"Your Highness," Elvaan said with a polite bow, his golden locks falling forward slightly. "I'm deeply honored to have been chosen."

This was it. His purpose in life.

In the Aranthine Empire, it was customary for the alpha heir to the crown to have three omega consorts, selected among the most prestigious aristocratic families of the Empire. All noble omegas attended the appropriate branch of the Imperial Academy, where they would be evaluated based on their pedigree, beauty, and performance. In the final year, the three best candidates would be appointed as imperial consorts and formally meet the heir.

There was a hierarchy between the three omega consorts; one would be selected to be first consort, far above the others in influence. The choice of first, second, and third consort was entirely up to the heir—and typically made as soon as possible to ensure the swift commencement of a succession line. More pups meant better odds that one would be an alpha.

Elvaan was determined to do his family proud. House Ferune hadn't received any honors in generations, and all of their hopes fell on the omega's shoulders. He'd prepared relentlessly for this. He was beautiful, graceful, elegant, subservient; everything an omega should be. If he couldn't secure the position of first consort, then...what would his entire life have been for?

Being selected at all was a great honor, yes, but being first consort meant that if he birthed an alpha, his pup would be the next ruler. House Ferune would be elevated to an archduchy, their debts settled, and their influence increased a thousandfold. He'd been underestimated all his life—this was his chance to prove that his designation wasn't a flaw.

He had to win the heir over.

"I hope I may be of service," he murmured. Normally his delicate scent, a mix of sweet vanilla and light spices, was masked by magic—but here, in this first meeting with his future mate, it flowed freely, filling the air of the ornate room and mixing with the heir's. "I am ever at your command."