias, sitting calmly with a picture book on his lap, nodded.
Rowan tilted his head. "Why don't you cry like other babies?"
"I cried enough," Elias replied softly, looking at the raindrops racing down the window.
Rowan blinked.
Then smirked.
"I like you," he said. "You're weird."
"Good."
Rowan reached out and handed him a flower. "They told me to give you this."
Elias accepted it silently, holding it with both hands.
Then, quietly: "Did they make you come?"
"Yes."
"Will you come again?"
"…Maybe."
And with that, Rowan left.
But he came back again the next week.
And the next.
Their meetings were brief. Quiet. But Elias began to understand something important.
Rowan was watching him. Closely.
More than curiosity. More than protocol.
He was assessing.
And Elias knew: if he played his cards right, Rowan could be either a powerful ally… or a very dangerous threat.
By the time Elias turned four, the whispers had changed.
"An omega who reads."
"He memorized an entire poem."
"He's asking about politics?"
Servants grew wary. Tutors hesitated.
Lady Ismara ordered his books replaced with etiquette guides. Toys instead of scrolls. She demanded he be kept inside.
But it was too late.
Elias had already begun to think.
To question.
To dream.
He dreamed of revolution.
Of omega writers and warriors.
Of a world not bound by instincts, but ideas.
He kept a journal. Hidden under the floorboard of his toy chest. Inside were sketches of escape plans, maps of the estate, coded observations about guards and staff.
And stories.
His stories.
Of love. Of longing. Of freedom.
Of Lucian.
He didn't remember Lucian's face clearly anymore.
But he remembered how he felt with him.
That was enough.
One night, he snuck out of his nursery and crept down the halls.
He found the library.
Massive. Dusty. Untouched.
He lit a candle and pulled down a book on world history.
He read until dawn.
When a servant found him, curled up asleep among ancient volumes, they gasped.
Lady Ismara punished him.
Locked him in his room for two weeks.
But Elias didn't care.
Because now he knew.
About past rebellions. Ancient omega philosophers. Secret alphabets used to write banned texts.
The world wasn't unchangeable.
It had cracks.
And Elias would learn how to break them wide open.
At five years old, he stood in front of the mirror, dressed in soft silk.
A birthday gift.
He stared at his reflection.
Big eyes. Dark hair. Delicate features.
Beautiful, they'd say.
Rare.
But Elias saw something else.
A soul that had died once, and been reborn.
A boy who had loved in silence and was now preparing to speak in screams.
He touched the mirror.
"I'm not yours," he whispered to the world behind the glass.
"I never was."