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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.

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