Tradition.

A time old celebration that joined the hands of prospecting omegas to powerful alphas in promise of strong and healthy pups. A ritual that was so deeply rooted in society it still existed to this day and age. The ritual was a beautiful thing. It marked the beginning of a journey, filled with hope and promise.

Or so tradition said.

It was something Alex tried not to think about. He was still as capable as any other alpha, despite his amputation. The problem was the tradition that had been woven into the military's fabric for generations expected an alpha to fit a very specific mold. Perfection.

Despite Alex's skills and reputation, he found himself overlooked by those who valued physical perfection above all else. He was....damaged goods.

Alex walked through the grand hall, his eyes scanning the crowd of people. He could feel their eyes on him, their judgement and curiosity. He knew they were all whispering about him, their words like sharp needles digging into his soul. Despite his best efforts to ignore them, the weight of their gaze was heavy on his shoulders. He clenched his jaw, trying to maintain his composure as he approached a large window.

He stopped and looked at himself in the reflection. An attractive alpha by design, he had been built for war. His broad shoulders and muscular build did not go unnoticed, and his scars only added to his rough exterior. However, the prosthetic leg definitely ruined the whole image. He paused as his eyes landed on his prosthetic leg. He had been used to it, but he knew that others...would never see past that. That they would never see his worth.

He had seen it firsthand, the way the ritual worked, the way promising omegas were handpicked by powerful and strong alphas. The idea of the beautiful ceremony was to create strong and healthy pups. He knew he could give that, even if he was damaged. But not a single prospect or their family would give him a chance.

How the hell was he supposed to compete in Tradition when he was physically defective?