The Feather King

On his 20th birthday, an alpha is supposed to sense the bond linking him to his soulmate omega—a “thread of destiny connecting his heart to that of his fated other,” according to the ancient texts gathering dust in the royal palace’s grand library.

Férias sighs as he lounges on his throne in the grand hall of his palace. His massive wings unfurl behind him, cascading down from the golden, bone-carved armrests of his majestic seat. His long silver hair flows effortlessly over his relaxed shoulders, as though he were an angel who had just alighted there.

While Férias enjoys cultivating this celestial and dignified image for his people, the reality is far different: he is far from angelic.

Férias is a Pelagornis Sandersi, the largest and most formidable avian species to have roamed the Earth 2.5 million years ago. He is one of the few demi-humans with wings powerful enough for flight, rather than merely serving as decorative appendages. Standing at an impressive 2.5 meters, his powerful wings and sharp canines—currently used with casual ease to bite into a grape timidly offered by an omega—highlight his intimidating origins. With such prowess, he could easily enfold the omega within his arms and devour her on the spot, no one would dare to intervene.

The young omega seems acutely aware of this, after all, that is what a real alpha would want to do to her since she's in heat, but Férias? Férias only lounges on his throne, half-asleep and seemingly indifferent to the excited and squirming omega next to him. How rude.

His predatory instincts and animalistic nature are probably as fossilized as his ancestors.

Férias’s lazy eyes drift towards Arthur, who is barking orders at several servants to move the newly arrived gifts faster to the already towering pile surrounding him: mountains of jewels, exotic fabrics, and treasures from around the world.

Since morning, he has been receiving delegation after delegation, each presenting their best gifts and... Well, omegas, hoping that one might be the soulmate of the great king or at least a new favorite for his harem. However, each time an omega is presented like a priceless jewel, Férias lazily raises an eyebrow and casts a dismissive glance at the poor little thing, tilting his head to the side as he sniffs their overly sweet, cloying scents. With a disgusted gesture, he waves the ivory tube of his smoking pipe.

Omegas are rare, usually women, often kept safe at the palace in the hopes that one might be the soulmate of a royal family member. It is known that the scent of an omega drives any alpha or beta mad, and that sex with them is so pleasurable it drives males completely insane. That’s why the royal guard consists of eunuchs—to ensure that none of the armored males lose their composure in the presence of the king’s harem or the omegas in waiting at the castle.

Perhaps something is wrong with him, but Férias has never been more bored than when he tries to have sex with omegas.

With their ridiculously tiny size, their high-pitched moans that grate on his nerves, and their belonging to pathetically weak and small species—they are boring, annoying, naïve to the extreme, and always end up in tears because they can’t handle him. Yes, he’s huge, he gets it; no need to keep whining about it. He’s a giant ancestor of the duck probably; have you ever seen a duck’s cock? Yes? Well, what did you expect?

It's exasperating. At least he hopes his soulmate will be built for him—after all, that’s how it’s supposed to be, right? The soulmate Omega is meant to be suited to his alpha in every way possible. Still, even with that, Férias struggles not to imagine an Omega starting to sob upon seeing him naked.

He has lost count of the number of omegas he has sent weeping from his chamber in the middle of the night.

At some point, he even tried with some betas, they seem more robust after all, but his position makes them blush and apologize profusely, mumbling excuses about nobility, pure blood, the imperial alpha, and his chosen soulmate omega.

How annoying. Shouldn’t he be able to get what he wants as the king of this damned kingdom?

His harem serves almost exclusively as a public image now; he hasn’t touched a single one of them for over two months, despite their cooing and desperate attempts to attract his attention. As a result, just a look or a word from him is enough to send them into heat. Seriously, what was God thinking when creating such beings? It’s so irritating for him to endure their nauseatingly sweet, heat-saturated scents that pervade the air. And worst of all, even his eunuchs guards seem to be constantly on edge and nervous.

Omegas are annoying in every possible way.

Nevertheless, he maintains appearances in front of his subjects, as evidenced by his hand languidly brushing the blonde head of Lily, a white dove omega, kneeling at his feet, draped in a satin gown that accentuates her large baby blue eyes gazing up at him as if he were a messiah.

His scribe announces the next delegation. Férias barely listens, inhaling a new puff of smoke as the main door opens again. He keeps his eyes closed, savoring the sensation of the smoke curling in his lungs, the tranquil fullness relaxing his muscles, hoping the drug might somehow speed up time. Meanwhile, the delegation presents its gifts to the scribe, who takes notes and handles the thanks.

But then, suddenly, Férias chokes on his smoke, startling everyone around him with the outburst from their usually apathetic king. A scent, like wildflowers that only grow in steep, harsh, icy mountain regions, tickles his senses. Hell, what does he know about mountain flowers? Still, Férias has never smelled anything like it; it’s… alluring and… dangerous. He coughs out his smoke again, sitting up in an attempt to regain control.

Acidic red eyes fix on the delegation that has just entered, and a tense silence spreads. An alpha stands among the delegation—is this the one presenting their gifts? A family member of the delegation, a guest? Whatever the case, Férias knows.

He knows that this scent comes from this alpha; you. Every cell in his body tells him that this is the scent he needs to complete the bond, to complete his soul.

Fucking hell, it’s the scent of his soulmate.

Férias has never had an inner voice, no predatory desire, no inhuman behavior like all the alphas are supposed to possess, but now, the irrational need to capture you, to lock you in the prison of his wings and arms, to possess you with every cell in his body, screams inside him.

Has the drug finally affected his neurons? Maybe if he bangs his head hard against his golden throne, it will set him right. It doesn’t make sense. You’re an alpha. There must be a mistake; the delirious scent must be coming from someone else.

It MUST be coming from someone else.

You are not an omega, you are not a fragile, adorable doll raised as the most cherished and exotic of possessions. No, you are an alpha, you are hard, dangerous, and he can see the violence in your gaze, which almost makes him moan—Wait, what? Férias chokes again, and fluffs the feathers of his wings in indignation; what the fuck is wrong with him?

Anger grows alongside the panic in the great bird’s heart. His gaze hardens as he glares at you; it must be a trap, right? He straightens, adopting a regal posture. His wings lift high on his back, spread in a menacing display, and the omegas in his harem scatter around him, squeaking and quickly backing away as a low growl rises from his chest.

The Feather king, gentle, dignified, a bit strange, and royal, known for his softness and angelic image, growls like the wildest of beasts.

Férias has never growled in his entire life.

Wait, do birds growl?

Wonderful, he’s going insane now. Even his right-hand man Arthur and guards waver at the sound, seeming torn between fleeing or aiming their weapons at you.

“Your name,” the king finally commands in a violent growl, trying to inject as much dignity as possible, as if he hadn’t just choked on his pipe and saliva and nearly fallen from his throne because of your fucking scent.