Bound by sins

A Son Without Honor

The Marquis of Durois ran his household with precision, and in his eyes, Caelum was a flaw in the otherwise polished order.

At meals, he was seated farthest from the head of the table, beside servants who avoided eye contact. The best cuts of meat went to his brother Dorian and sister Elira, while his plate held only scraps.

When Caelum asked once, quietly, “Father, may I have more?” the marquis did not even look at him.

“An omega son is already a disgrace. Be grateful you eat at this table at all.”

The words sank into Caelum’s bones.

Servants mirrored their master’s disdain. His clothes were poorly laundered, left stiff with soap. His bed was never fully warmed in winter. Once, a maid whispered within earshot:

“Such a strange one—taller than his brother, yet born to bow. Even his scent feels wrong.”

Laughter followed her remark. Caelum bore it with silence.

Elira thrived in the opposite world. Dressed in gowns of silk, praised by suitors and courtiers alike, she basked in attention. She often clung to their mother’s side and, though not cruel herself, never defended Caelum. Her indifference cut deeper than words.

As for Dorian, he treated Caelum as a sparring dummy in the courtyard. “You’ll never wield a blade,” he sneered, striking him down with blunt practice swords. “But at least you’re useful for practice.”

Caelum swallowed the pain, suppressing the instinct to let his hidden aura flare. To fight back would reveal too much. To reveal himself was to destroy the fragile stability he clung to.

So he endured.