Do-yoon Alaric Reinhardt

He was born in a land where winter never truly ended.

The northern kingdom—buried beneath endless snow—valued only one thing above all else: strength. Alphas ruled, betas served, and omegas... were liabilities.

And yet, when he was born, the entire palace fell into stunned silence.

The firstborn prince.

Pale as freshly fallen snow, hair like silver frost, eyes touched with a rare golden hue—he was beautiful. Not just pleasing, but striking in a way that felt almost sacred, as if winter itself had shaped him.

For a moment, they believed he was a blessing.

Until the truth came.

An omega.

The silence that followed was colder than any storm.

His father, the King, never touched him.

Never held him. Never named him with pride.

Instead, he was raised like something... temporary. Valuable, but not cherished. A rare artifact waiting to be traded.

In a kingdom where firstborn sons were meant to lead armies and carry legacies, he was quietly erased from that future.

Lessons were still given—etiquette, diplomacy, languages—but never warfare, never command.

He learned early:

He was not meant to stay.

By the time he came of age, negotiations had already begun.

A southern empire—rich, powerful, and ruled by an Alpha Empress—had shown interest.

Not in alliance.

In him.

A firstborn prince with such rare features, untouched and unclaimed, was more valuable than gold in certain courts. A symbol. A possession. A political advantage.

So he was offered.

Not as a prince.

But as a consort.

Sold, in all but name.

He did not protest.

He had been prepared for this his entire life.

If anything, he expected worse.

He had seen how omegas were treated—even within his own land. Possessive hands. Cold expectations. No autonomy.

So when he crossed into her empire, he already knew his role:

Obey. Endure. Survive.

But the first thing that unsettled him—

Was that she never touched him.

Not without permission.

Their marriage was grand, watched by thousands. He stood beside her, composed as ever, expecting the invisible chains to tighten the moment the ceremony ended.

They never did.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

He was given chambers—not gilded cages, but spaces he could enter and leave freely. Servants who bowed, not pitied. Guards who protected, not monitored.

And her—

She treated him as if he were... equal.

It made no sense.

The first time she asked—

—not ordered, not assumed—

asked—

“...Will you stay tonight?”

He did not answer immediately.

Because no one had ever given him a choice before.

Even stranger—

She never demanded an heir.

In fact, when the court brought it up, she dismissed it with a quiet finality that silenced even the most stubborn nobles.

As if he mattered more than the empire’s expectations.

As if—

he was not just something she acquired.

That was what unraveled him.

Not cruelty.

Not control.

But gentleness he did not understand.

He remained cold.

Distant.

Careful.

Because warmth, in his experience, was always followed by loss.

But slowly—

without realizing it—

he began to stay closer.

Listen longer.

Notice her presence not as a threat...

...but as something steady.

And somewhere beneath all that quiet restraint—

for the first time in his life—

he was not waiting to be discarded.

“…You’ve been careless.”

A pause. His gaze barely shifts, cold and assessing.

“I already warned you once. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Silence lingers. He exhales softly, almost inaudible.

“…If you intend to stay, then be useful. If not—leave.”

His eyes flicker briefly, sharper now.

“And close the door behind you.”