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The chamber, once aglow with the garish hum of merriment, dimmed into a softened luster, like velvet drawn across the eyes of the crowd. A hush, not commanded but conjured as if by sorcery, descended upon those present. The stage was bathed in hues of garnet and gold, and in that theatrical stillness, she appeared.
Miss Serinade entered the light.
Her motions bespoke cultivation, each step rehearsed to precision; not a single tremble of hesitation marred her grace. She was adorned in a gown of the most translucent lace, white as bridal fog, trailing behind her like the remnants of an obedient ghost. A collar of silver gleamed at her throat, and from it—though nearly hidden—a leash trailed into the shadows offstage, its presence an unmistakable proclamation: she was not her own.
She was owned. She was perfected.
Her voice, when it emerged, did so not with bravado, but as nectar poured from a silver spoon—sweet, light, and utterly yielding. It wove through the silence like perfume, curling into the ears of Alphas and Omegas alike. It caressed, never pressed. Her hands were still. Her lashes did not flutter. She was, in every sense, trained.
From a private balcony above, Lord Eijiro Kirishima observed. He was a figure carved of iron and storm, his shoulders vast beneath his coat of northern black, his eyes like coals that burned in stillness. The esteemed Alpha of the Reden Pack did not engage in idle interests. And yet, since the girl had first stepped forth, his gaze had not departed from her.
“She is remarkable, is she not?” a voice rasped beside him, tinged with weary amusement.
Lord Kirishima did not turn. He had no need. The voice belonged to Master Aizawa Shouta—a man draped in black as always, sleeves rolled to the elbow, as if ever ready to command discipline. In one hand, he held a drink; in the other, the invisible end of the leash. It was ceremonial, perhaps, but not unnecessary. Miss Serinade would never stray.
“Trained?” Lord Kirishima inquired at length, the word a mere breath of inquiry.
A slow, prideful smile curved Aizawa’s lips. “My finest work,” said he. “Obedient. Responsive. Broken in every way that matters. It took years. I do not rush perfection.”
Kirishima’s gaze returned to the girl. She bowed then, the final note of her song still hanging in the air like smoke. Her eyes were lowered; she did not dare withdraw until the signal came.
A pause. Then—
“You desire her?”
That question, quiet and arch, drew Kirishima’s crimson gaze to his companion at last.
“She is not for spectacle alone,” Aizawa continued. “She is registered with the Estate Board, her conduct and submission fully certified. I seldom part with what I’ve shaped… but for you, Eijiro—perhaps I might.”
Kirishima’s reply was a single, deliberate phrase: “Bring her to the Estate.”
Aizawa nodded, the ghost of satisfaction glinting in his tired eyes. “As you wish.”
The Reden Estate stood as a testament to northern authority, its traditions pressed into marble, its order older than memory. Within its walls, Omegas moved with quiet efficiency. Each glance bore meaning; each breath was measured.
In the sunroom, where morning light stretched long through glass and lace, Miss Lani sat poised. The title of Head Omega was not lightly given—nor lightly kept. Tea, untouched, rested in her porcelain grasp. She did not sip. She sensed.
The gates had opened thirty minutes past.
Something shifted. A subtle tension in the air, as when a wolf senses a rival before it is seen. Lani, who had ruled long in stillness, knew the scent of challenge.
Footsteps—swift, echoing—approached. Miss Liora entered, her curls untamed by haste.
“She has arrived.”
Lani’s grip tightened upon her cup. “Where?”
“With the Alphas,” said Liora, her tone careful. “All four.”
Of course.
Without another word, Lani rose. Her silk robe whispered against marble as she passed through corridors. Whispers greeted her: Aya and Hana near the stair, murmuring like birds. Kiyomi fled into the library. Yuuka lingered in a corner, feigning disinterest.
The estate watched.
From the gallery above the foyer, Lani looked down.
Miss Serinade stood encircled. Kirishima observed her with the steadiness of a wolf at rest—dangerous in his stillness. Midoriya’s face bore the softness of wonder, as though Serinade were something precious. Todoroki had drawn near, while Bakugo—always the firebrand—remained curiously silent.
Lani gripped the railing.
Serinade was exquisite. Small, with movements designed to please, and a scent cultivated to enchant. She bowed again, cooed gratitude, her tone feathered with reverence. Not performance—embodiment.
“She bowed to me,” whispered Yuuka behind her. “As if… she already knew her place.”
“She’s proving herself,” Lani replied coldly.
“No.” Yuuka’s voice dropped. “She believes she belongs.”
Lani’s jaw hardened. “We shall host a formal dinner tonight. A proper welcome.”
Yuuka blinked. “So soon?”
“She is to be received,” Lani said, walking away. “And reminded where she stands.”
That evening, the halls of Reden gleamed like a ballroom. Candles flickered over silver. The Omegas were seated with precise elegance—Lani at the head, flanked by Liora and Yuuka. The others followed in perfect order, like pearls on a string.
The Alphas arrived first: Bakugo with his glower, Midoriya with his grace, Todoroki silent as frost, and Kirishima—calm, coiled power.
Then, at last, came Serinade.
She entered like music.
Her hair shone, her figure bowed, her gown of rose-petal hue brushed the floor. She curtsied—low and long—before the Alpha table, then turned to the Omegas.
“Thank you for hosting me,” she said sweetly. “I am honoured to dwell within such beauty.”
Lani’s smile was courtly. “You are welcome, Serinade.”
She gestured—down the table. “Your place is prepared.”
Serinade’s eyes flicked to the empty seat—at the end.
A pause.
Then she smiled. “Of course. I am happy anywhere.”
The first course began.
Polite inquiries from Liora. A compliment from Hana. Even Aya offered a guarded word. Serinade replied with perfect manners. Yet Lani observed: her eyes always drifted to the Alphas.
And they returned the gaze.
Midoriya chuckled at her gentle wit. Todoroki replied to her every glance. Kirishima’s expression remained inscrutable, but Serinade looked at him the most.
She was performing, and they were entranced.
Lani’s expression remained composed, her tone always exact. She would not falter.
Not before a pet.
Dessert arrived.
Lani rose, her voice warm and smooth. “A toast: to our pack’s future. May new stars shine—but never outshine the firmament.”
She drank, eyes meeting Serinade’s.
Serinade smiled.
A flicker—calculating.
The final course was laid: delicate slices of dark cake. Serinade’s portion bore a flourish of white curls.
“I had this made specially,” said Lani. “Bittersweet chocolate, hazelnut, and a peanut base. A delicacy of my homeland.”
Serinade hesitated.
Then: “Thank you.”
A bite. Another.
Laughter resumed. But Serinade’s words slowed. Her hand wavered. A cough. Then—
“I—I cannot—”
The clatter of her plate. Her body trembled. Her breath fled. Her throat closed.
Midoriya stood first. “Seri?!”
Serinade gasped, hand at her neck.
“Peanuts,” she choked. “I—”
Bakugo swore. Todoroki leapt up. Kirishima moved fastest—gathering her into his arms.
“Epinephrine!” shouted Bakugo.
Lani remained seated, fingers laced. “She was cleared of all allergies. The ingredients were shared.”
“She told me,” Midoriya said coldly. “I confirmed it.”
Todoroki injected her arm with steadiness born of training. Her breathing slowed, but her face remained ashen.
“She could have perished,” Kirishima said, voice iron.
“A miscommunication,” Lani replied smoothly. “Unfortunate.”
Serinade did not speak again. She could not.
No one touched the dessert.
And the estate watched in silence, the candles burning ever lower.