The afternoon heat had begun to bleed out of the city sky, leaving behind a bruised, lavender twilight that settled over the grand plaza of the central town square. Giant, floating neon lanterns hummed softly overhead, casting a warm, iridescent glow over the cobblestones below. The air was a heavy, intoxicating cocktail of high-end floral colognes, expensive wines, and the thick, undeniable static of active pheromones.

It was the monthly Mate Seeking Party—a grand, centuries-old tradition designed for the city’s elite and rising classes to mingle, display their lineage, and test the waters of biological compatibility.

Jannah walked along the outer perimeter of the plaza, her hands buried deep inside the pockets of a simple, dark trench coat that hid her form. She was bored. The vastness of the Grefo estate had begun to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage after the explosive psychological warfare she had traded with Dorrent the night before. With nothing to occupy her mind, her grandfather’s words from the medical facility had kept echoing in her thoughts: "There is a mate party in the town square this weekend. You should go."

She wasn’t here to participate. She knew the reality of her blood. The Firstborn Female Blight was a permanent mark on her soul; she was a volatile, walking disaster to any Alpha who dared to seek a true bond with her. The memories of the last six men—were a permanent shield around her heart. But sometimes, when the loneliness became too heavy to bear, she liked to come to these festivals just to watch. She liked to stand in the shadows, an invisible ghost, observing the vibrant, easy joy of normal people who didn’t have to carry the weight of a cursed lineage.

Across the square, a sleek, matte-black luxury hover-transport glided silently to a halt by the VIP velvet ropes.

The door slid upward, and Dorrent stepped out into the crisp evening air. He looked immaculate, dressed in a sharp, tailored midnight-blue suit that emphasized the massive, intimidating breadth of his shoulders. But his face was a mask of pure, unadulterated irritation.

"I still can’t believe I let you drag me to this circus, Shadron," Dorrent growled, his voice a low rasp as he adjusted his cufflinks.

Beside him, a tall, broad-shouldered Alpha with short-cropped silver hair and a mischievous grin chuckled, throwing a casual arm over Dorrent’s shoulder. It was Shadron, the heir to the Valerius Defense Conglomerate and Dorrent’s only true best friend since their days at the military academy.

"A bet is a bet, my corporate king," Shadron laughed, flashing his VIP pass to the bowing security guards. "You swore on the quarterly market projections that the Hodin deal would close by Friday afternoon. It didn’t. You lost. Now, your punishment is to spend exactly two hours acting like a normal, red-blooded Alpha at a social gathering instead of burying yourself in your boring tower."

Dorrent didn’t reply, his jaw clenching tightly as they walked into the thick of the crowd. Every step he took felt like walking over hot coals. He loathed these places. Ever since the affliction had taken over his body five years ago, mate seeking parties had become his personal version of hell.

Why seek a mate when he couldn’t even claim her? What was the purpose of entering a den of fertile, beautiful omegas when he was a hollow king who couldn’t even rise to the occasion? Every scent that hit his nostrils, every flirtatious glance from a passing lady, was just a brutal, mocking reminder of what he had lost. He had spent three years dodging Joanne’s advances precisely because he knew the illusion of his apex status would shatter the moment he tried to take a woman to bed.

"Look at the stage, Dorrent," Shadron whispered suddenly, nudging his elbow as they reached the tiered VIP lounge that overlooked the center of the plaza. "They’re bringing out the main event. The host mentioned her earlier."

The vibrant chatter of the thousands of guests in the square suddenly began to die down. The bright neon lanterns dimmed, shifting into a deep, moody sapphire hue that focused entirely on the center stage.

The Master of Ceremonies stepped up to the microphone, his voice booming across the cobblestones. "Ladies and gentlemen, Alphas and Omegas of the high district... tonight, we are honored to host a voice that has captured the underground theatres of the lower sectors and the secret lounges of the elite. A woman whose melody is said to bypass the mind and speak directly to the soul. Put your hands together for the elusive... Diva!"

The crowd erupted into frantic applause.

From behind a curtain of silver mist, the singer stepped out onto the platform. The breath caught in the throats of nearly every man in the audience. She was wearing a breathtaking, midnight-black silk dress that clung to her skin like water, perfectly accentuating a narrow, incredibly slim waist before flaring out slightly over the correct, elegant curve of her hips. It was a silhouette that was both fragile and intensely striking, holding an undeniable presence on the stage.

Yet, her face remained an absolute mystery. True to her reputation, she wore a beautifully crafted, silver-threaded silk face mask that covered everything from the bridge of her nose down to her chin, leaving only her wide, dark eyes visible under the stage lights. Many in the upper districts had offered millions just to see the face behind the music, but she had always refused, letting the mystery only fuel her legend.

The lady stood far below in the general crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs as she looked up at the microphone. She knew this stage. She knew what she had to do to survive, to keep her mind off the chaos of her life.

Up in the VIP lounge, Dorrent leaned against the glass railing, his eyes scanning the stage with his usual clinical indifference. He expected another over-trained, artificial pop star from the entertainment district.

Then, Diva tilted her head, closed her eyes, and began to sing.

The first note that left her lips carried through the speakers and sliced through the air like a silver wire. It was a voice of pure, unadulterated tone—bewitching, hauntingly deep, and laced with a raw, ancient melancholy that immediately gripped the entire square in a breathless, paralyzed silence. It was a melody that felt almost primal, carrying a strange, intoxicating vibration that defied the vanity of the crowd.

The moment the sound hit Dorrent’s ears, a violent, physical shockwave ripped straight through his nervous system.

He froze, his fingers gripping the glass railing. His pupils dilated to their absolute limits, the winter-storm gray of his eyes flashing with a sudden, wild intensity. The iced coffee tumbler in his other hand slipped, shattering against the marble floor of the lounge, but he didn’t even look down.

He looked at the silhouette of the singer—the rare, porcelain-pale skin of her bare shoulders catching the sapphire light, the impossibly narrow, delicate curve of her tiny waist, and the stubborn, elegant tilt of her head as she held the microphone.

It was a figure he had seen before.

Dorrent’s breath hitched in his throat, his heart hammering a frantic, chaotic rhythm against his ribs as he stared through the mist, completely surprised, shocked, and utterly consumed by the bewitching voice of the mysterious woman on the stage.