Chapter 4: The Rise of the Omega

The courtyard was silent but for the steady rhythm of boots striking stone. Snow had long melted under the brisk sun of late spring, revealing the vast training grounds carved into the side of the mountain fortress. Soldiers sparred with wooden swords. Lycans in human form shifted mid-motion, showcasing the incredible power woven into their blood.

Elira stood at the far end, spine straight, fingers curled around a short wooden staff.

She wasn’t dressed in silks anymore.

Gone were the delicate dresses and wool cloaks of a servant. In their place were tight-fitting black trousers, leather braces, and a simple tunic that clung to her still-slender form. Her body had grown leaner, stronger. The bruises that once painted her skin had long faded, but her memories remained.

And it was those memories that fueled her.

Lucien stood to the side, watching. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

Beside him stood Commander Ruvan, his second-in-command—a towering Lycan with bronze skin and a personality carved from granite.

“She’s small,” Ruvan said under his breath.

Lucien’s voice was quiet. “So was the knife that ended the war.”

Ruvan grunted.

“Again,” the commander barked. “Focus.”

Elira exhaled and lifted her staff. Across from her, a soldier twice her size charged.

The first time, she was knocked flat.

The second, she dodged but missed her counter.

The third—she tripped him.

Ruvan raised an eyebrow. Lucien said nothing, but his gaze sharpened.

“You're learning,” Ruvan said. “But instinct is still dragging you down.”

Elira nodded, chest heaving. “I’ll break it.”

“You won’t break it,” Ruvan said. “You’ll replace it.”

Lucien finally spoke. “And what will you replace it with?”

Elira met his eyes. “Discipline. Power. Purpose.”

Lucien’s lips twitched—almost a smile.

---

Later that evening, after the training ground emptied and the torches were lit along the palace halls, Elira limped into the baths. Steam clung to the marbled air as she eased into the water, her muscles sighing with relief.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

But it was the kind of pain that meant growth.

It reminded her she was alive.

Mara entered not long after, setting down clean towels and a small glass vial.

“What’s that?” Elira asked, eyes half-closed.

“Something to help with the bruising. Courtesy of the king’s private healer.”

Elira blinked. “He noticed?”

“He notices everything,” Mara said simply, settling beside her. “Especially when it comes to you.”

That made her heart flutter and twist. “Why?”

Mara tilted her head. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

Elira gave her a wry look. “You know what I mean.”

Mara softened. “Maybe because you remind him of someone he lost. Maybe because he sees something he once wished for himself. Or maybe…” She trailed off, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Maybe he simply likes the way you don’t flinch anymore when he speaks.”

Elira smiled faintly. “It took a while.”

“But you did it.” Mara squeezed her hand. “You’re not the same omega who arrived half-dead at our gates.”

No, she wasn’t.

Elira leaned her head back against the smooth stone, letting the water lull her into stillness.

She had come to the House of Wolves as nothing more than a broken ghost.

Now, she was something more.

---

The next week brought new lessons.

Lucien summoned her to his war room, a massive space adorned with ancient maps, crystal globes, and shelves stacked with treaties and scrolls.

“You’ve trained your body,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. “Now you’ll train your mind.”

“What are we learning?” she asked.

“Politics,” he said simply.

Her stomach twisted.

“Wars are not only won on the battlefield,” he explained. “Most are lost before a sword is drawn—at the negotiation table, in whispered rumors, in poisoned chalices.”

He set down a scroll.

“This is a petition from the Southlands. They want our trade routes reopened through their territory, but they also harbor exiled nobles who once tried to usurp me. What would you do?”

Elira blinked. “Reject them.”

“Too hasty,” Lucien replied. “If we do, they’ll ally with the Eastern Clans. We’ll be boxed in.”

“Then… offer a conditional alliance? Reopen trade, but only if they surrender the exiled nobles?”

Lucien’s eyes gleamed. “And if they refuse?”

“Then they reveal their true intent. And we prepare for war.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair.

“Well played.”

A thrill shot through her chest. Praise from him felt like sunrise after years of darkness.

---

The next morning brought an unexpected message.

One of the guards knocked on her door and handed her a sealed envelope with the Stormfang sigil burned into the wax.

Her breath stopped.

Kael.

Her hands shook as she opened it.

> To Elira,

Word has reached me that you still live.

Consider this letter my mercy. Do not return. You have no place here. The bond is broken. You were never strong enough to be my mate. Don’t mistake Lucien’s pity for power.

Stay gone. Stay forgotten.

—Alpha Heir Kael Stormfang

The room blurred.

She stared at the words, her chest tight with a hundred emotions. Rage. Grief. Sadness. Old, familiar shame.

Then something unexpected:

Calm.

Because for the first time, his words didn’t destroy her.

She folded the letter carefully and threw it into the fire.

---

That night, she stood in the king’s chambers.

Lucien turned from the fireplace, his silver eyes narrowing slightly when he saw her expression.

“What is it?”

“I got a letter,” she said. “From Kael.”

Lucien’s jaw flexed. “What did he say?”

“That I should stay gone. That I was never strong enough.”

Lucien stepped closer. “And what do you say?”

Elira met his gaze.

“I say he’s right. I wasn’t strong enough.”

Lucien’s expression darkened, but she raised her hand.

“Wasn't,” she repeated. “But I am now.”

Lucien’s eyes softened. “Good.”

Silence stretched between them—thick and full of things unspoken.

Then Lucien reached for something behind him. A small box.

He held it out to her.

Elira took it, cautious. Inside was a thin, carved band of black metal set with a single crimson stone. It gleamed faintly in the firelight.

“It’s a ring,” she said, confused.

“A signet,” Lucien replied. “My mother’s. She was queen before the war. She ruled not with a sword, but with wisdom. She wore this as her symbol.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“Because I want you to wear it.”

Elira blinked. “I… I’m not ready.”

Lucien’s voice was low. “Not to rule, no. But you are ready to believe.”

She stared down at the ring, breath caught in her throat.

He stepped closer, and for the first time, touched her cheek.

“I will not ask for your heart until you are ready,” he murmured. “But know this, Elira: You were never meant to serve. You were meant to rise.”

Tears stung her eyes.

And in that moment, something broke open inside her—something soft, fierce, and utterly alive.

She slipped the ring onto her finger.

And it fit.

---