Rin's Pov
Mistress Elira pressed the last bundle of dried herbs into my satchel, her hands firm but trembling. We stood in the back room of the shop, away from prying ears. Sir Darius and Lord Percival were waiting outside, discussing road maps in stiff, clipped voices, which gave us a few stolen moments.
My aunt's gaze bore into me, fierce as ever. "Rinwell," she said, her tone low and edged, "you will listen well. Do not let them suspect. The palace is not a village, and the people there are not your neighbors. One careless word, one slip of your tongue, and—"
I smiled faintly, trying to lighten the weight in her eyes. "—and I will be paraded as a prize beast in the noblemen's garden, yes, Aunt. You have told me often enough that I might as well embroider it on my sleeves."
She did not smile back. Her grip tightened on my wrist. "I am not jesting. You must remember who you are… and who you are not. To them, you are a beta healer. Nothing more. You will bow, you will speak carefully, and you will not draw attention to yourself. Promise me."
For a moment, her eyes softened, and I saw not the stern guardian but the woman who had shielded me since birth. It made me straighten, bow my head, and answer with quiet politeness: "I promise, Aunt. I shall be the dullest beta that ever mixed valerian root."
It was the sharpest truth I could offer her—spoken politely, but barbed. We both knew dullness did not come naturally to me.
Not long after, I found myself seated in a plain, dust-stained carriage, rattling out of Eryden Hollow with the King's aide and the knight as escort. The horses were sturdy, the wheels creaked, and the curtains sagged—designed, no doubt, to be forgettable.
As the village vanished behind the trees, I leaned back, resting my chin on my palm, and let my thoughts wander.
---
I understand why Aunt is so worried.
After all, in this world, we are born into designations that rule us more strictly than any monarch ever could.
There are three genders acknowledged in Eldraeven: alphas, betas, and omegas. Each bears its own place in the hierarchy.
Alphas , classified into two:Dominant and Recessive.Dominant Alpha are rulers by nature, or so they claim. Strong, commanding, with pheromones that bend others to their will. The kingdom has always been ruled by them; their strength is praised as divine right. Recessive Alpha on the other hand is an alpha whose presence lacks the overwhelming force of a dominant—quieter in pheromones, subtler in authority, often underestimated, yet capable of influence through restraint, strategy, and steadiness rather than sheer command.
Betas are the bridge between worlds. Not as powerful, not as rare, but indispensable. They are merchants, knights, scholars—the "ordinary" folk, relied upon because they lack extremes. To be born a beta is to be spared scrutiny.
And then, there are the Omegas. Treasured, desired, and—most dangerously—possessed. Nobles hoard them like trophies, flaunting them at banquets and parading them at court. The rarer the omega, the greater the bragging rights. Some are caged, some married off like jewels in the royal treasury. Their beauty is celebrated, but their will is… irrelevant.
At least, that is what society would prefer.
Among omegas, there is also a classification even more perilous: dominant omegas. Legends, almost. Said to be the equal of alphas in their command, their presence both alluring and unsettling. More than their power, their fertility is whispered to be unmatched—capable of producing heirs with terrifying certainty. The existence of one alone could upset the careful balance of power. Which is precisely why most people believe they are myths—convenient stories told to frighten ambitious nobles.
Most omegas, after all, are recessive—gentle, common, their heats softer, their fertility steady but not extraordinary. They are the accepted image of what an omega should be.
Unfortunately, I am proof that myths walk.
So, Aunt's words are not empty cautions. Should the truth of me emerge, I will not be Rinwell the village herbalist, but Rinwell the possession. I would cease to be a man at all—merely a prize for the highest bidder, or worse, for the crown itself.
Thus, I wear the mask of a beta. It is easier. Betas may go unnoticed. Betas are allowed sharp tongues so long as they bow afterward. Betas are forgettable. And in a world where being remembered can mean chains, I intend to be very, very forgettable.
The carriage jolted over a rut, and Lord Percival cursed under his breath. I smiled faintly to myself, folding my hands.
The capital wants a healer for whatever reason they whisper about. Very well. Let them have their beta. After all, my only purpose is to unravel more of the palace's herbs. I will leave once that purpose is fulfilled.