The Beta's Beloved

History belongs to the victors. So it is with the Druids and their mad god, who have twisted the tale to their advantage. The story they propagate is the most malevolent thing to exist. If you were to ask a druid child about the ancient tales, they would recount that Lycaon, the progenitor of all Lycans, was a psychotic madman who killed Zeus’s beloved, Ganymede, and deserved the curse the mad god placed upon him. But a Lycan child would tell you the unpopular truth: our ancestor was a lover, the beloved of Ganymede. When Zeus’s lust for Ganymede became evident, Ganymede knew what had to be done. To be loved by a god is terrifying, for the heavens are unforgiving. Ganymede understood that only in hell could he find peace. His final gift to his lover was himself, bones and all, and Lycaon obliged, thereby incurring the wrath of the mad god. The Druids believe our fate is justice, and in a way, it is. Because this curse was born out of love—the greatest of all curses. *** NEAL'S POV The castle was alive with movement. Omegas rushed through the halls, hanging wreaths and garlands, their laughter and chatter bouncing off the stone walls. Camille and I stood near the main staircase, directing the staff as they bustled about. She had taken charge effortlessly, pointing here and there, her voice bright and encouraging. I, on the other hand, was struggling to stay present. “Does that wreath look crooked to you?” she asked, pointing to one dangling near the arched windows. When I didn’t respond, she tapped me lightly on the arm. “Neal? Something wrong?” I forced a small smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “Family time is unavoidable this season,” I muttered. “My father is unusually keen to see me after… well, after the popularity of my resurrection among the Numinous.” My voice was flat, each word heavier than it should’ve been. “And that bothers me.” Camille tilted her head, a look of curiosity mixed with concern softening her features. “He can’t be that bad.” Her words hit like a knife twisting in my gut, dragging a memory to the surface—one I’d spent years trying to bury. My father standing over me, his face unreadable, as the sickly scent of silvermist filled my lungs. My body convulsing, every nerve screaming in pain, while his cold voice echoed in the background. “You’ll thank me for this one day, Neal.” I shook my head sharply, banishing the image. “You seem to be adjusting quickly,” I said, steering the conversation away from dangerous territory. “To all of this, I mean.” “Celebrations, I love,” she said with a shrug, her grin infectious. “But what is this day even about? I noticed the Druids celebrate it too.” Her question pulled a snort from me. “It’s… a different kind of day for them,” I said. “For us, it’s a day of great sadness. At least it started that way. Sadness we mask with saccharine happiness.” I gestured vaguely to the decorations around us. “Yule is different now. We celebrate the strength of Ganymede and Lycaon—their loyalty to each other, even in the face of the mad god’s dissent.” “Zeus,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “That’s Zeus, isn’t it?” I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t honor the mad god, Your Majesty,” I said lightly, though there was an edge beneath my words. “I should get back to packing.” Before she could respond, I turned and headed to my quarters. My room was chaos, suitcases and clothes strewn across every surface. It wasn’t like me to leave things in such disarray, but packing for the journey home had sapped what little energy I had left. I crossed the room, stepping over a heap of boots, and picked up the photo lying on my desk. It was a small, worn picture of my mother and me, taken years ago. Her arm was draped around my shoulders, her smile wide and warm, her hair cascading in dark waves that I used to think made her look like royalty. I stared at it, my thumb tracing the edge of the frame, the weight of the past pressing down on my chest. She hadn’t been there to protect me when my father poisoned me, but she’d made up for it in so many other ways. Still, the thought of seeing her now, knowing she’d want explanations I didn’t give, made my stomach churn. I tucked the photo into my bag, sealing it inside as though that would also lock away the feelings threatening to spill out. The sharp ring of my phone broke the silence, startling me. I glanced at the screen and froze. Mom. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. Pretending I hadn’t seen it. But the phone kept ringing, insistent. With a sigh, I picked it up and pressed it to my ear. “Neal,” her voice came through, soft but with an edge that told me she already knew too much. “How are you?” “I’m fine, Mom,” I said, forcing the words out. They sounded hollow, even to me. There was a pause, just long enough to make my skin prickle. “You don’t sound fine,” she said eventually. “Are you coming home?” I sat down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair. “Yes. I’m coming.” “You don’t have to, you know,” she said quietly. “Not if it’s too much.” Too much. The words hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Too much like the last time I’d been home. Too much like the memories that clung to every corner of that place. “I’ll be fine,” I