Chapter 45: Chapter 44. Was Never the Stronger One
Erengrad Empire Royal Palace
Dietrich didn’t receive any news that day. No messenger, no secret letter, not even the faintest whisper carried to his ears. He had expected something—anything—by now. The Black Covenant had never failed him before, and this time he had even placed a fortune in their hands to make certain of it.
He had bribed, threatened, and commanded the Chancellor himself to oversee the matter to make sure the assassins understood that failure isn’t an option. Gold flowed like water from his coffers, each coin meant to buy Roxanne’s death and Vivianne’s return to him. While his wedding with Liselotte de Rothschild is in just eight more days.
And yet, silence is all he received. The longer it lasted, the more it gnawed at him. A single day without a word already felt unbearable, but two days of silence burned like poison in his chest. His mind spun with possibilities, "had the assassins faltered? Had Roxanne’s demonic power crushed them before they could strike? Or had the Chancellor betrayed him, pocketing his gold and mocking him behind closed doors?"
Dietrich clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. He was the crown prince, the firstborn son of the Emperor himself. It wasn’t his place to be ignored. His orders were meant to be absolute, his will the law of the land. Yet here he is; even as the emperor of the empire, he is still waiting like a common fool, doubting his own influence, and feeling a creeping dread that the world itself is laughing at him.
From the moment of his birth, Dietrich had been taught that he was superior. His tutors, his attendants, and even his own father reminded him that he was destined to rule. He was told he would be the greatest emperor since the founding of their dynasty.
The empire’s pride, its shining jewel, the alpha to whom all omegas would bow their heads. He had believed every word. He had walked through the palace halls with his chin high, watching courtiers bend the knee, convinced that such reverence was his by right.
But all of that confidence began to fracture the day a child was born with the blood of the Erengrad royal. An omega princess of the Erengrad Empire, the empire’s little sister, delicate yet cunning, gave birth to an alpha. And not just any alpha, but one born with power so powerful and undeniable that even as an infant she eclipsed him. Her birth name was Roxanne de Erengrad.
He remembered the first time he saw her, a small child barely able to walk, yet the air bent around her like she was already its master. At two years old, she could silence a chamber full of attendants with nothing more than a glance. At three, when most children were still stumbling through words, she had already unleashed the force of her alpha command, bending servants and guards alike to her will as though their bodies had no choice but to obey.
Dietrich, on the other hand, had not manifested his alpha abilities until he was fifteen. Fifteen. By then, Roxanne’s power was already a matter of fear across the continent. People whispered her name with awe, calling her a prodigy, a cursed blessing of the Erengrad bloodline. They feared her lineage: daughter of the omega princess of Erengrad and of Lord Ashkareth, the strongest Demon King to walk the earth in five hundred years.
It was not simply her strength that made her terrifying. It was her presence. Even as a child, she was striking—beautiful in a way that unsettled, her features sharp yet graceful, with eyes that glowed faintly with the mark of her heritage. There was elegance in the way she carried herself, but beneath it all lay a danger that no one could mistake. Courtiers who once rushed to praise Dietrich now lowered their voices when speaking of her, as though saying too much might summon her wrath.
He, the crown prince of the empire, should have been their pride, their focus, and their chosen leader. Instead, he became a shadow beside her light. His authority meant little when even generals and noble houses began to measure his worth against hers. She had been a child, and yet grown men trembled before her.
By blood, Roxanne could never inherit the throne of Erengrad. Her demonic heritage barred her from it, for no royal council would allow a child of Ashkareth to rule an empire. The Erengrad court made certain of that, and when she reached her eighteenth year, her name was struck from the rolls of succession. Instead, she was given a new name—Borgia—and the lands of that house as her domain.
To most, this seemed a gift, a compromise that allowed her to reign in her own right while sparing Erengrad the risk of placing a half-demon on their throne. But to Dietrich, it was an insult to him. Even stripped from the royal line, even handed off to the Borgia territory, she shone brighter than he ever had.
At eighteen, she emerged not as a forgotten princess but as a figure who commanded both fear and loyalty. Knights swore themselves to her, scholars praised her bloodline as one touched by fate, and even the empire’s enemies began to whisper her name with caution. Wherever she went, eyes followed. When she spoke, people listened. When she entered a hall, silence fell.
Dietrich hated her for it. He hated her beauty, her strength, her heritage, and the way the world bent to her without her ever needing to demand it. He hated that she was younger than him yet surpassed him in every way that mattered. What he hated most of all was that Vivianne, his Vivianne, the omega who’s supposed to choose him, chose her.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way; she wasn’t supposed to be the Grand Duchess of Borgia. Vivianne was meant to belong to him, as the empress of Erengrad, the one born to lead, the one raised to command. She was supposed to be his queen, his prize, his proof that the world would bend to his will as it always had. But instead, she had chosen Roxanne, the cursed daughter of a demon king.
And so he had turned to the Black Covenant, his last resort, his chance to rewrite the fate that mocked him. He had spent gold that could have raised an army, all for the assurance that they would strike swiftly and leave no trace. They were assassins without equal, blades in the dark who never failed.
Yet here he was, waiting. Waiting, and hearing nothing. "Bring me the Chancellor!" Dietrich roared, his voice shaking the chamber walls. The servants jumped in fear. None of them dared to look at him. They bowed quickly and rushed out to obey.
Dietrich paced back and forth, his hands curling into fists. His jaw was tight, his teeth grinding. He hated waiting. He hated silence. He had given the Black Covenant more gold than they deserved. Enough to buy an army. Enough to make sure Roxanne would die and Vivianne would be his.
He slammed his fist onto the windowsill, the sharp sound echoing through the room. His empire’s capital stretched below him, lit by lanterns and filled with life, but it felt hollow. All of this is supposed to be his world. His throne. His victory. Instead, he feels like it’s slipping away from him, like everyone is mocking him for his incapability to take the most beautiful omega in the Empire.
His chest heaved with anger. He grabbed a goblet of wine and threw it against the wall. The metal cup clattered to the ground, red liquid running down the stone like spilled blood. In his mind he saw her again—Roxanne. That cold, perfect face. Those proud eyes. The same eyes Vivianne now chose to stand beside; not only is she always superior to him, but now she also got the bride everyone in the empire coveted.
The thought cut him deeper than any blade. "No more waiting. Someone would answer for this."