The journal trembled in his hands. The paper seemed heavier than ever, as if soaked not only with ink but also with a fear that should not be written down. The doctor stood, not daring to sit down, even when his legs began to ache. He knew that while Serak was silent, movement could be interpreted as insolence. He read the same paragraph over and over, hoping that this time the owner's eyes would slip past – but he knew that this would not happen.
Serak sat by the window. His posture did not express aggression, his body seemed relaxed, and his face – almost detached. He watched the dark sky move behind the glass, oppressive with its dullness. He was silent. But in this silence there was a force, compressing the air in the room into one tight point between the doctor's shoulder blades.
The doctor continued to stand, holding the journal to his chest, until he heard the fabric of the chair rustle under the movement. Serak turned his head. His gaze was as precise and cutting as a knife. The man reached for his wine glass and drained it in one gulp, setting it down with a bang.
"And when will his abilities finally manifest?"
The voice was even, but the doctor felt as if the air had thickened. He swallowed, looked down at the lines in the journal, and only then realized that he had been reading the same words for a minute.
"The exact trigger has not yet been determined," he began, trying to sound neutral but not intimidated. "We suspected that physical arousal or stress could be a catalyst. However, the reaction is unstable. What happened last night was closer to the first manifestation, but the energy surge was weak…"
"Did he feel pain?" Serak interrupted, not raising his voice.
"And humiliation. He felt everything you expected from him. The mark was activated, but the effect was… non-standard. Changes in skin temperature, increased pulse in the jugular artery, sweating, hyperventilation - all typical of alpha binding. But...
Serak leaned back in his chair and crossed his fingers under his chin. A shadow slid across his face, and in it flashed something like a smirk.
"But?"
"He did not give in. Physically - yes. Mentally - no. We believe that his nature... resists. And this confirms one of the old hypotheses."
"About what exactly?"
The doctor took a deep breath. The answer had to be precise. Not defensive. Not exculpatory. Simply - naked as a blade.
"His blood structure is unique. We found fragments of the Imperial line. An old line, before the fall of the first capital, mentioned in legends. Those who were not just omegas - they... carried the energy of restoration or destruction. True life force. Legends said that their blood could revive something that had long since died and vice versa."
Serak did not move, showing no interest in such a unique discovery. It seemed that he was even bored.
"And you think that I bought it without knowing about it? But the question is: how much percent are you sure that he can do it?"
"I am sure," the doctor said. "But he does not know. And perhaps this very ignorance is his protection. Or ours."
There was silence. Serak stood up. Slowly approached the table. His fingers ran over the tabletop, over the empty cup in which wine had recently been. He did not look at the doctor, only said almost silently:
"Then we must not wait. He must begin to feel. I do not care what, even flesh, ashes or water. Anything that can revive this damn power under his skin.
The doctor nodded, not immediately realizing that Serak's words were not an order - it was a decision that had already been made. And he had to carry out this decision in the shortest possible time.
Serak didn't say another word. He didn't look at the doctor, he just slowly straightened up and, without changing his expression, raised his hand, pointing to the door. The gesture was almost polite, but anyone who had known him long enough understood: it was a refusal, final and without explanation. The doctor, trembling, as if squeezed out from the inside, hurriedly left without looking back, quietly closing the door behind him.
When the room was empty, Serak remained in silence, in no hurry to return to the papers. He went to the window again simply because behind the glass something was beginning that he had no control over, and in this impossibility of changing anything there was a barely perceptible crack inside him.
He stood motionless, clasping his hands behind his back, and outwardly he looked as cold-blooded as always, but inside, where confidence usually reigned, now an irritation was slowly and stubbornly growing that he was not used to feeling.
Omega.
Too stubborn and too quiet. This boy was too alive in his weakness and too unbroken in the way he was broken. There was too much in him that defied classification. His body responded to the mark, but did not submit. His scent was pure, but resisted the alpha dominance. His mind seemed simple, but his eyes looked too conscious in the most difficult moments. And it got in the way.
All of this got in the way.
Serak did not trust prophecies, did not build castles from words of fates and ancient lines until he felt the power with his own hands. He relied not on legends, but on results, and until that happened, nothing else mattered. But from the moment he first felt this boy's body respond to the touch of the mark not with submission, but with pain, he knew: there was something different here.
Something that would either become his weapon or his mistake.
And if he was wrong, and if this whole legend of reviving blood was dust and not gold, he was not going to drag it out. He would get rid of it. Like an object that did not justify its price. He would return it to the market, give it to the lower strata, throw it to those who gnaw the scraps from other people's bones. He would not even explain.
But if he was not wrong...
If this body contains something that can bring the fallen back to life, if in its blood sleeps an ancient power that has been sought, feared, hidden for so long... then everything changes.
Because such a power cannot simply be kept nearby.
It can either be subdued or destroyed.