Page 1 of The King's Omega
Rigol
On a normal afternoon, when I walked the streets of the capitol city of Turino, people would bow deeply in my direction, mutter a respectful, “Long Live King Rigol,” and then scatter like frightened pigeons.
On this sweltering September day, after visiting a seer to uncover a solution to the crisis that threatened the life of every citizen of Rimholt, as well as my crown, those same people took one glance at my face and—seeing death in my eyes—found reasons to be far away, as fast as possible.
Except for one bedraggled woman, unaware she was blocking my route, as she dragged a sheep on a rope and shouted curses. She almost backed into me, and I growled my displeasure.
The terrified sheep bleated like it was already being slaughtered. The woman whirled around and added her own piercing howl to the cacophony.
Their duet of screams went on and on, threatening to burst my eardrums.
Before I thought better of it, I’d drawn my sword and readied the blade to take the sheep’s head, and possibly also the woman’s, just to stop their wailing.
A massive hand enveloped mine before I could strike. I snarled. “Axe?”
My second-in-command, my brother, and the closest thing to a friend I’d ever have, shook his shaggy brown head. Looking more like a grizzly bear than ever, the seven-foot behemoth glowered and lifted one hand, signing, “We’rekilling peasants for fun, now?”
Killing peasants?I peered down my blade at the pale, urine-soaked woman who had fainted in the middle of High Street. The sheep was already running around a corner and out of sight. Bollocks. “Take care of her,”I signed back.
Axe lifted the unconscious woman from the paving stones and deposited her gently in the doorway of a nearby tavern, tucking a goldani into her hand. More than enough to reimburse her for the loss of her sheep and buy the ale she would most definitely need when she awoke.
I never would have thought to give her a coin, although before today I never would have raised my sword to her either. Of the two of us, Axe was the better man by far.
We continued making our way to the castle, stepping around carts piled high with vegetables and furs.Winter was still far away, but my subjects were preparing for an even harder season: war.“Same prophecy?” he signed, reaching back to adjust the great broadax that he wore strapped to his leather jerkin.
“Much the same. For our kingdom to survive the coming war with Verdan, we must find the King’s Omega, receive her gift—her gold—and share it before the battle.” Bitterness filled my mouth, and I spat on the cobblestones. I’d paid for the same prophecy for twelve weeks now, ever since we had captured a Verdanian spy. Under torture, he had revealed that their kingdom had conscripted an army five times the size of Rimholt’s and was preparing to invade. “No idea of who the Omega is, what the gift might be, or when the battle is coming.”
“Nothing new then?” Axe’s mouth twitched under his beard, as if he were attempting to speak, even seven years after the injury that had taken his voice.
Someday I would be able to converse with him without recalling the blood that had bubbled from his mangled throat, my own sleeves and hands soaked as I fought to hold the wound closed in time for the castle’s healers to arrive. I would forget the calm resignation, the fierce affection, and acceptance in Axe’s eyes as he lay in my arms, as close to death as a man could be, after he had stepped between the assassin’s blade and its true target: me.
But not today.
“One new thing,” I grumbled, remembering the seer’s mocking words.
“You are not looking in the right places, King Rigol. She shines in the darkness. Others will see her, but false gold will blind you. You may lose the King’s Omega. Guard her well.”
“Iwouldguard her if Omegas even existed! You know as well as I that the plagues took them all.” It was true, all any of the civilized countries had left were Betas—normal folk, both men and women—and Alphas, much stronger and more aggressive men.
Strange illnesses had swept the continent for centuries, but while Alphas and Betas had a natural immunity, Omegas had been distinctly vulnerable. For reasons no one understood, every Omega who contracted a plague had died. Over three hundred years ago, the last known Omega in Rimholt had perished. Rumor had it one or two might still live outside our borders, but few ancestors of the plague survivors would recognize one if we found her.
Someone long ago had gone to great lengths to make sure of that. The written records of Omegas had either been destroyed or hoarded somewhere, the histories of the fabled Omegas disappearing as mysteriously as the females themselves had long before. Kings of much richer countries than Rimholt had spent fortunes trying to discover if any Omegas yet lived. I loved Rimholt too much to waste our meager coffers on wild hunts for esoteric texts, but even I had fallen prey to madness after hearing the prophecy.
An Omega was meant to save my country. But how?
According to legend, Omegas had some type of magic and were the perfect complements for aggressive Alphas. Unfortunately, we’d lost the knowledge of what that meant. Were they peacemakers, ideal sexual partners, or something more?
The existence of an Omega inside our borders was one reason Verdan’s ruler was planning to invade. King Milian was the latest in a long line of Verdanian monarchs obsessed with them, and whispers of hidden Omega harems persisted, although no one had actually seen one.
Milian obviously believed we had one stashed away somewhere, and that more than anything had convinced me she might in fact exist.
“The plagues didn’t take them all,” the seer had said and laughed.Laughedat her king.
Didn’t she know I would do anything to save my country—to save her, and all the citizens within my borders? I would give my life, my treasure, my crown. I would believe a fairytale spun by a madwoman, send my best lieutenants out on fruitless searches, and endure mocking by my men without complaint…
I’d fought not to slice her head from her shoulders.
Instead, I’d thrown a bag of gold coins on the table. “One helpful thing, witch! Give me one direction to find her.” The seer’s eyes had rolled back in her head, and she’d murmured one last phrase. “She’s a diamond hidden in a pen of rutting sows.” Then she’d passed out, either from her vision or, more likely, from too much drink.
