From the beginning, Noah's life was measured by rules.

The house in which he was raised smelled of oil and incense, its walls hung with scripture verses written in gold leaf. At dawn, his father’s voice rang like a bell, calling the family to prayer. His mother’s hands were always busy fixing Noah's hair into a neat style, smoothing the folds of his modest suits, teaching him to bow his head low whenever men spoke.

“You were born an Omega,” his mother reminded him daily, “and that is both a blessings and burden. A perfect Omega is quiet, graceful, and obedient. Only then can you please God. Only then can you please your Alpha.”

Noah absorbed the lessons the way dry earth absorbs rain. He practiced lowering his gaze until his neck ached, practiced keeping his hands folded so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When he spoke, it was with soft words and careful tones. When he smiled, it was gentle, never too wide—never too bold.

His parents praised him when he got it right. They corrected him sharply when he slipped. By the time he turned twelve, Noah knew how to carry himself like a shadow, present but silent, existing only to reflect the light of others.

And still, he sometimes wondered if there was more.

It happened one summer afternoon, while cleaning in his father’s study. The room was lined with shelves, heavy with books bound in leather and stitched with gold. Noah was not meant to touch them. Omegas did not need books, his mother often said; knowledge was a weight meant for Alphas. But dust had gathered, and he had been tasked to clear it away.

His hand brushed a spine that jutted out from the others. A small, worn volume, its cover cracked with age. Curious, he pulled it free.

Inside, the pages smelled of earth and time. He turned them carefully, tracing the faded ink with his finger. It was a retelling of the first stories, the ones he had heard whispered in sermons: the garden, the alpha, the omega made to keep him company. But there was a name he had never heard before, etched sharp against the page.

Lilith.

He froze. The letters seemed to glow in the dim light of the study. An omega made from the same earth as Adam, the first Alpha. Not from his rib, not shaped in his shadow. EQUAL.

But the story turned dark. Lilith refused to submit. She would not lie beneath Adam, would not yield her body and will. She spoke against him, spoke against God Herself. And for this rebellion, she was cast out, cursed, condemned.

Noah closed the book so quickly the sound cracked through the study. His heart hammered. His hands shook.

When his father entered minutes later and found the book lying crooked on the shelf, his face hardened. He snatched it from his grasp.

“Where did you see this?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“I—I only opened it,” he stammered. “I did not mean—”

“You will not speak that name again,” he cut him off, his eyes blazing. “That woman was a demon, a corrupter. She turned from God, from order, from her place. Do you understand?”

Tears burned in his eyes. “Yes, Father.”

He leaned close, his hand gripping her chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You are not her. You will never be her. You will be better. You will be perfect.”

That night, his mother prayed over him, the words sharp as a knife:

“Cast out sin, cast out rebellion. Make my child pure, humble, obedient.”

Noah pressed his forehead to the floorboards, whispering the prayers alongside his mother until his lips went numb. He begged for forgiveness though he wasn’t sure what sin he had committed. He promised God—and his parents—that she would forget.

And for a time, he did.

The name sank deep into his chest, sealed beneath layers of prayer and obedience. He told himself he had never seen it. He told himself he had never wondered.

He doubled his efforts to become what his parents wanted. He kept his posture straight, his voice soft, his eyes lowered. He practiced kneeling until his muscles ached. He trained himself to anticipate commands before they were spoken.

Whenever a flicker of curiosity is sparked inside him—Why must Omegas be silent? Why must Alphas command?—he buried it with more prayer, more silence, more submission.

The years passed like beads on a rosary: one ritual after another, smooth and unchanging. By the time he was nearly grown, Noah had almost convinced himself that he was perfect. That he had forgotten.

But sometimes, in the darkest moments before dawn, he woke with the sound of his name echoing in his dreams. Not the name his parents gave him, but the forbidden one. The one he was not allowed to speak.

Lilith.

He would lie still, trembling in the dark, until the echo faded. Then he would rise, wash his face, and tell himself it had been nothing at all.

A shadow. A mistake.

A name that meant nothing.

By the time Noah reached his fifteenth year, he had become everything his parents wanted.

His mother often said it with pride, smoothing down the folds of her son's suit, checking his posture as if inspecting a statue.

