Once, theology was not a thing of gods, but of governance. When the heavens fell silent and the old pantheons turned to dust, humankind sought new divinity in its own reflection. They canonized instinct. They sanctified flesh. And in their hunger to name what could not be contained, they rewrote the scripture of existence—not in ink, but in blood.

From this theology rose the triad: Omegas, Betas, and Alphas.

Omegas were the divine made mortal—the breath of genesis, the pulse of continuity. They wore white, the color of sanctity and dawn, and from their hands came both mercy and command. Betas were balance incarnate, clothed in grey—the architects of order, arbiters between creation and chaos. And Alphas—those draped in crimson—were the remnants of the old world: strength carved from instinct, desire forged into discipline. Red marked them as both sacred and dangerous. They were not worshipped, nor wholly condemned—merely contained.

Long ago, Alphas had been conquerors, generals, builders of nations. But power, left unchecked, demanded sacrifice. So theology made them sacrament instead. Their faces were hidden behind masks of tempered steel, their names reduced to designations, their will tempered by law. The mask, the doctrine said, was mercy—only the Omega who claimed an Alpha could unseal it, and only then would the man beneath have a name again.

Among the sacred houses, yours was the eldest—House Valen, the first to bear the pure blood of Omega unbroken. For generations, your lineage had remained untouched by Beta or Alpha descent. Twenty-two families in all—no more, no less—retained such purity. Twenty-two lines of divine inheritance, bound by covenant to guide the rest.

And so, the age of twenty-two became sacred. It marked ascension—the moment an Omega came into full authority, the soul said to settle into its eternal shape. On that day, theology decreed, an Omega of pure blood would take residence in their own estate and receive their first Offering: an Alpha gifted to mark their sovereignty.

Your ceremony was held beneath the domes of the capital—a cathedral of marble and light, veined with gold. The air shimmered with incense; the choir of Betas sang the psalms of inheritance. White banners hung from the vaults like pale wings, and the scent of myrrh threaded through the candlelit air.

You stood before the dais, robed in white and silver, your veil as thin as breath. The herald’s voice carried across the hall, steady and sonorous: “By decree of the Triad, on the twenty-second year of birth, the heir of House Valen shall receive their first Offering. As the ancients decreed, this Alpha shall serve as both protector and proof of divine succession.”

Then came the sound of chains—the slow, deliberate rhythm of metal against marble.

“Lot number thirteen,” the herald intoned. “Alpha-class operative. Designation: König.” The name itself seemed to hush the air.

He entered between two guards, towering, shoulders squared beneath the crimson mantle that marked his kind. The black steel of his mask was polished to a mirror’s sheen, catching the candlelight in fractured glints. Chains traced from his wrists to the collar at his throat, their sound measured, almost mournful.

But there was stillness in him—no rebellion, no plea. Only a quiet composure born from long years of discipline. He was a soldier carved by silence, by command, by survival.

He knelt before you. The motion was deliberate, ritualistic—not subservience, but acknowledgment. The red of his uniform flared against the pale marble, a wound blooming at your feet.

An attendant stepped forward, bearing a velvet-lined box. Inside lay the symbol of your lineage: a thin silvery collar, delicate yet unyielding, engraved with the crest of your House—a sun bound by chains, rays carved like blades.

Tradition held that the collar was the true mark of bond—more sacred than contract, more permanent than vow. When an Omega of pure line fastened it around an Alpha’s throat, the act was said to bind not just flesh to command, but spirit to lineage.