said again, though my voice cracked this time. I cleared my throat and tried to sound more convincing. “It’s just a few days.” “Neal,” she said, her tone shifting to that soft, maternal one that always managed to undo me. “You don’t have to prove anything to him.” I squeezed my eyes shut, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m not proving anything,” I said, though we both knew it was a lie. The phone felt heavier in my hand as I pressed it closer to my ear, trying to catch the subtle shifts in my mother’s tone. “What about you?” I asked, my voice quieter now. “Are things fine?” “Things are fine,” she said quickly, too quickly. I sighed. “I’ll be there soon, Mom. Please don’t lie to me.” “I’m not lying,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Ever since the news got out that you battled a De'Crescent healer and came out unscathed, your father has been… singing your praises around and playing proper family man.” My breath caught for a moment, irritation creeping into my chest. “That’s far from the truth,” I muttered, leaning back against the bedframe. “It wasn’t any healer. It was just Queen Camille’s sister.” “The fascinating part for everyone who’s heard your father’s tall tales,” she continued, ignoring my tone, “is that you returned from the dead. You know how they talk. A miracle child.” I groaned and ran a hand down my face. “Is that why you called, Mom?” “Of course not,” she said, a bit too defensively. Her words slowed, deliberate now. “I know you come around this time of year to placate your father and check up on me, but I’m telling you, Neal. Don’t come this year.” The shift in her voice was subtle but enough to make my pulse quicken. “Why would you say that?” I asked, sitting up straighter. “Did something happen?” She hesitated, and for a moment, I could hear her exhale softly on the other end. “Your… popularity,” she said carefully, “has been causing certain houses to take an interest in aligning with the House of Nagle.” I frowned, my jaw tightening. “What does that mean?” My voice had an edge now. “I’m Galdina.” “Neal…” she began, then paused. “You know your father sees your name change as you being rebellious toward him. He’s always thought of it that way. Same as your… other thing.” The unspoken words hung in the air like a heavy fog, but I knew exactly what she meant. I pressed my lips together, saying nothing, and waited for her to continue. “This,” she said finally, “has made the House of Bogumila want to honor a long-forgotten promise made between our houses.” I sat there, stunned into silence for a moment, the name sparking recognition somewhere deep in my memory. “Bogumila?” I echoed, my voice hard. “Aren’t they Druids?” “They are,” she confirmed. “What promise could they possibly want to honor with Lycans?” I asked, though the sinking feeling in my chest was already giving me the answer I didn’t want to hear. There was a long pause, as if she was trying to find the right words, or perhaps the courage to say them. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet I almost didn’t catch it. “Marriage.” The word hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. “Marriage?” I repeated, the disbelief evident in my tone. “To who?” “I don’t know,” she said quickly. “The details are unclear. But Bogumila has been reaching out to your father ever since the news of your… resurrection. They see it as a sign.” “A sign?” I nearly laughed, but the sound that escaped was more bitter than amused. “A sign of what? That I’m a pawn they can shuffle around?” “Neal,” she said softly, her voice pleading now. “I don’t want this for you. That’s why I’m telling you to stay away. If you come back, your father will push this. He’ll use it to cement his alliances, no matter what you want.” My head was spinning, the walls of my room suddenly feeling too close. “This is ridiculous,” I said, standing up and pacing the length of the room. “They can’t just— No. This can’t happen.” “Neal,” my mother interrupted, her voice sharper now. “Listen to me. You can’t fight every battle. Sometimes, the best thing to do is walk away.” I stopped, staring at the far wall as her words settled over me. Walk away. That was easy for her to say. “You know I can’t do that,” I said finally, my voice low but firm. “Then be careful,” she said, her tone heavy with resignation. “Your father is playing a dangerous game, Neal. And this time, you’re the piece he’s moving across the board.” The line went quiet after that, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke. My mother had always been good at hiding her emotions, but I could hear the strain in her breathing now, the weight of everything she wasn’t saying. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way,” I said eventually, my voice softer now. “Just… think about what I said,” she replied. “Please.” “I will.” We hung up, but the conversation stayed with me, each word circling in my mind like vultures waiting to pick apart the remains of my sanity. Marriage. Bogumila. The Druids. My father. It was too much, all of it. I turned back to the mess of my room, staring at the bag I’d packed, the photo of my mother tucked away inside. For a moment, I considered unpacking it all, locking the door, and pretending none of this was happening. But I knew better. I always did.