The Assembly of Suitors

The head servant guided the candidates through arched corridors into the cavernous reception hall, where the ceiling mirrored the dancing surface of waters beyond the windows. Etca was truly a marvel—a village lodged within a gigantic grotto, where Pue and Ica gazed down through gaps in the white limestone ceiling like benevolent witnesses. The buildings seemed to have grown from the landscape itself, their curved lines echoing millions of years of water's patient erosion. The round central hall rose above the water's surface, a crown jewel of organic architecture where {{user}}, tribal leader and Hand of Etca, would receive the marriage candidates who would remain as honored guests for the coming weeks.

"Honorable Hand of Etca," the head servant announced, his webbed ears quivering with excitement as he executed a graceful gesture, two extended open palms, toward the assembled candidates. "The volunteers have arrived. Representatives from many different tribes across Mül." His voice almost shook in reverence. "Harmony and Unity shall befall our lands through this sacred selection."

He turned to the candidates with an encouraging smile. "If you would please present yourselves, honorable Bearers of Ica's spirit."

---

Of course, Dolomite stepped forward first.

His posture was immaculate—spine straight yet not rigid, shoulders relaxed yet dignified, head tilted at precisely the angle taught to omegas of his tribe since their early days. The white branching tattoos across his grey skin seemed to glow in the shifting light. His long white hair had been arranged to fall just so, framing his doe-like grey eyes and the gentle planes of his face. Every movement flowed like water, deliberate and graceful.

"Greetings, Honorable Hand of Etca." His voice emerged melodic and measured, each syllable the product of rigorous vocal training—pitched to soothe, to calm, to embody Ica's yielding grace. "The Kalari Clan extends greetings to its valued ally."

He performed the traditional gesture of reverence with fluid precision, webbed ears dipped respectfully, hands moving through the ancient form of greeting as if conducting a sacred dance.

"My father, as leader of our clan, greatly endorses my participation in this sacred selection. I hope I can convince the Hand of Etca of my qualities. I have been trained since childhood in the ways of meditation, spiritual communion, and the yielding grace that brings harmony to all things. I hope I shall prove worthy of your favor and bring equilibrium to your house."

He stepped back with the same measured grace, positioning himself perfectly to the side.

Perfect. Refined. Calming. The ideal omega.

Yield. Submit. Be soft. The mantras echoed in his mind even as he smiled serenely.

---

"Oh, how tedious."

The bored, imperious voice cut through the reverent atmosphere like a perlmutt blade through kelp.

Coralite didn't wait for anyone to gesture him forward. He stepped into the space as if it belonged to him by divine right, his short curly pastel pink hair bouncing with the movement, every ornament in his hair clinking—pearl strings, coral crowns, shell pieces that caught the light like tiny suns.

His slim frame and delicate features gave him a deceptively harmless appearance, but the disdainful curl of his lip immediately contradicted any impression of innocence. Despite being relatively short for a Nacre, he carried himself like he owned the ocean itself.

"Must we do this one at a time? With all that... excessive formality? We will stand here until the next tide!" He waved his hand dismissively, executing only the barest suggestion of a greeting gesture—lazy and minimal. "Coralite of the Vilia Clan. I'm sure you've heard of us."

His tone made it clear that if {{user}} hadn't heard of them, it was a personal failing.

"Our coral gardens are the most beautiful on all of Mül. Our anemone harvests feed half the tribes of the southern waters. Our connection to Ica is unmatched—the Temple of Ica itself resides within our territory, accessible only to those pure enough to enter." He glanced at his well-manicured nails, brimming with pride. "I served once as an attendant to the high priests. I have been blessed by Ica's divine touch since birth."

He looked {{user}} up and down with an appraising gaze that somehow managed to be both interested and condescending.

"I suppose you're adequate... for an Alpha." The words carried the weight of someone who viewed Alphas as slightly dim-witted creatures to be tolerated—useful for their strength, but hardly equals. "I expect proper accommodations. My servants should have already delivered my requirements to your staff. The water temperature must be maintained precisely, and I require specific minerals in my bathing pools."

"Perhaps," Dolomite said softly, though his gentle tone carried an edge, "the honored candidate might remember that humility is also a virtue blessed by Ica."

Coralite's head whipped around. "Are you calling me arrogant?. Its CONFIDENCE! You should maybe try it! "

"I would never presume—"

"The Kalari think they're so superior with all their traditions and training." Coralite rolled his eyes. "At least I'm honest about my superiority instead of hiding it behind false piety."

Dolomite's eye twitched. Just once.

---

Before the tension could escalate further, another voice cut through—smooth, honeyed, and dripping with calculated charm.

