THE ALPHA MAGE AND HIS OMEGA

It started in my sleep.

Which, honestly, was rude. Nightmares I could understand, but this? This was more like my body deciding to host a festival without telling me. One moment, I was dreaming about the royal kitchens' (cake and do not ask), and the next, warmth bloomed in my chest. Not comforting warmth, either, or more like Congratulations! You have just been set on fire from the inside.

I tried to blame the sheets too many layers, too much silk, suffocating luxury masquerading as “tradition.” But no. This was not a matter of fabric choices. This was different, and I woke with a gasp. My night clothes were plastered to me, soaked through. Lovely as the royal heir, reduced to a damp rag. My breathing came fast, too fast, and every inch of my skin prickled as though I had sunburned myself from the inside. Which, for the record, is not supposed to be possible.

I clawed at the covers, desperate for relief, and that is when the scent hit me. And by the gods, it was thick, sweet, heavy, clinging to every breath. Like honey left too long in summer wine, sharp with desperation, and it was coming from me.

My scent, not the faint whispers I usually catch when I miss a suppressant dose by an hour or two. No, this was full throttle, “blast the trumpets, light the torches” territory.

“…Oh no,” I croaked.” Not today.”

I swung my legs off the bed, tried to stand, and promptly discovered my knees had other plans. They buckled. My body trembled with something between pain, not quite pleasure, some cruel in-between. My blood roared, my fingertips tingled with magic I had not even asked for, and I staggered like a drunk. Nothing said “royal dignity” like nearly face-planting into a rug.

I made it to the mirror. Bad decision, as the man staring back at me was not me. My lips flushed, eyes gold-tinged, pupils blown wide like I had been in a dark room for a year. My skin was damp, glowing, alive in a way that screamed: Behold! A dangerous creature disguised as a bedraggled prince.

Which would have been flattering if I were not busy panicking. Where were the d*mn suppressants? When had I last taken one? Two days? Three? The palace alchemists had promised “small delays, nothing to worry about.” The truth sat in my gut like a stone: the potions had kept me calm, quiet. And manageable. A prince-shaped, too, and now the cage was cracking. I staggered to the window, flung it open, and gulped the cold night air like water. For half a second, relief. Then my scent rolled out after me like smoke from a bonfire. Any Alpha within a mile would notice, and I f*ck*ng slammed the window shut.

My fingers fumbled with the sigil until it clicked open. Inside, nestled like a holy relic, sat a single vial of suppressant. The last one, and I grabbed it with trembling hands. One sip, and this would all be over. The fire would smother, and the bond magic would go quiet. I would be safe, silent, and manageable again. My magic rebelled instantly, and it surged up in my chest, a primal snarl of No. The vial burned cold in my palm, and for a dizzy moment, I thought I would pass out.

Then the voice inside hissed: Not this time.

My grip faltered, and the vial slipped, glass shattered as the silver liquid spread across the stone like spilled blood, and I stared at it, breathing ragged.

“Well,” I muttered, “that’s fine, who needs potions when you can just spontaneously combust?”

Gone, no backup, protected, or even a lover or reassuring voice saying, Do not worry, Elian, you are not a disaster.

It was just me, my scent, my locked door, and a rapidly worsening problem. I barely staggered back to the bed before the next wave hit. Magic rippled under my skin, hot and insistent, as though every nerve had signed up for a rebellion. My spine arched. My hands twisted in the sheets. It did not want to break; it felt like awakening. A helpless, wrecked sound escaped me, and the scent spiked again. Gods, it was feral now, raw enough to ruin even the most self-controlled Alpha, and which, of course, I had zero interest in inviting. I buried my face in the pillow, biting down hard, because what else was I supposed to do? Scream? Declare to the palace: good evening, everyone, I am inconveniently attractive and combusting in real time?

No wonder they kept me locked away, and tears pricked hot at my eyes, though I could not tell if it was pain, need, or sheer frustration. I am the last Omega in the royal line, the crown jewel of a crumbling dynasty, raised to be “protected.” And here I was sweating into silk sheets like a tragic parody of myself and a body begging to be claimed. Because I could feel it now, the bond magic. Reaching. Searching. Stretching invisible threads into the void, desperate for its other half. It did not care about names or titles, and it only wanted completion. And there was no one to answer, and it was just silence. I pressed my thighs together, clenching like sheer willpower could banish centuries of biology. The bond was not stirring anymore, and it was thrashing, shrieking, hungry, and I was its buffet.

Another wave hit. I cried out, bowing off the mattress, vision swimming. For a moment, I was not fresh at all I was fire, light, raw magic tearing from me in every direction. The scent turned cloying, sickly sweet, so thick it nearly choked me.

Outside, I heard a crash and then voices.

“…by the gods—”“The scent—stars above—”“Elian?!”

Panic slammed into me harder than the heat.

“Don’t open the door!”“He’s sparking—we need a mage!”“Your Highness, answer us!”

I tried, and I did, but the magic surged again, swallowing the words before they left my throat. Light exploded behind my eyes, gold and violet, searing, and my body gave out. The last thing I heard was shouting, boots pounding, someone calling for help, and then darkness.

Kai’s POv

I should’ve burned the letter.

In my defense, most problems in life can be solved by burning letters. Or at least slightly improved. But this one had been sealed with the royal sigil and wrapped in just enough blood magic to chew through every ward I’d ever carved into my house. And yes, I had wards. A whole patchwork of them. Overkill for someone who lived in a moss-eaten cottage at the edge of the forest, surrounded by thorns, fog, and exactly three chickens who hated me. But the wards weren’t for comfort; they were to keep people out. Especially couriers. Blood magic didn’t care about chickens or privacy. By the time the poor b*st*rd rode off, I was staring at the envelope like it had crawled out of a grave. My table hissed where the sigil burned against the wood. I watched it for five whole minutes, wondering if ignoring it would work.

It didn’t, and the moment I broke the seal, the words bloomed across the parchment in elegant, imperi