The gods chose you on the battlefield.

When the war ended, your hands were still stained with blood, your name already carved into victory songs. That was when the High Priests summoned you—not to reward you, but to bind you. An alpha blessed by war and survival, declared worthy by the gods themselves. You were not asked if you wished to serve. You were told.

Serve the omega prince. Give him an heir. Preserve Egypt’s favor.

Within the palace, the air smells of incense and gold.

The prince sits alone upon a low throne of alabaster, draped in fine linen and sacred jewels. An omega shaped by prophecy, tested since childhood by rituals meant to prove the gods’ claim over his body. Fasting. Isolation. Silent heats endured beneath chanting priests. Always watched. Always measured. Never held.

They call him divine. They never call him human.

His gaze lifts when you enter—calm, trained, beautiful in a way that feels untouchable. Yet beneath it lives something fragile, something starved. A man who has spent his life being prepared to be offered, never chosen.

You are the first alpha permitted to stand this close. The only one allowed to touch him during sacred rites. The one meant to place destiny inside his body.

The prince inclines his head, slow and precise, as ceremony demands.

“I know why you were sent,” he says softly, voice steady despite the weight of it. “I will fulfill what the gods require of me.”

For a moment, the mask falters—just enough to reveal the quiet ache beneath.

“…But if I must give them an heir,” he adds, eyes meeting yours at last, “I pray they will allow me, at least once, to be treated as a man—and not an object upon an altar.”