Kael was ten years old when his world shattered.
It happened quietly—too quietly for something that would change the course of his life forever.
His mother had been fine the night before. She had tucked him into bed, brushing back his dark hair with soft hands and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"Sleep well, sweetheart," Evelyn had whispered, her voice soft and warm. "I'll be here when you wake up."
But when Kael woke the next morning, his room was too quiet. Too still.
The estate always had an eerie silence to it, but this was different.
He wandered through the cold stone halls, his small feet making soft sounds against the marble floors. He called for her, but his voice echoed back at him, swallowed by the emptiness.
He searched the gardens where she usually sat, the small wing where they had been cast aside.
He found her in her bedroom.
Still.
Pale.
Unmoving.
Kael hesitated at the door. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.
He stepped forward, reaching for her hand. Cold. Too cold.
"Mother?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
She didn't respond.
His small hands shook as he pressed against her shoulder, trying to wake her.
"Mother, wake up."
Nothing.
"Please..."
The door creaked behind him.
A quiet gasp.
One of the maids.
She turned on her heel and hurried away, her footsteps sharp and quick as she disappeared down the hall.
Moments later, two servants arrived.
Their faces were blank. Detached.
Kael barely had time to register them before they pulled him away.
"No!" He screamed, thrashing in their arms. "Let me go!"
"She's gone," one of the servants said bluntly. "There's nothing you can do."
Kael struggled harder. "She's not! Let go!"
"She's gone."
The words rang in his ears, sharp as a blade.
He screamed again, his voice breaking as his small hands reached toward his mother's still form.
But no one listened.
That night, Evelyn Vaelora was erased.
There was no funeral.
No mourning.
No grief.
No ceremony.
Servants whispered, but none of them cried. None of them looked surprised.
Her body was removed from the estate under the cover of darkness, as if she had never existed.
No obituary was written.
No condolences were sent.
Because to the House of Vaelora, Evelyn had been dead the moment she gave birth to an omega.
Kael sat on the cold marble floor outside his room, his small knees pulled to his chest. His cheeks were raw from crying, his hands curled into trembling fists.
Footsteps. Sharp. Measured.
Kael didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
Alaric Vaelora stood before him, tall and imposing. His dark blue eyes—so much like Kael's—held no warmth.
"What happened?" Kael's voice was hoarse.
Alaric's gaze didn't soften.
"She's gone," he said simply. "That's all that matters."
Kael's chest squeezed painfully.
"But why?"
A flicker of something passed through Alaric's expression, too quick to name.
Then, colder— "Because weakness has consequences."
Kael's lips parted. A sharp breath. His mind reeled.
"She wasn't weak," he whispered.
Alaric's gaze sharpened. "Then why is she dead?"
Kael's breath hitched. His small hands curled into his sleeves. His father's words sliced through him, the weight of them crushing.
"You let them hurt her," Kael said quietly. His blue eyes, damp with grief, lifted toward his father with quiet accusation.
Alaric's jaw flexed.
"Get up," he ordered.
Kael didn't move.
His small body trembled beneath the weight of anger, of grief, of something he did not yet have a name for.
"I hate you," Kael whispered.
Alaric's eyes flashed. His hand shot out, yanking Kael up by the arm.
Kael stumbled, feet barely catching the floor. Alaric's grip was tight, unrelenting, as he dragged him down the hall.
"You don't have the luxury of weakness," Alaric hissed. "You are a Vaelora in name only, but you are still under my roof. You will learn to behave accordingly."
Kael thrashed. "Let go!"
Alaric didn't.
He shoved Kael through a set of dark oak doors into a cold, windowless room.
Kael hit the floor. Hard.
His small hands pressed against the freezing stone as Alaric stood in the doorway.
"Your mother is gone," his voice was cold. Sharp. "No one is coming to protect you anymore."
Kael's chest heaved.
His mother's face flashed behind his eyes.
Her warmth.
Her smile.
Her promise— "You belong here."
And now she was gone.
"I hate you," Kael whispered again.
His voice was sharper this time. Stronger.
His chest burned.
Quiet rage simmered in his veins, steady, controlled.
"I'll never be like you."
Alaric's gaze darkened.
"Good," he said. "Because you never could."
The door slammed shut, plunging Kael into darkness.
He stayed on the cold floor, his small body trembling with the weight of loss, of anger, of something sharper than grief.
