Iron on the Tongue

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.

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