The old chapel at the back of One Universe had no roof, only sky.

What remained of its ceiling hung in warped fragments—beams bitten through by rot, charred splinters blackened by an old fire. Wind moved freely there, brushing along the weather-eaten pews like fingers searching for a prayer that had long since fled. Aster sat on one of those splintered benches, one leg pulled to his chest, the other dangling just above the cracked stone floor. Dust danced around his face. He did not blink.

Elian knelt beside the altar, poking through the offerings left behind by children braver or more desperate than them. A ribbon here, a smoothed stone there. Someone had left half a carved figurine—a bird, maybe, but the wings were broken. Elian picked it up with reverence.

“Do you think any of it worked?” Elian asked, voice soft, eyes not leaving the bird.

Aster didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the far window where stained glass once lived. Only one jagged fragment remained, still clinging to a corner of the arch like a claw. The light through it stained the floor red.

“I don’t think it mattered,” he said at last.

Elian turned toward him. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Where you say something like you’re dead already.”

Aster looked at his twin then, slowly, as though surfacing from a deeper place. They looked almost identical—same pale hair, same narrow frame—but where Elian carried softness in his eyes, Aster’s gaze was glass. Watching, always.

“I’m not dead,” he said. “Not yet.”

Elian stood and walked to him. He dropped the broken bird in Aster’s lap. “Then take this. If it’s cursed, it’ll like you.”

Aster touched the figurine. Cold. The carved wings—snapped. It had no eyes. It looked like a relic from a place meant to forget what flying was.

Elian flopped down beside him, pulling his knees to his chest. The tattered hem of his shirt revealed a thin bruise beneath his ribs, but he didn’t try to hide it. They both knew the matron struck harder when she was preparing to say goodbye.

“She said someone’s coming today,” Elian muttered.

“I know.”

“You saw it?”

“No,” Aster said. “I just know.”

Elian was quiet a long time. Outside, wind clawed through the chapel and made the broken beams creak above them. The building always sounded like it wanted to fall, but never did. Aster often wondered if it was waiting for something.

Then, it hit him.

A sound not outside, but inside—like a sharp pull behind the eyes, a cold thread threading through his brain like a needle. Aster jerked upright, eyes wide, shoulders stiff.

“Aster?” Elian leaned in. “What is it?”

His mouth opened—but he didn’t speak.

The vision came fast, and it came hot. Fire—no, not real fire—light, orange and flickering and too close. Chains rattled. Screaming. A body—Elian’s body—his—on the floor, back arched unnaturally, hands reaching for someone just out of frame. Blood. Something shattered. Then another scream—lower, choked with rage. Someone holding a knife, someone familiar. Something ending.

Aster gasped. His head snapped back like he’d been slapped. Elian caught him before he hit the bench.

“Aster! Aster, what the hell?!”

He blinked hard, the chapel returning piece by piece like breath after drowning. His fingers clutched the broken bird until its beak dug into his palm. It didn’t draw blood, but it wanted to.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re not fine—you do this and then you say you’re fine. What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

Elian’s face twisted. “Don’t do that.”

“I said nothing, Elian.”

Aster stood. His knees ached. The chapel spun once and stilled.

Behind them, the orphanage bell rang. Once. Cold and final.

Elian flinched.

“They’re here,” Aster said.

The hallway to the main office smelled like boiled cabbage and mold. The wallpaper peeled in places, revealing old script beneath it—scribbles from children who had since vanished into homes or holes. The paint on the doors was cracked, the floorboards groaned under their feet, and the only light came from a flickering bulb above the stairwell that buzzed like an angry fly.

Elian kept looking over his shoulder.

“Stop,” Aster muttered.

“He’s staring again,” Elian whispered.

Aster didn’t have to look. Shevlin, one of the older Omegas, sat hunched on the staircase, shirt unbuttoned and eyes glazed. He never spoke anymore. The matron said he’d been returned three times.

Returned. Like defective merchandise.

When they reached the office door, Elian hesitated.

“Maybe it’s not us,” he said. “Maybe someone else—”

“It’s us.”

Elian looked at him. His lip trembled. Then he looked away and nodded.

The door opened before they knocked.

Matron Yera stood there in her night-blue uniform, severe and immaculate. She looked at them the way one might examine two dying houseplants: with indifference tinged with quiet relief. Her hair was pulled tight, her smile tighter.

“In,” she said.

The office was warmer than the rest of the building. Smelled of dried tea leaves and old wood. Two chairs. A desk. A small painting of a woman holding an infant—not her child, but her prize.

Behind the desk sat a man in a green coat. His face was forgettable, but his ring wasn’t—a thick band with a black crest, polished so sharply that the lamplight turned it silver. He barely looked at the twins.

“These are them?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Yera.

“They don’t look sickly. That’s rare from this place.”

“We don’t waste food here,” she said. “Not on them.”

He finally looked at the boys. His eyes were pale, like washed-out ice. “Names.”

“Elian and Aster,” Yera replied. “The quiet one is Aster.”

Aster didn’t react. Elian stared at the floor.

“Both Omegas?”

“Of course.”

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a set of documents, all stamped in red. Yera read them quickly. Aster watched her eyes move—line, line, signature, and then the tightening of her lips.

She nodded.

“They’re yours.”

Elian jerked. “Wait—what—”

“They belong to House Rellhart now,” Yera said, sharp. “You will go where they send you. You will be obedient. You will not speak unless spoken to.”

