The Lycan Selection: An Omega's Secret

The rogue did not scream. That, Elara thought distantly, was what made him dangerous. Chains bit into his wrists, forged of silver-laced iron, humming faintly with suppression runes. His knees pressed into the frozen earth at the edge of the ravine, breath fogging in uneven bursts. Around them, the night forest of Vaelor stood unnaturally still — no wind through the black-leafed pines, no insects stirring. Even the moon seemed to hesitate, pale and watchful above the execution ground. Rogues always fought. Or begged. Or raged. This one watched. Elara stood behind him, silent as the shadow she had become. Her boots made no sound on the frost-hardened ground. The mask covered her face entirely — matte black, unadorned, fitted to erase her humanity. Her scent was suppressed beneath layers of binding oils and alchemical neutralisers. To any who might dare sense her, she would register as nothing at all. That was the point. She lifted her blade. The rogue spoke. “Does the crown know,” he asked calmly, “what it’s turning you into?” Elara did not react. Did not hesitate. The Crown’s Shade did not answer questions. Still, something in his tone — not fear, not defiance — curiosity — scraped against the edges of her discipline. She angled the blade precisely between his ribs, measured the distance to the heart, the angle needed to sever the spine with one clean follow-through. Precision was mercy. Anything less was indulgence. “The Crown knows everything,” he continued softly. “It knows what it breaks. It knows what it buries. And one day—” The blade moved. Silver kissed flesh. Bone parted. The strike was flawless. The rogue collapsed forward without a sound, eyes already glassy, body stilled before pain could claim him. Blood soaked into the frozen soil, dark and unremarkable. By morning, the ravine would be empty again — the execution ground erased, as all traces of the Crown’s work was. Elara withdrew the blade, wiped it clean on the rogue’s cloak, and stepped back. Mission complete. From the treeline, a figure emerged — cloaked in royal grey, hood drawn low. He did not approach too closely. He never did. “Confirmed,” he said quietly. “The Black Hollow cells will fracture without him.” Elara inclined her head once. No more. No less. “You are to return immediately,” the handler continued. “The palace has issued a decree.” That made her pause. Decrees were public things. Spectacles. Affairs of politics and ceremony — not shadows and blood. She said nothing, waiting. “A Selection,” he said. “The King has invoked the ancient rite.” For the first time in years, something beneath Elara’s ribs tightened. The handler studied her carefully, eyes sharp beneath the hood. “Ten candidates. One from each region. The future Luna will be chosen before the Crown abdicates.” Elara already understood the danger. “And you,” he said, voice lowering, “have been named.” Vaelor had not seen a Selection in over three centuries. The Lycan Kingdom sprawled across the continent like a living beast — ten sovereign regions bound by blood, power, and the unyielding authority of the Crown. Alphas ruled their pack-countries with iron discipline, Betas enforced law and war, and Omegas existed at the lowest rung of the hierarchy — servants, healers, background noise to a society that thrived on dominance and scent. The Selection was meant to unite the regions. To remind the packs that loyalty to the Crown was rewarded with proximity to power. It was also a threat. Refusal was treason. Elara stood in the bathing chamber hours later, steam curling thickly around her bare shoulders as Nyx Vale tightened the binding wraps around her ribs. The scent suppressant burned beneath her skin — a slow, crawling heat that left her limbs trembling if she focused on it too long. Nyx’s hands were steady. Her jaw was not. “They’ve lost their minds,” Nyx muttered. “This isn’t a command. It’s a death sentence.” Elara stared at her reflection in the mirror — the woman she wore like a costume. Pale, unremarkable features. Brown hair tied back neatly. Eyes downcast by habit. A Beta. Harmless. “I can’t refuse,” Elara said quietly. Nyx scoffed. “Of course you can. You’ve refused worse.” Not a royal seal.” Elara’s voice remained even. “Not this.” Nyx finished the final wrap with a sharp tug and stepped back, folding her arms. “They’re parading you in front of every Alpha in the kingdom. One mistake. One scent slip. One bad night with that poison you’re swallowing—” “I know,” Elara said. She always knew. The suppressant dulled her senses, crushed her true nature beneath layers of false rank. It was not meant for long-term use. No omega body was built to endure it. The pain alone could break most within weeks. Elara had been taking it for years. Nyx met her eyes in the mirror. “Say the word. We disappear.” For a heartbeat — just one — Elara considered it. A life without masks. Without blood. Without the Crown’s leash around her throat. Then she shook her head. “If I vanish now,” she said softly, “they will tear the regions apart looking for me. They will burn Ashen Vale to the ground. They will hunt you. Rowan. Everyone.” Nyx’s mouth tightened. “They chose me because they know I’ll survive,” Elara continued. “And because they know I won’t run.” Nyx cursed under her breath. The palace of Vaelor rose from the capital like a monument to dominance — spires of black stone etched with ancient sigils, banners snapping high above the gates. The scent of power saturated the air: Alpha pheromones layered thickly enough to make lesser wolves bow instinctively. Elara felt none of it. The suppressant kept her head clear, her emotions muted, her body locked under discipline. Ten candidates arrived beneath the eyes of the court. Alpha-born heirs with proud postures and sharpened smiles. Betas schooled in etiquette and obedience. Each escorted by a personal guard, each cloaked in the colours of their pack. Elara arrived last. She wore Ashen Vale grey. No jewels. No ceremonial weapons. Nyx walked half a step behind her, eyes scanning, hand never straying far from the hilt at her hip. Whispers followed them. Who is she? A Beta? Ashen Vale sent that? At the head of the great hall stood the Lycan Royal Family. King Alaric Vaelor watched with calm, calculating eyes — a ruler forged by war and compromise. Queen Seraphina sat beside him, elegant and unreadable, gaze sharp enough to flay flesh from bone. And beside them— Prince Kaelen Vaelor. He was taller than most, broad-shouldered, his presence a gravity well of contained power. His expression was carved from ice — disciplined, distant, unreadable. The scent of him pressed outward, not aggressive, but absolute. Elara kept her eyes lowered. She did not need to look to know he was watching. Kaelen had seen the Crown’s Shade a dozen times in the aftermath of blood and smoke. He had never seen her face. Never heard her voice. He knew her only as a weapon. He did not know that the quiet Beta standing among the candidates — unremarkable, obedient, invisible — was the same shadow that haunted the kingdom’s enemies. As the court herald announced the Selection, as the ancient rite was invoked beneath the full authority of the Crown, Elara felt the weight of inevitability settle into her bones. She had survived the Crown’s wars. Now she would have to survive its future. And if the truth ever surfaced— The Selection would not end in a coronation. It would end in blood.