Chapter Text
William was leaning against the pillar outside the training halls, arms folded, weight tipped onto one heel like he had all the time in the world.
And maybe he did.
When it came to his chosen mate. Maybe she was his fated. Maybe not. Because news like that were personal. Not for the whole pack to be made known of.
Est slowed his steps without meaning to.
He told himself it was habit. He told himself he was tired. He told himself a hundred small lies he'd learned over the years, each one neat and quiet and harmless. None of them changed the fact that his chest tightened anyway, a dull ache settling somewhere beneath his ribs, familiar as breath.
William always waited for her after training.
He always did.
The thought slid into place easily, without bitterness. Est had made peace with it long ago—or something like peace. Acceptance, maybe. The kind that learned to sit still and not reach.
Still.
It was late afternoon, the hour when the air inside the compound thickened with sweat and pheromones and the clang of practice weapons being returned to racks. Apprentices streamed out in loose knots, laughing, arguing, shoving at one another. William didn't look at any of them. His eyes stayed trained on the doorway.
For Yen.
Est's stepsister. And even if Est didn't have his prince to Cinderella with his mean stepsister and stepmother, it didn't change the fact that they never in fact had a sparsely good relation.
But that didn't mean Est was mistreated. At least that's what he tried to convince himself. Est ever the understanding guy told himself, that they just didn't like talking to him so they did not. Silence was better than hate.
The stepsister in context emerged moments later, braid loosened, cheeks flushed from exertion. William straightened instantly, his face breaking into a smile that was unguarded and familiar, the kind Est had seen turned toward her a thousand times over the years. He pushed off the pillar, said something Est couldn't hear. Yen laughed, light and musical, and flicked her fingers against William's arm as she passed him.
He fell into step beside her without hesitation.
As... always.
Est stopped completely this time, fingers tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. He told himself he was just letting the crowd clear. That was all. There was no reason to hurry. No reason to look.
But his eyes followed them anyway, like they always did.
William leaned closer as they walked, saying something that made Yen tilt her head toward him, attentive. Protective. Familiar. It was easy to imagine them like this forever—William choosing her without ever thinking of it as a choice at all.
Est looked away.
The stone beneath his feet was worn smooth, pale from years of use. Training Hall C. It had been this same place Est had once fallen in love with a boy four years younger than him. Before the rest of the world ever realised his charm.
The memory came without warning, sharp and unwelcome, like a bruise pressed too hard.
Nine years ago.
Est had been smaller then. Thinner. All elbows and knees and angles, like he hadn't finished assembling himself yet. Est remembered that clearly—how his robes had always hung a little wrong on his frame, how no amount of eating ever seemed to put weight where it belonged.
Another reason he was not Cinderella in being, at least he'd never been denied of food.
It had happened right there, outside the training halls, when the air had suddenly turned too warm and his skin had gone unbearably sensitive. He hadn't known what was happening at first—only that his chest felt tight, his head light, and something sweet and unfamiliar had bloomed beneath his skin, spilling into the air before he could stop it.
Sweet.
That had been the word they used.
He heard it again, echoing in memory.
"Hey what is that?"
"Is he—?"
"Is that slick—?"
"No way."
"A male Omega?"
"Disgusting."
The Alphas had laughed, sharp and ugly, crowding too close. One of them had wrinkled his nose exaggeratedly, another waving a hand in front of his face like Est was something rotten instead of something newly, terrifyingly alive.
"Didn't know guys could smell like candy," someone had sneered. "What are you, a sweet omega?"
Est remembered freezing, every instinct screaming at him to disappear. He hadn't cried. He'd never been much of a crier. He'd just stood there, fingers clenched in his sleeves, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
They'd circled him—not touching, not yet. Just close enough. Too close. Their voices had been loud, amused, curious in the worst way, eyes dragging over him like he was something newly discovered and poorly understood.
Est remembered the heat crawling up his spine, panic rising faster than sense. He hadn't known how to stop it. He hadn't known where to go.
He only knew he needed to leave.
And then William had stepped in.
Not dramatically. Not shouting.