“I don’t—what is—?” Elian looked at Aster. “We’re not—she didn’t say—what is House Rellhart?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aster said quietly.

The man stood. “Carriage is waiting.”

Yera moved around the desk. “One moment.”

She pulled out a long wooden box from under her desk and opened it. Two metal bands—thin, smooth, and cold-looking. No ornament, just small indentations along the inner side.

Collars.

“Necessary for property transport,” the man said.

Elian flinched. “No—wait—no, we’re not—”

Aster stepped forward. “Give me his. I’ll put it on him.”

Yera raised an eyebrow but handed both to Aster.

He turned to Elian and knelt in front of him. “It’s just a ride,” he said softly. “Don’t fight. Not here.”

Elian’s breath hitched. “I don’t want—”

“I know,” Aster said. “Me neither.”

He slid the collar around Elian’s neck, fastened it, and then put on his own. The click was too loud. It sounded like a cell door slamming shut.

The man led them out of the room without another word. Yera didn’t say goodbye.

When the front door opened, the cold hit like a slap.

The carriage outside was black. Not painted black—built black, with obsidian glass windows and iron-rimmed wheels. No crest. Just blank menace.

Aster ducked inside first. Elian followed.

The man closed the door behind them. No driver was visible. The horses—black too—didn’t move until the latch clicked.

As the orphanage vanished behind them, Elian leaned against Aster, trembling. Aster didn’t move.

Outside, the last bell of One Universe tolled again.

Once.

Rain tapped the carriage roof in erratic rhythms, like a nervous heartbeat that never settled. The inside was too dark to make out much—just the red velvet seats and the constant groan of old wood pressed by speed. A single brass lantern swayed from its hook above them, casting light that flickered more than it burned.

Elian leaned against Aster, motionless but awake. He hadn’t spoken since they left the orphanage. His eyes were open but unfocused, as if refusing to adjust to whatever came next.

Aster didn’t speak either. He didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t move.

In his lap, the collar felt heavier than before.

The carriage smelled of old leather and lavender oil, the kind used to mask blood. He could taste it in the air. Or maybe that was from earlier—his vision. The flavor hadn’t left him.

It was like iron, thick and warm, coating his tongue even though there was no blood in his mouth. He’d tried to swallow it down, but it stayed, clinging to his throat like a curse.

“Aster,” Elian whispered suddenly. “What if it’s not bad?”

Aster didn’t answer.

“What if they just… want us to clean their house or something?”

“They don’t need two Omegas for that.”

“Maybe one of them’s sick. Maybe they want… I don’t know. Company. Omegas are good company.”

Aster turned to look at him slowly.

“Elian.”

“What?”

“Stop.”

Elian went quiet.

Aster didn’t mean to sound cruel, but false hope had teeth. It wasn’t kindness to let it bite. He reached out and touched Elian’s hand—just for a second, grounding them both. Then he looked out the window.

The landscape had changed.

Gone were the rust-colored hills and crumbling stone fences of their outskirts. Now, the trees were tall and too symmetrical, like they’d been planted in rows by someone who wanted control over even the wild. White fog licked at the trunks, and rain beaded on every leaf like glass. The road became cobbled. The wheels echoed.

They were somewhere important.

“You ever seen an Alpha before?” Elian murmured, voice small again.

“No.”

“They’re supposed to be really tall. And loud. And… and sharp in the teeth.”

“Sharp teeth?”

Elian nodded. “Shevlin said they bite during heat. That they like blood.”

“Shevlin says a lot.”

“He said the last Omega who got bought screamed for three nights.”

Aster looked away. “He’s not wrong.”

Elian gripped the seat. “But that’s not going to be us. Right? Not both of us. One of them will be kind. They’ll like us. Maybe we’ll get to stay together.”

The rain grew harder, drumming against the glass.

Aster’s head throbbed faintly.

He didn’t want to think about the vision. But it was there. Like it had been etched into the back of his eyes. The light had been so bright—so orange—it could have been fire. But it didn’t burn. It consumed. The way dreams do when you can’t wake up.

He tasted iron again. Swallowed. It didn’t help.

“I wish we were anywhere else,” Elian whispered.

“We’re still together,” Aster said.

“For now.”

A pause.

“I love you, you know,” Elian added, looking at his hands. “I mean—not just because you’re my brother. I love you because you always knew. You always saw what was coming. You always prepared.”

Aster stared at the lantern swinging above them.

“I didn’t prepare for this,” he said quietly.

The carriage began to slow.

Outside, the trees ended. Cobblestone gave way to white gravel. Two tall iron gates rose ahead of them, flanked by statues that looked like angels—but not the kind that saved. These had wings too wide, heads too low. Their eyes were hollow. Their faces crumbled.

The gates began to open.

Aster sat up straighter.

Beside him, Elian sat forward too, suddenly small in the red velvet seat, collar still digging into his pale throat.

They passed through the gates, and the road became lined with white roses. A thousand white roses. None of them smelled like anything.

And then they saw it.

The Rellhart estate.

It was beautiful the way mausoleums are beautiful—clean, enormous, empty of soul. Tall white stone, silver trim on the windows, hedges clipped so precisely they looked fake. Four wings. Dozens of chimneys. No lights in the upper floors.

And in front of the stairs, under the portico, a line of people waiting.

Servants. Uniformed. Silent.

At the very end of that line stood one figure not in uniform—lean, dark-haired, posture too relaxed for a servant. He was watching the carriage. Not staring—watching.

Elian saw him.

The carriage stopped.

Aster’s door opened.

A hand reached in.