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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.

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