William back then hadn't been the impressive was now—not the way people expected Alphas to be. He'd had a buzz cut, uneven where he'd clearly done it himself, and a soft roundness to his figure that made him look younger than his age. Sturdy, but in a newly presented alpha's intimidating way.
Est had been a late bloomer. While William and the other kids were presenting themselves at an age of barely 12, Est's first heat had hit him the same year even though he was a whole four years older.
William had planted himself between Est and the other guys. Bracketing Est off from the prying eyes and the venomous smiles.
"Back off," William had said, voice steady. Not loud. Just firm.
One of the boys had scoffed. "Why do you care?"
William had frowned at him like the answer should've been obvious. "Because you're being idiots."
It was simple, short and unarguable. Partly because William even in his 'un-impressive' days was still the richest boy in the pack, and an alpha.
The pack had taught the cubs societal standings before they taught them math.
One of the boys had scoffed. "Since when do you—"
William's gaze had sharpened, Alpha pressure rolling off him in a quiet, undeniable wave.
"Since now."
That had been enough.
The others had muttered, retreated, the moment breaking like glass under pressure. Est hadn't stayed to see them go. He'd turned and walked away, heart in his throat, legs barely steady beneath him.
Est hadn't said thank you.
He hadn't trusted his voice.
He remembered locking his door.
Remembered sliding down against it.
Remembered the fever taking him fast and hard, the world blurring into heat and shaking and confusion.
Skin burning, instincts screaming. He had locked himself in his room and rode out his first heat alone, feverish, clueless, hurting, pressed against cool stone walls that did nothing to quiet the ache under his skin.
But even then—especially then—there had been one thing he couldn't stop remembering.
The last look William had cast him before Est had paced away.
A look not of pity. Not disgust.
Just concern. Confusion. And something softer than either.
That look had stayed with Est for years.
That had been his first heat.
And the beginning of everything he would never say.
"Phi Est?"
He blinked, pulled back into the present by the sound of his name.
Yen and William had stopped a short distance away. Yen was looking at him now, brows lifting in a polite guarded surprise. William was the one who spoke.
For a fraction of a second, his expression was exactly the same as it had been nine years ago.
Concern. Recognition. Something unspoken.
Then Yen slipped her hand into William's arm, and the moment passed.
"Hey," William said, smiling easily. Kind, like always.
Est returned it automatically. "Hey."
William turned fully toward him, smile softening. "You're done already?"
Est nodded once. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, fingers tightening automatically. "Yeah."
"Training is getting worse with days, I don't even know how I'm going to survive the final year with your calm." William laughed.
The softness to the laughter made Est smile automatically, as if his lips had a mind of their own. "It's fine you'll do fine."
"Willyyyy! We are getting late. Hurry UUPPP!" Yen started shaking William's arm, the one she'd been holding while wailing and trying to sound like a kid.
William grinned. "See you later P'Est. I'm supposed to take someone to have ice-cream."
Est smile did not drop but his eyes became sadder as he stepped aside, giving them room to pass. He always did.
As they walked away laughing and talking, Est told himself what he'd told himself for years:
William had been kind.
William had always been kind.
Kindness, after all, was not the same thing as loving.
And Est had learned a long time ago how to step back before anyone had to ask him to.
He had been told the polite version as a child—stories softened and trimmed of sharp edges. That his father had married across clans for alliance. That love had come later, in its own quiet way. That some things simply did not work out.
None of that had been true.
His mother's clan had been different. Open. Old in wisdom, not rigidity. In her family, omegas were not hidden or controlled—neither the women nor the men. They were protected, respected, allowed to choose. Love, there, had never been treated like a leash.
His father's clan, on the other hand, had worn tradition like armor. Conservative. Unbending. Men married women because traditions demanded it. Hearts were expected to fall in line after vows were exchanged.
And Est's father—young, brilliant, already weary—had forced to marry into a life that was never meant to be his.
He had given his name to Est's mother.
But his heart had belonged to someone else long before that.
As a child, Est had only known that his father was often absent.
