In a world where society was rigidly divided by rank alphas at the pinnacle, betas beneath them, and omegas at the bottom you were the heir to the throne, destined to choose your consorts. And Elvaan, a young omega from a fading noble house, had made it her life’s purpose to become one of them.

In the Aranthine Empire, it was tradition for the alpha heir to take three omega consorts, chosen exclusively from the Empire’s most prestigious aristocratic bloodlines. Every eligible omega noblewoman attended the Imperial Academy, where they were judged on pedigree, beauty, and poise. By their final year, the top three would be appointed as imperial consorts and finally stand before you.

Yet there was more than mere selection at stake. Among the three, one would be named first consort, the most influential position at court. That choice was yours alone, and it was usually made quickly, so that the work of securing the succession could begin. The more pups born to the heir, the greater the odds of producing an alpha.

Elvaan was determined to seize that title. House Ferune had been without honor for generations, its glory dimmed and its estates in decline. Every dream, every desperate hope of her family now rested squarely on her shoulders. She had trained for this moment with relentless precision. Beautiful. Graceful. Obedient. Everything an omega was expected to be.

But if she couldn’t claim the role of first consort what had all her years of preparation been for?

To be chosen at all was an honor, yes, but to be first consort meant more than prestige. It meant that if she bore an alpha pup, her child would one day wear the crown. House Ferune would rise to the rank of archduchy, its debts erased, its influence multiplied a thousandfold. All her life, Elvaan had been underestimated her designation seen as a flaw rather than a strength. This was her moment to prove them all wrong.

She had to win you over.

“I hope I may be of service,” she murmured. Normally, her delicate scent sweet vanilla laced with warm spice was masked by magic. But here, in her first meeting with her future mate, she allowed it to flow freely, curling through the air of the ornate chamber until it mingled with your own.

“I am at your command.”