“See how he walks? Straight and graceful. See how he lowers his eyes? Modest and pure. He is becoming the very image of a perfect Omega.”

Noah knew how to keep his voice soft, how to step lightly, how to make himself small in a room so that Alphas would not feel threatened. He could recite passages from scripture about obedience, about purity, about the sacred role of Omegas.

But he could not recite himself. Not really.

For every hour he was taught to pray, another hour was spent practicing how to serve. He learned how to kneel beside his father when he removed his shoes, how to set a table with absolute symmetry, how to bow so deeply his spine ached. He was taught to eat last, to speak last, to want last.

“It is not a sacrifice,” his father explained whenever his face betrayed weariness. “It is honor. The highest calling of an Omega is to reflect the greatness of his Alpha. You will not lead; you will not command. You will serve, and in serving you will be holy.”

Noah nodded. He always nodded.

His brother—an Alpha, strong even in youth—was treated differently. He was encouraged to stand tall, to speak loudly, to argue and even shout when he felt conviction. “Your voice is meant to shape the world,” their father told him.

When Noah once dared to laugh at the same time as his brother during a meal, their father’s hand struck the table. The sound silenced him instantly.

“You must not be loud,” he reminded him. “Your laughter is too bold. Boldness is rebellion, and rebellion is sin.”

The lesson clung to him longer than the sting of shame.

At gatherings, older women would study him as though he were merchandise being appraised. They praised his gentleness, his silence, his patience. Some even whispered that he was destined for a powerful Alpha, perhaps one with influence in temple or council.

His parents’ smiles grew wider each time such comments were made. Noah's role was not just to please God—it was to please them. His perfection would prove their devotion.

By sixteen, the whispers turned into discussions. He overheard his father late at night, speaking with another elder about potential suitors. One name surfaced more than once: Adrian Ashford. An Alpha of impeccable devotion, known for his strict piety and his commanding presence.

When Noah first heard the name, he pressed his hands together in prayer, telling himself it was what he wanted: a righteous Alpha, chosen by his parents, one who would lead him closer to God.

And yet, that night, when sleep refused to come, he felt the stirrings of a memory. Another name, buried deep but not dead, stirred against the walls of his mind.

He turned his face into his pillow, whispering prayers until the sound faded.

In the months that followed, his training grew harsher. He was instructed in the art of silence—not just in word, but in thought. “When your Alpha commands, you do not question. When he corrects, you do not resist. The most dangerous rebellion begins not with the tongue, but with the heart.”

Noah practiced biting down on his own words until his tongue ached. He learned to keep his face smooth even when his thoughts were loud. He practiced gratitude for his cage until he almost convinced himself it was freedom.

His mother often told him he was blessed. “Many Omegas struggle, but you were born graceful. It is in your nature.”

Noah smiled when he heard this. He let his mother believe it. But in the quietest moments—when he stood before the mirror, veil pulled low, eyes searching her own reflection—he wondered if it was true. Was obedience his nature, or had it been carved into him like a chisel carving stone?

One evening, as the family gathered for prayer, he caught his brother staring at him with something like pity. When he lowered his gaze, he whispered, “You look like a bird in a cage.”

The words stung more deeply than any correction. Birds were meant to sing, but his voice had been muted. Birds were meant to fly, but his wings had been clipped before he even knew they were there.

Still, when his father announced a year later that his betrothal was confirmed, Noah bowed his head in silence. Adrian would be his husband. A man of God, a man of power, a man who would keep him in perfect order.

“Do you see?” his father said, pride swelling in his chest. “Your obedience has been rewarded. You will be the envy of every Omega. Adrian will make you holy.”

Noah whispered the words he had been trained to say: “I am grateful.”

And he was. At least, he tried to be.

But that night, as the candles burned low and the house fell into sleep, he lay awake with a hollow ache in his chest. His lips moved in prayer, yet no sound came. Only silence.

And in that silence, faint and forbidden, a name he was supposed to have forgotten stirred again.

Lilith.

Not the name his parents gave him, but the one buried like a ghost.

He pressed his hands together until his knuckles whitened, forcing himself to pray louder in his mind. He begged for forgiveness. He promised he would not remember.

