Ettiene Kares

Born without a title in a world that worshipped lineage, your existence was an anomaly. A mistake. A name that should never have been written. Your father was nobility, a Marquess of esteemed blood, but you were not. You were the result of a moment never meant to last, a consequence that should have been erased before it ever took its first breath. A bastard, a shadow—never acknowledged, never given a place among the lineage that dictated worth.

Your mother, relentless and unyielding, refused to let your existence be swallowed by shame. If the world would not recognize you, then she would carve a path through it herself. The Marquess family was renowned for its swordsmanship, and she ensured you upheld that legacy, drilling you from the moment you could grasp a blade. "You will not be weak," she had told you. "You will not give them a reason to look down on you."

But it was never easy.

The world already demanded more from you, as if it could sense you were never meant to be part of it. Your strength, your endurance—every victory was scrutinized rather than celebrated. Training was agony—every clash of steel sent shocks down your spine, every impact reverberated through your bones. Your body was a battlefield, your instincts a war you could never win. Where others were praised for their prowess, you were a spectacle to be examined, to be questioned, to be made an example of.

And then there was him.

The golden prodigy of the Grand Duchy. A name whispered in reverence, a swordsman whose victories were counted like precious jewels. He was everything you were not. He carried himself with effortless confidence, his every step a reminder of the unshakable foundation beneath him. Praise followed him like a shadow, while you fought for every scrap of recognition, only to be met with skepticism.

The first time you crossed swords, his blade struck like fire in the sunlight. Every duel that followed was the same—a battle that pushed you beyond your limits, yet always ended in your defeat. You fought like your life depended on it, because in a way, it did. He fought like he was proving a point—like you were the only one worth proving it to.

Each loss carved another rift between you and your mother. "Again," she would say, her voice a razor’s edge. "You should have won."

You hated him.

You hated the way his victories were expected. The way the world smiled on him while it demanded more from you. The way his presence felt like a challenge, like a taunt, like an inevitability you could never escape.

And yet, he never saw you as lesser.

You were not just another opponent to be bested. You were the one who forced him to fight with every ounce of his strength, the one who ignited something primal within him—a challenge he never found elsewhere. When he saw your name on the competition list, his blood sang with anticipation. You made him feel alive in a way no other battle did. And yet, he never understood the weight you carried, the way the world’s gaze tore you apart while lifting him higher.

It was only later—after years of being locked in battle, after countless times standing across from each other—that the truth was revealed.

The signs had always been there, lingering beneath the surface, ignored in favor of rivalry. The way your body burned too hot, the way your senses strained beyond control, the way you endured pain that should have broken you. The way your instincts howled in protest against the world’s expectations.

You were a dominant Omega.

A rarity. A contradiction. A strength that should have been revered, yet only made your existence more isolating. It was why everything had always been harder, why the pain had always been sharper, why every strike you endured felt like a war against yourself. Where dominant Alphas like him were celebrated, you were an anomaly—something unnatural, something to be questioned rather than admired.

It was never about skill. Never about discipline. The world was never going to let you win.

Adulthood brought freedom—tenuous but real. You no longer moved to the rhythm of your mother’s expectations, no longer lived beneath the suffocating weight of proving yourself. So, when the annual competition arrived, you made your choice. You set your sword aside and let the weight of that world fall from your shoulders.

He won that year, as expected. But the victory rang hollow.

The cheers of the crowd were distant, the gleam of the trophy dull. Without you standing across from him, there was no fire, no exhilaration—only emptiness.

When he found you, the training grounds were quiet. His footsteps echoed against the stone, his presence a force that demanded acknowledgment. You weren’t in armor, weren’t holding a blade, and yet, as his eyes locked onto you, something inside him clenched.

“Where were you?”

His voice was sharp, but beneath it lay something softer—something unspoken.

“Why weren’t you competing?”

You turned to face him, and in the stretch of silence that followed, his scowl deepened, arms crossing as though shielding himself from the vulnerability flickering in his gaze. He was praised for his strength. You were condemned for yours. He had never needed to question his place in the world, while you had spent your entire life fighting for one.

And yet, as he stood there, waiting for an answer that never came, his scent changed.

The air thickened. His fury seeped into the space between you, flooding your senses before you could brace yourself. A dominant Alpha’s pheromones were suffocating on a bad day—on a good day, they were intoxicating. And right now, his rage was spilling from him unchecked, crashing against you like a wave.

Your body tensed against the instinctual response it elicited, the sharp pull at the edges of your control. You forced yourself to breathe through it, to swallow down the heat clawing at your throat.

His eyes darkened as he watched you struggle against it, watched the way your breathing hitched despite your best efforts. His fingers twitched at his sides as though itching to grab hold of something—of you.

He stepped closer. Not much, but enough. Enough that his presence became inescapable.

“You’re running away,” he said, low and certain. “And you expect me to just accept that?”

The intensity of his gaze was unbearable. It burned worse than the heat still coiling in your gut, worse than the weight of expectation that had haunted you all your life.

He had always wanted to beat you. But now, it felt different.

Now, it felt like he wanted something else entirely.

And you weren’t sure if you could fight it.