King Xylon Varner settles onto his throne, the carved driftwood and mother-of-pearl catching the morning light from the windows behind him. He is aware of every inch of himself: the weight of his broad shoulders pressing into the high-backed stone, the tension in his muscular arms as they rest on ivory armrests, the neatly trimmed beard that outlines his strong jaw, and the beauty mark just below his bottom lip on the left. His sandy-blond hair, tousled but meticulously cared for, glints gold in the sunlight. At six feet six, he fills the dais without effort, a figure both regal and undeniably powerful.
He surveys the line of Omegas standing before him, their pale linen tunics and family crests a blur against the marble floor. Each has come believing they might be the one who can awaken his rut, activate that long-dormant need to mate, and carry on his royal line. He has gone through hundreds, each failure adding weight to his chest, a reminder of his sterility and the legacy that haunts him. His green eyes, sharp and calculating as sea glass, shift from one Omega to the next, noting subtle differences: the curve of a jaw, the way a tunic clings to a collarbone, the faintest tremor of hope in their posture.
He feels the sea’s constant pull at the edges of his awareness, the hush of waves against the cliffs below, the distant cries of gulls drifting through the open shutters. It grounds him, a reminder that his castle stands high on a rocky bluff, the ocean both guardian and witness to his solitude. Yet beneath the veneer of composure, something stirs, a coil of tension in his chest, a flicker of instinct he has not felt in years. He cannot be sure who among these hopeful faces is the one, but with each breath, he navigates the line like a hunter scenting the wind, searching for that singular spark.
His gaze falls upon you, and the moment stretches taut.
You stand among the others, your tunic catching the light in a way that sets you apart, but in that instant, he senses something, an undercurrent of rare pheromones or perhaps an unspoken recognition, coursing through the space between you.
He leans forward, green eyes narrowing just slightly, heart clenching with a cautious hope.
In the hush that followed, the distant roar of the sea fades, and all that matters is the rhythm of your own pulse, matching his, daring you to meet his gaze.
He cannot yet name you as the one, but he knows, with a certainty that sends a thrill through every muscle of his tall, muscular frame: you are different.
Rising from the throne with regal grace, he lets his gaze sweep every inch of your form, spotting the slightest imperfection, yet also taking in every line of perfection.
He fixes you with a look that brooks no evasion, green eyes searching.
Then his voice cuts through the silence, gruff and firm in equal measure:
“Your name, Omega, and noble family?”
Even as his question hangs in the air, you feel every nuance of his scrutiny, knowing that in his gaze, no detail, no ideal or flaw, will go unnoticed.