He remembered standing at the edge of long corridors of his mother's hall, small hands wrapped around carved pillars, waiting.
He remembered asking, again and again—
"Mae... when will father come home?"
His mother would smile then. Always softly. Always with something held back behind her eyes.
"Soon, nong luk est," she would say, brushing Est's hair with careful fingers. "Your father is busy. Important work."
Est had believed her. Children always did.
What he had not understood was how many heats his mother had endured alone.
Heat after heat, without her mate.
Without his presence. Without his scent to ground her fever. Without hands to anchor her when her body burned itself into exhaustion.
Maybe if the world had been as advanced 22 years ago as it was now. A little cub won't have lost his mother to the betrayal of his father.
By the time Est had been old enough to remember clearly, the illness had already begun.
It had crept in quietly—first as fatigue, then as fever that lingered too long, then as trembling hands that could no longer hide how weak she had become.
During one heat—worse than the others—she had finally asked.
Begged.
Est remembered the night because he had been awake. Because the house had been too quiet. Because his mother's breathing had sounded wrong.
His father had arrived late, the scent of travel still clinging to him. Est had watched from the doorway as his mother sat upright on the bed, sweat-damp hair clinging to her face, eyes bright with fever and desperation.
"Please," she had said, voice thin but steady. "Just this once. Stay."
His father had frozen.
"I can't," he had replied.
Her fingers had tightened in the sheets. "I'm sick. You know I am. I need you."
Silence.
Then—
"Aitcha needs me more."
The name had landed like a blade.
Est's mother had gone very still.
"Aitcha?" she had repeated, quietly. Not accusing. Just... broken. "So it's true."
His father had exhaled, like someone finally setting down a weight. "I never lied to you. My heart was never—"
"—mine," she had finished for him.
Her lips had curved into something like a smile, though tears slid down her temples unchecked. "You didn't tell me either. You should have told me earlier."
"I didn't want to hurt you."
She had laughed then. A soft, shattered sound. "And yet."
From the doorway, Est had felt something tighten in his chest, though he hadn't understood why.
"Stay," his mother's father had said—not louder, not angrier. Just... pleading. "Just help her through this heat. Please. After that, you can go. I won't ask again."
His father had looked away.
"I can't be here when Aitcha needs me way more," he had said.
That had been the moment.
His mother had closed her eyes.
Then she had spoken, voice barely above a whisper—but unshaking.
"He's right."
She had turned her head toward Est's grandfather, who had been standing rigid by the wall, fury written into every line of his body.
"Please," she had told him. "Don't stop him."
"What are you saying?" the old man had demanded. "You're burning alive and you're asking me to let him leave?"
She had smiled again, gently this time. "I would rather die than force a man to love me."
Est's father had stared at her.
She had not looked back at him.
"Go," she had said. "Go to the one you love."
And he had.
The illness had taken her slowly after that.
Heat fever. Neglect. A body already worn thin.
Est had been kept away for most of the worst parts of it, but he remembered the last day clearly.
Remembered being lifted into her arms, her skin hot, her scent faint but familiar.
She had pressed her forehead to his.
"Nong luk Est," she had murmured. "Listen to Mae."
His small hands had fisted in her clothes. "Mae, don't go."
She had smiled, tears slipping free. "Love can never be forced. And love never kneels when it's real."
Her fingers had trembled as they cupped his face.
"Never beg for love, my baby boy. Never forget that."
Her breath had hitched.
"And never forget... Mae loved you. Be strong."
She had been gone by morning.
After the funeral, Est's father had taken him away.
Back to his paternal clan. To stone halls and cold rules.
Est had spent his first six years at his mother's clan. And the first moments of his new life at his father's clan began with his presence at a marriage.
Est had stood silently as his father married again—the woman whose presence had haunted his mother's last days, who's name had made sure his mother never recover from her heat fever again.
When the ring had slid onto her finger, Est had felt something settle permanently in his chest.
A vow, carved in grief.
Love would never be begged for.
Love would never be forced.
And if love ever came to him—it would be chosen freely... or not at all.