The Bloom of Thirteen

Thirteen was the age when innocence began to slip away. For Elias, it happened quietly, like petals unfolding on a flower he never wished to be.

He had always been a delicate child, but as his thirteenth year settled over him, something shifted. The roundness of his cheeks gave way to finer lines, his limbs stretched into lean grace, and his voice—soft, lilting—carried a fragile music that lingered in the air after he spoke. His lashes were dark and long, his mouth full and gentle, his skin pale as porcelain.

Jane noticed first.

At night, by the lamplight, she would watch him as he read aloud from one of her worn books, the glow of the candle gilding the curve of his cheek. Her heart tightened with dread. He was beautiful. Too beautiful. The kind of beauty their world did not forgive in an omega.

She prayed no one else would see. But the world always saw.

---

The whispers began in hushed tones outside their home. Neighbors lingered a little too long when they caught sight of him through a window, murmuring as they walked away. Market women clucked their tongues knowingly. Even passing strangers let their gazes linger in a way that made Jane’s stomach coil with fear.

And then came Kevin’s friends.

They were alphas who visited to drink, to boast, to spit their laughter into the corners of the house. Elias tried to make himself small when they entered, but smallness did not hide beauty. Their eyes found him anyway.

“Your boy’s coming of age, Kevin,” one drawled, his gaze sweeping over Elias like a hand. “He’s going to make some alpha very happy one day.”

Another smirked, raising his cup. “Look at him—already prettier than half the omegas at the market.”

A third chuckled low. “Careful, or someone might snatch him before he’s ripe.”

The words clung to Elias, even when he didn’t understand them fully. He felt the weight of those eyes on his skin long after the men were gone. He stopped lingering near the window. He stopped speaking when others were near. His silence grew heavy, his movements careful.

Jane watched it all, helpless. Each glance, each whispered remark, carved away another piece of his safety.

---

The law protected him, but only on paper. Omegas could not be bought, sold, or wed until nineteen. Six years—six years of waiting, six years of careful grooming, six years of being measured like cattle before auction. Everyone knew it. Everyone abided by it. But the years in between were no shelter. They were preparation.

Kevin knew it too.

Where Jane had tried to teach Elias gently—to let survival slip into his bones like quiet lessons—Kevin carved obedience into him like a brand.

“Stand straighter,” Kevin barked one evening, his hand gripping Elias’s chin so hard the boy winced. “No alpha wants a weakling who slouches.”

Another night, he forced Elias to kneel in front of him for hours. “Submission,” he said coldly, his drink sloshing in his hand. “This is what it looks like. This is what they’ll demand of you.”

Elias’s legs shook until he collapsed, his knees bruised and burning. Kevin struck him across the face. “Pathetic. Get up.”

Jane had tried to intervene once, her voice trembling with desperation. “He’s just a boy—”

Kevin’s glare cut her down before her words could finish. “You coddle him too much. Do you want him to die the moment an alpha lays claim? Better he learns pain now than later.”

So Jane said nothing after that. She swallowed her fury, hiding it behind a bowed head, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her dress. But when the nights grew quiet and Kevin lay in drunken sleep, she gathered her son into her arms.

She stroked his hair, pressed her lips against his temple, and whispered words she barely believed herself. “You’re strong, Elias. Stronger than they know. Promise me you’ll never forget—you are more than what they want to make of you.”

Elias clung to her. He wanted to believe her, wanted to hold those words close like a shield, but even at thirteen he was learning the truth: in this world, beauty was not a gift for omegas. It was a curse.

---

The whispers grew.

At the well, Jane overheard women muttering behind her back. “That boy—he’ll draw trouble. You mark my words.”

At the market, a butcher chuckled to himself, eyeing Elias with too much interest. “Pretty thing. Won’t last long in this neighborhood.”

Even the priest at the chapel, where Jane sometimes took Elias to pray, cast him a look of pity edged with something unspoken.

Elias felt them all. He carried them home, their weight pressing down on him until even silence became suffocating. He avoided mirrors, avoided windows, avoided speaking too loudly. He shrank himself, though his body betrayed him by blooming into something more striking each day.

---

One night, Jane found him sitting on the floor of his room, his knees pulled to his chest. He didn’t look up when she entered. His small voice floated into the still air.

“Mama… why do they all look at me like that?”

Jane’s chest ached. She sat beside him, wrapping her arms around his thin frame. He trembled against her.

“They see what they want, Elias,” she whispered. “Not who you are. Not my boy.”

His voice cracked. “I don’t want them to look.”

She pressed her lips to his hair, fighting back her tears. “I know. I know, my love.”

For the rest of the night, she held him as though her arms alone could keep the world at bay.

---

But even her love could not hide what he was becoming.

At thirteen, Elias bloomed, and his bloom was no blessing. It was a target painted across his skin, a promise the world intended to collect.

And Jane—his mother, his shield, his only refuge—could already feel the clock ticking.

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