There was a room no one spoke of.
It wasn't hidden in the traditional sense. It had no secret lock, no trapdoor or magical ward. It was simply… ignored.
A long hallway in the east wing, behind an arched wooden door with peeling gold paint. Servants never cleaned it. Guards never walked past it. Tutors never mentioned it. And Lady Ismara, whenever she passed that direction, would turn her head sharply to the side—as if it didn't exist.
Which, of course, made Elias want to see it more than anything.
He had noticed it years ago, but only now, at six years old, did he feel prepared.
He waited for the right moment: a rainy afternoon, when Ronel had left early for a gathering, and his nursemaid was busy with Lady Ismara's gowns. He slipped down the corridors in silence, steps muffled by velvet slippers.
He approached the door.
It creaked open at his touch.
Inside, it was dim. Dusty. The smell of candle wax and old fabric filled the air. But what caught his eye were not the books or shelves or the long velvet curtains.
It was the children.
Four of them.
Sitting in silence on cushions.
All omegas.
All dressed plainly. Soft tunics. No jewelry. No scent blockers.
They turned to him.
No one spoke.
A girl with dark braids tilted her head. A boy with wide gray eyes blinked slowly. A small one, maybe five, clutched a woven rabbit and said, in the tiniest voice:
"You're the noble omega. The special one."
Elias swallowed.
"What is this place?"
The girl stood. "It's the Whisper Room."
"Why?"
"Because it's where we come to remember how to whisper instead of scream."
Her name was Maeve, and she was nine.
Too old to still be unbonded, she said, which meant her family had given up on presenting her to court.
She was too clever. Too plain. Too opinionated.
So they sent her to Virelle.
"For training," she said dryly. "To refine me."
Elias watched her speak with admiration.
She was calm, but not meek. She held herself with quiet strength. Her eyes burned with the same fire he recognized in his own reflection.
"Do they beat you?" Elias asked.
Maeve shook her head. "Not here. That would leave marks. They just tell you, over and over, that your only value is in being claimed. They make you repeat it until you believe it."
The boy with gray eyes, Finn, added, "Some believe it. Most pretend."
The smallest one, Lilo, didn't say much. But he crawled into Elias's lap after an hour and clung to him like he'd known him forever.
Elias didn't move.
He stayed until the bells rang for supper.
Then he returned every chance he could.
He didn't tell Rowan.
Rowan was becoming... different.
His scent was stronger now. Sharper. More commanding. He didn't mean to be threatening—but the world had begun to change how it treated him. Alphas were praised for growing bold. For taking space. For speaking over others.
Elias noticed.
So he spoke less around Rowan.
Watched more.
Rowan, for his part, seemed restless. Like something was shifting under his skin.
"They say we'll be matched early," he said one day, out of nowhere.
Elias looked up from his book.
"Who's we?"
"You and me."
Elias closed the book.
"Do you want that?"
Rowan looked away. "I don't know. Everyone expects it."
"But what do you expect?"
Rowan frowned. "I don't know."
Elias nodded once.
And didn't bring it up again.
But that night, in the Whisper Room, he asked Maeve, "Can you break a bond before it forms?"
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then said, "Only if you're willing to risk exile."
"Or worse," Finn added.
Elias thought of the manor.
Of Ismara's frozen smile.
Of Rowan's growing silence.
And said, softly:
"I'd rather be exiled than owned."
The Whisper Room became more than refuge. It became strategy.
Maeve taught them how to write in code.
Finn shared overheard gossip from the kitchen.
Elias drew maps. Of the manor. Of their schedules. Of the outer walls.
Lilo brought stories from other servants. About omegas who had vanished. Some to arranged bonds. Some to brothels. Some to dungeons.
They began to call themselves the Quiet Ones.
They made a pact:
No matter what happened. No matter who was bonded or silenced or sent away, they would find each other again. They would rebuild. They would resist.
One day, Elias returned to his chamber and found a note on his pillow.
One word.
Run.
He froze.
The scent on the note was faintly metallic. Not Rowan's. Not Maeve's.
He checked the Whisper Room that night.
Empty.
No cushions. No children. No books.
Nothing.
He went to the garden the next morning. Waited for Rowan.
He didn't come.
Elias felt the walls of the estate closing in again.
But he didn't panic.
He wrote.
He planned.
He whispered.
And when night fell, he began digging beneath the loose stone in his bedroom wall.
Because the Whisper Room was gone.
But Elias had already built the next one inside himself.
He carved a space behind his bed where the moonlight couldn't reach.
He stacked his coded notes, books, and sketches there.
He drew new maps. Not of the estate—but of every possible route to the forest. Of each servant's rotation. Of where the dogs were kept. Of which horses could be taken without alerting the stablemaster.
He began teaching himself to run. Quietly, at night, when no one watched.
Each footstep a prayer. Each breath a vow.
He would not be silenced.
He dreamed of Maeve sometimes. Her voice like gravel and sunlight.
In his dreams, she wasn't afraid. She led armies.
And when he woke, Elias felt fire in his lungs.
Not fear.
Purpose.