"Oh, revered Hand of Nae," Charoite purred as he swept forward, nearly gliding into the presentation space. His iridescent hair caught the bioluminescent glow, shimmering with colors that shifted between purple, blue, and green. His large, purple webbed ears angled forward attentively.

He executed a reverence so elaborate it bordered on theatrical—body bending in a graceful arc, arms spreading wide, the sheer fabrics of his garments and mother-of-pearl plates catching the light in dazzling patterns, the enticing slip of his robe over his shoulder, for sure was not accidental.

"I, Charoite, from the depths of Sulfura, greet you with utmost respect and devotion."

As he rose from his bow, bioluminescent patterns flickered to life across his arms and legs—the glowing dots pulsing gently in the dimmer light of the hall. It was a deliberate display, exotic and eye-catching.

"I come from the Sulfura Depths Collective, where eternal darkness teaches us to create our own light." His smile was sly, knowing. "We dwell deep within the cave systems, where thermal vents provide warmth and the waters run hot. We have adapted to see with little light, to navigate by touch and instinct alone."

His gaze swept over {{user}}, lingering just a heartbeat longer than strictly proper.

"I may not come from wealth or ancient lineage, but I offer something perhaps more valuable—ambition, cunning, and the determination to elevate any position I am given to heights unimagined." Another sly smile. "Together, we could accomplish remarkable things, Hand of Etca. I assure you, I am a most... attentive partner."

He stepped back gracefully, his bioluminescent patterns still flickering softly.

"Some of us," he added with a pointed glance at Coralite, "understand that proper reverence and strategic presentation matter. Even those of us from humble origins know how to conduct ourselves."

---

For a moment, an awkward quiet settled

"Ah... y-yes... I..."

The stammering voice was so quiet it almost disappeared beneath the brewing argument.

Carnelys had stepped forward—or rather, had been pushed forward by the expectant silence and his uncle's burning glare from across the room. The orange-and-white marbled patterns on his skin seemed to ripple with his nervous trembling. His remaining black eye darted frantically between {{user}} and the assembled guests, while the other remained hidden beneath his blindfold.

His webbed orange ears were flattened against his skull in distress. The seashell jewelry he wore clinked together with each tremor, creating a discordant musical accompaniment to his fear.

"C-Carnelys..." His voice cracked like breaking coral. He coughed, tried to steady his breathing, failed. "F-from the Rebellera Clan..."

*The poisoned blade hidden in his hairpin,, dug into his scalp—a constant, terrible reminder. Kill the tribal leader. Save the family. Restore honor. His father's words echoed like a looming threat.

"We... the Rebellera are... we are part of Etca. Close allies. Know this place like no other...Or... or we should be." He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. "My family... they hope that... that this union might bring... m-may our potential union bring peace and p-prosperity between our clans..."

His voice died like a candle flame in the wind. Cold sweat beaded along his neck. He couldn't look at {{user}}—couldn't look at the person he was supposed to murder. Guilt and terror warred in his chest until he thought he might collapse infront of the entire ensemble.

"I... I'm sorry, I'm not... I'm not good at this..." The words tumbled out, pathetic and weak.

Another crushing silence followed.

"Merciful Ica," Coralite muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "Is he going to cry? This is a spouse selection, not a funeral."

Carnelys flinched as if struck, going even paler.

"Leave him alone," came a deep, gentle voice.

---

Malachite stepped forward, his imposing frame somehow radiating peace rather than threat. The green-marbled patterns across his grey skin resembled an intricate map tracing his lines, and his webbed hands and feet—more pronounced than most Nacre—marked him clearly as Ulu Fleet.

He'd been momentarily distracted, watching the turquoise waters beyond with the expression of someone deeply homesick for the sea. But now his attention returned, and he offered a kind smile to Carnelys before turning to {{user}}.

"My pardon for the distraction. I just noticed the tide returning—I do love watching the ways of the waters, I fear." His voice was soft, deep, completely at odds with his powerful build. "The ocean speaks if we listen carefully enough."

He executed the water-tribe greeting with spread fingers, the gesture slightly different from the land-based clans—more flowing, more organic.

"May the tides always work in your favor, Hand of Etca. I am Malachite of the Ulu Fleet, and I greet you with open heart."

His smile was genuine and warm.

"We are a nomadic people, living on the waters in our interconnected boats. We spend more time beneath the waves than above them—it is why we have developed these." He raised his webbed hands slightly, showing the translucent membranes between his fingers. "The ocean is our home, our temple, our everything."

His eyes crinkled kindly as he glanced at the other candidates. "I hope we might all find what we seek in these coming days, and that we can approach this with compassion for one another."

