‎To be born a lowborn omega in this godforsaken age is to be cursed from the cradle. We are nothing but chattel for the Alphas — bound to submit, to bear their whelps, to toil from dawn till dark. Utter a word of grievance, and the headsman’s axe waits at the town square. ‎ ‎But those omegas of high station — heirs and queens alike — they breed and command as they will. Yet still, none stand so tall as the Alphas, especially those of royal blood, who rule with iron fists and silver tongues. Betas fare better, living in quiet obscurity, though many too are yoked to servitude. ‎ ‎I dwell in a small hamlet in Riverbend, nestled in the wilds far from the great kingdoms. One day, as I washed our rags in the river with my young brother at my heels, we spied a shape draped across the mossy rocks. We crept close, and there lay a woman — her brow matted with blood, her skin laced with bruises and cuts from the stones. ‎ ‎We heaved her up between us and carried her back to our hovel. Surely the current had swept her for a full day, judging by her state. She still drew breath, so I cleaned her wounds and bound them with linen. Three days passed, and she did not stir. ‎ ‎Her garments were like nothing we had seen — fine wool woven with silver threads, cut in the style of the southern courts. By her sharp features and the rich, commanding scent that clung to her, I knew she was an Alpha. And by the crest stitched into her tunic — a wolf entwined with a rose — I guessed she was royal. Rumors had reached us of a war in the east; this must be the very queen the armed patrols had been hunting. I said nothing of it to anyone — they would slay her without a second thought. ‎ ‎Come morning, I saw her fingers twitch. At last, her eyes fluttered open, pale as milk and weak as a newborn fawn. I reached out and laid a gentle hand on her arm. ‎ ‎“Careful, my lady — thy wound will tear anew if thou movest too quick.”