His mother was gone.
His father had rejected him.
The Vaeloras had cast him aside.
Alaric's words echoed in his mind— Weakness has consequences.
Kael's hands curled into fists.
His breath steadied.
His heart pounded.
They thought he was weak.
They thought he was nothing.
But he would prove them wrong.
He would make them regret turning their backs on him.
He would survive.
And one day—
He would make them all pay.
---
After Evelyn's death, something inside Kael shattered.
That night—the night they stole her away under the cover of darkness—was the night he learned what it meant to be truly alone. The quiet rejection that had once simmered beneath the surface became sharp, cold, undeniable. No more stolen moments of warmth, no more whispered reassurances in the dark.
She was gone.
Kael never spoke to Alaric again after that night.
Not once.
And Alaric never spoke to him.
They crossed paths, of course. The Vaelora estate was vast, but not vast enough to keep Kael from occasionally standing in his father's shadow. He would see Alaric moving through the halls—tall, sharp, untouchable. Cold blue eyes that never acknowledged him, never stopped to see him.
It wasn't hatred.
It was worse.
It was indifference.
Kael never spoke to Margus either.
His grandfather had always been distant, but after Evelyn's death, the chill in his gaze became something crueler. Kael would sit at the far end of the grand dining table, silent, while the others whispered over wine and candlelight. His presence was tolerated but unwelcome, a reminder of something shameful.
Sometimes, Margus would glance at him, assessing.
One night, Kael heard him speak to Alaric in the study.
"He's a disgrace to our bloodline." The old man's voice was sharp, disgusted. "You should have cast him out completely."
"I did." Alaric's voice was colder. "He just refuses to leave."
Kael sat in the dark hallway outside the study, his hands curled into fists.
He refused to cry.
He learned to endure.
It started with small things. The servants "forgot" to bring him food. His belongings went missing or were found broken. His clothes disappeared. His rooms were left uncleaned.
But Dorian made it worse.
"You're not a real Vaelora." His cousin sneered one afternoon, arms crossed as he stared Kael down in the gardens. "Just a mistake they were too proud to erase."
Kael ignored him, turning a page in the book he had been reading—one of the few things of his mother's they had allowed him to keep.
Dorian knocked it from his hands.
Kael's gaze flicked up, slow, deliberate.
"Pick it up." His voice was quiet.
Dorian smirked. "What did you just say?"
Kael stepped forward, gaze dark. "Pick. It. Up."
Dorian shoved him. Kael staggered back a step but did not fall.
Laughter rang through the garden.
"You're an omega," Dorian sneered. "Weak. Worthless."
Kael's fingers curled into fists.
Weak. Worthless. Forgotten.
Not anymore.
Dorian reached out to shove him again, but this time, Kael moved. His body twisted fluidly, sidestepping the attack. Dorian stumbled. Kael's foot hooked behind his ankle.
Dorian hit the ground hard.
Kael stood over him, eyes glinting.
"Pick it up," he repeated, voice like a blade.
Dorian's face twisted in rage. He lunged—
"Enough."
Alaric's voice cut through the air.
Kael's breath caught. He turned, pulse pounding, as his father stepped forward.
Alaric's gaze slid over Dorian, then landed on Kael.
It was not approval.
It was not pride.
It was nothing.
Alaric's expression did not shift.
Alaric's gaze lingered a fraction too long—assessing. Calculating. Then, colder—"Don't waste your time. It's beneath you."
Then, he turned and walked away.
Kael stood still, fists trembling at his sides, watching his father disappear down the hall.
Dorian rose, brushing himself off with a sneer.
"You'll regret that," he hissed before storming off.
Kael barely heard him.
He was thinking about Alaric's words.
Beneath you.
As if he were speaking to a stranger. As if Kael was nothing.
Something inside him hardened.
After that, he spoke even less. He ate alone. Slept in the coldest, most isolated part of the estate. No one looked for him. No one noticed when he disappeared into the archives, studying the history of the Vaeloras, the intricate games of power that ruled the elite.
He studied finance, politics, and manipulation.
He memorized the estate's layout. Learned the family's investments. The alliances. The enemies.
He watched. He waited.
He let them think he was nothing.
Weak. Powerless. Forgotten.
Let them believe it.
They thought they had erased him. Forgotten him.
But Kael Vaelora was not meant to be forgotten.