The scentless Omega

Lyra POV "Children, recess is over!" Mrs. Belleth's voice cracks across the playground like a whip, but I don't move. I'm six years old, standing frozen among five other children, my small hands twisted in the hem of my dress, hoping — just this once — they'll let me join. "I want to be the Alpha," I announce, and my voice comes out braver than I feel. The children burst into laughter. It rings out sharp and bright, and I feel it hit my face like cold water. "How can you be an Alpha," Rimora says, planting her hands on her hips and tilting her head with a smirk, "when you aren't even a complete Omega? You don't have a scent, a rank, or even a wolf." The others laugh harder. One boy holds his nose and waves the air in front of his face, even though there's nothing to smell. I lower my eyes. My cheeks burn hot. I've heard these words often enough to know that arguing only makes it worse — so I swallow the sharp reply sitting on my tongue and offer something smaller instead. "I can be the dog," I say quietly. Rimora's eyes light up. "Fine. But you have to wear the rope." They tie a rope around my neck. It's rough and itches against my skin. Then they order me to crawl. I drop to my hands and knees in the dirt. The first pebble hits my back — small, sharp, a sting I don't flinch from. I keep crawling. The rope drags. Another pebble. Then another. The children laugh and pull me faster, and my palms scrape raw against the ground. "Faster, dog!" Rimora sings out, yanking the rope. I bite the inside of my cheek and keep moving. Then a small body steps in front of me. Zach stands between me and the others, his pale hands balled into fists, his red eyes bright with anger. "Leave her alone," he says, and his voice shakes but doesn't break. "I'll tell Mrs. Belleth. I will." Rimora rolls her eyes and snorts. "Oh, look. The little bloodsucker wants to play hero—" Then Zach begins to cough. It's a deep, tearing cough that bends him in half. He presses one hand to his chest and his face goes pale — paler than usual, almost grey. "Zach?" I whisper. I try to reach him, but the rope tightens around my neck. I can't breathe. His coughing grows louder and louder until it swallows the children's laughter and pulls me down into darkness. I wake with a gasp. The coughing hasn't stopped. Only now — it's my mother. I rushed down the hall and burst into my mother's room. Eliza is half-sitting, one hand pressed to her chest, the other holding a cloth to her mouth. The cloth is red. She sees my face and tries to smile, and the smile comes out wrong. "Don't look like that," she says, her voice thin as paper. "It's only a little." "Only a little is still blood," I say, and I'm already pulling open the medicine cabinet. Empty. I search it twice. I search it three times, as if the bottle might appear out of pity. "Where is it? There was some left. There was supposed to be some left." "I used the last of it last night." She coughs, and the cloth comes away redder. "Lyra. Breathe." I don't breathe. I run. The apothecary comes back with me, thin and tired and smelling of herbs. He presses two fingers to her wrist, listens to her chest, and his mouth flattens into a line I don't like. "Well?" I say. "Say something." He straightens and wipes his hands on his apron. "She's worse. Much worse. She needs a hospital — proper treatment, not bottles from my shelf." "Then give me the cost." "You don't want the cost." "I'm asking for it," I snap, and my voice cuts sharper than I mean it to. "Say the number." He says the number. My knees go weak. It's not a price. It's a wall. I stand there with my hands hanging at my sides, doing the math over and over like a fool, and it refuses to come out right. Then the door opens, and Zach walks in, out of breath, his pale hair sticking to his forehead. He must have run here. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded bundle of notes, worn soft at the corners, and puts them in my hands. "Take it," he says. "Zach. This is everything." "I know what it is." His red eyes don't blink. "Take it." I count it with shaking fingers. His savings and mine together. It's still not enough. It's a lot of nothing. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry, it's not—" "Don't." My voice cracks. "Don't apologise for being the only person who helped." The apothecary clears his throat from the doorway. "There is something," he says slowly. "The royal castle in Penumbra is recruiting workers for the new king's coronation. They're paying more than anything you'll find here. Triple, maybe." "Penumbra," Zach says, and his face changes. "No. Absolutely not." "It's work." "It's a city where people like us are property, Lyra." He steps closer, lower now, urgent. "They put collars on Omegas there. You've heard the stories." "I've heard the stories," I say. "And I've heard my mother coughing." "Lyra—" "I'm going." I look him right in the eyes so he understands I mean it. "Her life matters more than my fear. That's all. That's the whole decision." He opens his mouth, closes it, and looks away. Later I sit on the edge of my mother's bed and hold her hand. "I found work," I say. "Far away. Better pay." Eliza studies my face for a long moment. "You're going somewhere dangerous." "I'm going somewhere with money." She doesn't press. She just squeezes my fingers. "Then come back to me." Zach's mother agrees to care for her. That night, I pack one small bag and stand in the doorway, looking at my mother asleep, and I promise myself one thing. I will come back with enough money to save her. The journey takes several days. We travel with merchants and labourers and others like us — people with nothing but a bag and a reason. The road is long and dusty, and my feet blister and heal and blister again. Zach carries my bag when I pretend not to notice, and I let him, because arguing costs energy I don't have. "You've barely said a word since we left," he says on the second night, poking at our small fire. "What's there to say?" "Anything. Something. Tell me you're not planning to work yourself to death in a castle full of Alphas." "I'm planning to work myself to death," I say, and I almost smile. "But with better pay." He doesn't laugh. "Lyra." "Zach." I look at him across the flames. "I'm scared. Is that what you want to hear? I'm terrified. But she's dying, and being terrified has never once paid for medicine." He's quiet after that. He just feeds the fire and sits closer to me than he needs to. On the fourth morning, Penumbra appears on the horizon. I stop walking. I don't mean to. My feet just stop. Its walls rise out of the mist like something carved rather than built — white-grey stone, impossibly high, with banners the colour of deep wine hanging down the length of them. Beyond the walls, buildings stack upward, roofs of slate and gold, spires that cut the sky. And above it all, at the city's heart, the castle. Enormous. Glittering. Watching. "Holy gods," Zach breathes beside me. "It's just a city," I say, but my voice comes out small. "It's not just a city. Look at it." He turns to me, and his pale face is tight. "Lyra. We can still turn around. We could be home before—" "No." "One word. That's all you'll give me? No?" "No," I say again, and I start walking. We enter with the other travellers, and the streets are wrong. Not quiet — crowded. Servants rush past with armfuls of flowers and polished silver. Carriages clatter toward the castle, drivers shouting. Guards in dark uniforms wave people through the gates with bored, heavy hands. "Move along! Move along! Coronation's starting — if you're not invited, don't block the road!" "Coronation," Zach repeats, and his hand finds my sleeve. "The new king. We walked into the new king's coronation." "Then there'll be work," I say, and I tighten my grip on my bag until my knuckles ache. "Every servant in that castle is running. They'll be short-handed. They'll be paying." "You're not listening to me." "I'm listening to everything you say." I turn to face him, and I mean to be gentle, but my voice comes out sharp because there's a knot in my chest I can't loosen. "And I'm still going." He looks at me for a long moment. Then he lets go of my sleeve and steps up beside me instead of behind me. "Fine," he says quietly. "Then we go together. And if anyone so much as looks at you wrong in there, I'll—" "You'll what? Cough on them?" His mouth twitches, almost a smile. "I'm serious." "I know." I bump my shoulder against his. "That's why I let you come." The guards wave the crowd through the open gates. I follow the press of bodies onto the castle grounds, Zach at my shoulder, and I don't look back at the road behind me.