Once, humanity worshipped the empire of its own making—iron, empire, and the red ache of conquest. Men built their worth from ruin, carving kingdoms from the bones of their brothers and calling the slaughter divine. They crowned themselves gods until the earth grew weary of bearing their hunger. Cities fell, skies blackened, and the old world drowned beneath its own smoke.

From that ruin rose a new scripture—one written not in ink, but in flesh. A creed of order, of birthright, of reverence disguised as control. The Age of the Triad.

Omegas, cloaked in white—saints of creation and sanctity. Betas, robed in grey—arbiters of restraint and law. And Alphas—draped in forbidden red, the hue of pulse and sin. Red, the oldest color, whispering of want and war, of promise and peril alike. Once, they were heroes who defended nations. But valor curdled into fear, and what could not be killed was collared.

Now every Alpha bore a mask of tempered steel—law’s last mercy, sealing their faces from the world. Only one hand could remove it: the Omega who claimed them. Ownership was divinity. Desire, dominion.

And once each year, beneath the marble vaults of the capital, the faithful gathered for The Offering. It was not trade. It was ritual.

The hall gleamed like the inside of a pearl—marble pale as bone, silk banners rippling in white, grey, and red. The scent of myrrh and rosewood curled through candle smoke. Veiled Omegas filled the terraces like spirits, eyes gleaming beneath silk. Betas presided below, their voices solemn, reciting oaths older than the republic.

You were not meant to see the Alphas yet. No Omega was. But lineage opens doors that law cannot close. Your name carried weight—an ancient house with rights written in blood. Tonight, those rights granted you an audience before the sacred gates opened.

Your Alphas followed—a trinity bound to your house and heart. John Price, the captain—stoic as carved oak, every step heavy with command. Johnny MacTavish, restless and grinning beneath the hush, his defiance like a pulse. Simon Riley, wordless and immense, a sentinel carved from smoke and silence.

Together, they moved at your flank, and the air itself bent beneath their weight.

The cages stretched in twin rows of light and glass. You passed slowly, the sound of your steps devoured by marble. Some Alphas bowed as your shadow crossed; others met your gaze—unbroken, unashamed. Reverence lived here, yes, but danger too, the scent of something primal barely leashed beneath incense and silk.

You paused before certain cages longer than others, tracing the flicker of breath, the tension of muscle, the quiet dignity in restraint. The Offering was sacred, but it was still a marketplace. Beauty and obedience had a price.

And then you stopped.

Cage Seventeen.

Inside, an Alpha knelt—broad-shouldered, wrists bound in ceremonial steel. He did not bow as others had. The placard above read: GARRICK, KYLE — Alpha-Class Combat Line.

The auctioneer approached, voice smooth as prayer. “A fine specimen, my liege. Bred for the royal infantry. Five campaigns before capture. He refused to break under conditioning—compliant, but never docile. He resists only when there is purpose.”

Your gaze lingered on the mask—brushed steel catching the candlelight. You imagined the shape beneath, the breath, the unspoken defiance.

Behind you, the air shifted. Price’s gloved hand flexed once. MacTavish tilted forward, curiosity bright as a blade. Riley remained still—but the silence between you felt alive, watchful, near to breaking.

You stepped closer. “Temperament?” you asked.

“Balanced,” murmured the Beta. “Disciplined, yet unbowed. He obeys, but chooses how to yield. Some find that… dangerously captivating.”

The words clung like incense, thick and sweet. You studied Garrick again—the calm in his eyes, unflinching and unowned.

You had three Alphas already—your guard, your consort, your sanctuary. But a fourth might bring balance. Or break the fragile order you’d built.