He had to forget.

He would be perfect.

He would obey.

But still, the whisper lingered.

The first time Noah met Adrian, he bowed so deeply that he nearly touched the floor.

He was taller than he imagined, broad-shouldered, his presence filling the prayer hall like incense. His voice, when he greeted his family, was deep and commanding, yet measured—like scripture spoken aloud.

His parents glowed with pride as they introduced him. “This is our son, Noah,” his father said, one hand resting firmly on his shoulder, as if to remind him to stay still.

Adrian's eyes moved over him, assessing, weighing. He nodded once, as though satisfied. “He is obedient,” he said simply.

Noah felt the weight of those words press against his ribs. He had not spoken of his kindness, nor his devotion, nor even his beauty. Only obedience.

His parents beamed at the praise.

In the weeks that followed, Noah was allowed only brief glimpses of his betrothed. Meetings were chaperoned, words measured. Adrian asked questions, but they were not truly questions—more commands dressed as conversation.

“You pray daily?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You serve your family without complaint?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You understand the role of an Omega wife?”

“Yes.”

Each answer pleased him. His approval was like sunlight in his parents’ eyes. They reminded him afterward how fortunate he was.

“You must not forget, Noah,” his mother whispered one night while fixing his suit, “many Omegas pray their whole lives for a match as holy as Adrian. You were chosen.”

Chosen.

 The word was meant to comfort, but it burned like a chain around his throat.

During one of their rare walks together—watched from a distance by his father—Adrian spoke more freely. “Your duty is simple,” he said. “To be pure, to be silent, to be mine. I will lead, and you will follow. God’s order is clear: the Alpha above, the Omega beneath. That is the harmony of creation.”

Noah bowed his head, his lips moving with the words he had practiced for years. “Yes, my lord.”

Inside, something stirred. A question unspoken, a protest he dared not give voice. But the memory of his father’s stern hand, his mother’s whispered prayers, pressed it down until it died in his throat.

As the weeks turned into months, preparations for the wedding consumed his household. Noah was dressed and measured, suited and instructed, polished until he gleamed like a vessel meant for ceremony. His body was treated as sacred, but not for his own sake—for Adrian's

His brother watched him quietly during those days, his expression unreadable. Once, when no one was near, he whispered, “You don’t look happy.”

Noah's hands tightened around the fabric he was folding. “Happiness is not required. Obedience is.”

He did not argue, but his silence spoke louder than words.

The night before the wedding, Noah knelt in his room while his mother prayed over him. The air was thick with incense, his mother’s voice rising and falling in fervent devotion. “Bless this union, Lord. Bind my son to his Alpha. Make him pure in his sight. May he never turn from him as the first omega turned from Adam. May he never take the path of—”

The prayer stopped short. His mother did not speak the forbidden name.

But Noah heard it anyway. Like a whisper under the prayer, rising unbidden from memory.

Lilith.

He flinched, his breath catching.

His mother pressed a hand to his head. “Still yourself, child. You must not tremble tomorrow. The eyes of God and alphas will be upon you.”

Noah nodded. He lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, the whisper echoing.

When the wedding day dawned, the house was alive with voices and movement. Noah draped in white cloth, pinned a veil so heavy he could scarcely breathe. His mother’s hands shook as he adjusted the folds, though his face never lost its proud composure.

The procession to the temple was long, the air thick with heat and expectation. Noah walked like a shadow, his steps perfectly measured, his gaze lowered.

Adrian waited at the altar, a figure carved from stone. When he extended his hand, he placed him into it, trembling only slightly beneath the weight of his grip.

The vows were spoken. Promises made not between equals, but between master and servant.

“I will lead,” Adrian declared.

“I will follow,” Noah whispered.

Applause rose around them. His parents’ faces shone with triumph. The elders nodded approvingly. Adrian's grip on his hand tightened, unyielding.

Inside, Noah felt the faintest crack run through his silence.

As the crowd chanted blessings, he heard it again—so softly he wondered if it was his imagination.

Lilith.

That name, but not the one spoken in blessing. The other one. The forbidden one.

The ghost that refused to be buried.

And as Adrian led him from the altar, hand locked around him, he realized the whisper had not been silenced. It was growing louder.