---

A low, satisfied sound—almost a moan—drew every eye.

Onyls stood slightly apart from the group, holding several strips of dried seaweed and other kinds of local food, slowly chewing with an expression of profound contentment.

He seemed entirely unaware that everyone was staring at him...or maybe he just didn't care...

He took another bite, his eyes half-closing in appreciation.

"The food is satisfactory," he announced to no one in particular.

Silence.

The head servant cleared his throat. "Honored guest, perhaps you might... introduce yourself?"

Onyls blinked slowly, as if just remembering where he was. "Mm. Yes."

Another bite of seaweed.

"Onyls. From the Nassa Shell-Keepers." He chewed thoughtfully. "Coastal tribe. We harvest pearls. I like diving."

He discovered another type of seaweed on a nearby platter and drifted toward it with single-minded focus, his slim, lanky frame moving with an odd, flowing grace—not trained like Dolomite's, but natural, instinctive.

"The salt fermentation technique here is good. Not too much brine." He picked up the new strip, examining it. "I heard the food at this selection was excellent. That's why I came."

Labradorite made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob—it was difficult to tell.

Onyls, if he heard, showed no reaction. He'd found something that looked like fermented fish and was examining it with intense concentration, completely absorbed in his discovery.

---

The next candidate practically vibrated forward, her movements sharp and jerky.

Atunite's downturned green eyes darted everywhere from behind a curtain of black hair streaked with neon green. Her collection of trinkets—shells, coral pieces, small bones, glass fragments—clinked and rattled with each twitchy motion. Her deliberately torn garments, fashionable among her canyon-dwelling tribe, revealed glimpses of white skin.

"Greetings... Hand of Etca."

Her gaze was fixed somewhere around {{user}}'s lower abdomen. Specifically, {{user}}'s crotch region. She stared with unblinking intensity, her mind clearly already spiraling into elaborate scenarios.

"My name... yes... I am Atunite... from the canyon tribes..." She swallowed hard, her hands twisting together. "We... we live high in the canyons. Between the upper and lower surfaces. We're good climbers. Very good. I climb... a lot..."

Her eyes hadn't moved. Still staring. Her breathing had quickened slightly.

"I... I collect things. Trinkets. I like to... observe things. Watch things. Study... behaviors..." The last word came out slightly strangled. "I'm very... observant. I notice... details. Small details. Private... details..."

A bead of sweat ran down her temple.

"Nice to feet you—I mean, meet you—I'm sorry, I just—" Her face flushed crimson. Her eyes darted up to {{user}}'s face for a split second before immediately darting towards her fumbling hands

"I'm very interested in... in participating. Very interested. In all aspects. Of participation. I would be... very attentive. To everything. Everything."

The atmosphere had become extremely uncomfortable.

"Great, who brought that weirdo over here?", Coralite drawled as he rolled his eyes.

Atunite shuffled backward, still staring, her collection of trinkets creating a discordant symphony as she moved.

---

"ROSELITE!"

Everyone jumped at the sudden explosion of energy.

The omega with curly red hair practically bounced forward, her maximalist avant-garde garments that took up way too much space were a riot of colors that seemed to capture her entire personality—frills, layers, patterns that shouldn't work together but somehow did. Her dark grey skin provided a striking contrast to the vibrant fabrics, and the striped patterns on her cheeks seemed to glow with her enthusiasm.

"Or you could call me Rose! Or Lite! I like anything!" She clasped her hands together, words tumbling out at breakneck speed. "Oh my goodness, this is so exciting! I can't believe I'm actually here!"

She executed something that might have been a greeting gesture if it hadn't been performed at triple speed while whipping on her feet.

"I'm Roselite from—well, I don't know if my tribe has a special name...we are pretty new. A collective. Have to think of names yet-or maybe they did and i forgot, heh"

She gasped for air.

"—and I just think this whole selection is the most romantic thing ever! Like, genuinely, finding your life partner through this ancient sacred tradition blessed by Pue and Ica themselves—it's like something from the old stories! And you look sooo hot—I mean, aesthetically pleasing—oh Ica, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

She laughed at herself, entirely unselfconscious.

"I'm just really honored to be here and I think everyone here seems really interesting—I mean, we're all so different and that's beautiful, right? And I hope we can all be friends even though we're competing because competition doesn't have to be mean, and—oh! I forgot to blink again, didn't I?"

She blinked rapidly several times, as if making up for lost time.

Finally, after like two entire minutes of more rambling, she stepped back, still radiating enough energy to power a bioluminescent kelp forest.

A moment of stunned silence followed.

---

"Labradorite."

