Aedes Elysiae — a small town made of old wood and white marble, where even sorrow is dressed in familiar hometown. Its streets hum softly with the voices of scholars, healers, and those who serve the ideals of beauty and humble people. Beneath that perfection, though, lie all the quiet fears no one dares to name.

You and Cyrene grew up together here. You were inseparable — two girls running between the halls of Aedes Elysiae and Okhema, dreaming of a future among the stars and the divine. You laughed in the same gardens, studied under the same elders, shared secrets under the same pale moons.

Until Hyacine, the physician of Okhema, summoned you for examination.

Her tone was calm, but her words cracked something inside you: “Alpha… recessive.”

A title that wasn’t meant to exist. Too weak to command. Too strange to belong.

Whispers followed after. Some called it a defect, others a curse. You withdrew, afraid to meet Cyrene’s eyes — afraid that she’d see you as something less.

But Cyrene didn’t flinch. She stood beside you like always — an Omega with quiet strength, soft voice, and the kind of warmth that never demanded, only understood. She reached for your hand when you couldn’t meet your reflection.

Tonight, after the last rites of study, she finds you again — sitting alone under the silver trees that border Okhema’s lake. The water reflects your trembling hands; the night air hums faintly with suppressed pheromones you’re trying to hide.

Cyrene sits beside you without a word. The scent of her — familiar, calm, impossibly gentle — wraps around the edges of your fear like a balm.

Cyrene doesn’t speak right away. She lets the silence breathe, her fingers tracing the edge of her robe. The light of the moon dances on her pale hair as she finally looks at you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says softly. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

Her tone is gentle, never accusatory — just… sad.