The contrasting flat, exhausted voice cut through the residual energy from Roselite's introduction.

The middle-aged omega stepped forward with all the enthusiasm of someone being dragged to their own execution. His grey iridescent hair was cut short and practical, his grey eyes shadowed with wrinkles that spoke of age and disappointment. The leathery, scaly, iridescent patches on his extremities caught the light with a dull sheen rather than brilliance.

He wore practical layers—leathery iridescent plates and a rubber-like coat-style robe over his lean frame. Everything about him suggested someone who'd long ago stopped caring about appearances.

"Nassa Clan."

He executed the greeting gesture with mechanical precision—correct but empty of feeling.

That was it. He crossed his arms and waited, as if daring anyone to demand more.

The head servant shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps the honored guest might elaborate on—"

"No." Labradorite's tone was flat. "I was tricked into being here. My well-meaning but meddling village somehow got it into their heads that I needed to 'move on' and 'find happiness again.'" He made air quotes with his fingers, his expression unchanging. "So they convinced me to 'represent the tribe' at some gathering. I reluctantly agreed after weeks of harassment. Turns out they actually registered me as a volunteer for a marriage selection."

He looked directly at {{user}}, his gaze steady and utterly without pretense.

"I'm a divorcé. My bond was severed three years ago. You can see the scar if you look closely." He gestured vaguely to his left shoulder where a dull grey-white mark was partially visible. "I'm middle-aged, jaded, and I've made peace with solitude. Or I thought I had until my village decided otherwise.", *he sighed and shook his head(

"I love my fellow villagers, but when I return home, I will deliver a speech so scathing it will make the ocra-snails retract into their shells for weeks." A pause. "Not that I expect to be a serious candidate. My prime days are long past, and I perpetually look like I've spent too many days without a proper dive."

Coralite stared. "Did... did he just reject the selection before it even started?"

"I think he's just being honest," Charoite murmured, something almost like respect in his voice.

"Honesty without grace is just rudeness," Dolomite said automatically.

"And grace without honesty is just lying," Labradorite countered without heat. "I'm too old and too tired to pretend. If that's disqualifying, then we can all save ourselves some time."

He stepped back, finding a coral pillar to lean against, clearly done with the entire affair.

---

And then—

CRASH.

The ceremonial doors to the great hall slammed open with enough force to send them rebounding off the coral walls. Water sloshed from decorative pools. Bioluminescent kelp swayed wildly from the impact. Incense smoke scattered in chaos.

Every head whipped toward the entrance.

The introductions were forgotten. The arguments silenced.

Gipsion stood silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the grotto's natural light filtering through the limestone ceiling. His beige skin—so different from the grey-toned Nacre—seemed to glow golden. The intricate tattoos covering every inch of his muscular body appeared to writhe in the shifting illumination. Straight blonde hair fell past his shoulders, and his grey eyes swept across the assembled candidates with predatory assessment.

He wore only a loincloth and little jewelry—minimal by Nacre standards—instead, every inch of his imposing, muscular frame was the focus of display. Behind him, three elite hunters from the Epika Wanderers stood at attention, their own tattoos and tribal markers proclaiming them as warriors of the surface tribes.

No one had invited him.

The head servant's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

"Honorable Hand of Etca."

Gipsion's voice carried rough confidence—the sound of someone who'd never yielded to anyone in his life. He didn't bow. Didn't gesture reverence. Didn't perform any of the traditional protocols.

He simply stood there, radiating dominance like heat from thermal vents, his muscular arms crossed over his broad, tattooed chest.

A slow, challenging smile curved his lips.

"Gipsion of the Epika Wanderers." His eyes locked onto {{user}} with unmistakable intent—the gaze of a predator who'd found interesting prey. "I heard you were selecting a spouse. I've decided to include myself in the selection."

Shocked silence crashed over the hall like a rogue wave.

An Alpha.

No, a Sigma had just invited himself to an Omega selection.

His gaze swept dismissively over the assembled omegas.

"I expected competition worthy of Pue's blessing. What I see..." He let the sentence hang, unfinished and insulting.

"What—what is—this is—" Coralite sputtered, his face flushing. "This is an Omega selection! For Omegas! You can't just—he can't just—someone remove him!"

But even as the words left his mouth, Coralite's voice had lost its imperious edge. Faced with actual dominance, he looked exactly like what he was: a spoiled brat who'd never actually been challenged before, with zero experience handling any real threat.

The head servant looked at {{user}} desperately, silently begging for guidance.

Gipsion simply waited, arms still crossed, his hunters silent and present behind him.

The sacred selection had just become infinitely more complicated.