Rise Of The Mute Omega

One

“Uh, you again. Your face grosses me out.” Lyra shoved a hand in my face as her friends giggled at my expense. I kept my eyes down, not daring to meet any of their gazes.

They were right.

I was disgusting.

Nothing special about me. I was almost eighteen years old and an Omega at the Blackwood Manor. I did not have anyone but myself, nobody cared about me unless they wanted me to mop their floors or clean their toilets. I was treated like a slave and forced to live in the basement, away from all the other omegas.

I did not reply to Lyra’s cruel taunts, I had learnt long ago not to infuriate her.

She would use any excuse to taunt me, even going as far as to tell me i was an orphan that my own parents hated me and had abandoned me and how lucky i was that the Alpha and luna of blackwood had been kind enough to bring me into their pack and give me a roof over my head, i could have easily been a meal ticket for prowling rogues. Maybe that fate would have been better than this?

“Anyway, the alpha’s son is due back tomorrow evening and i will be announced as his mate and luna, and on my birthday too. How lucky i am.” Lyra gloated, inspecting her long manicured nails as her friends gushed around her. “So, Elara. Perhaps you will take the hint and get on with some chores, or do you expect our future alpha to come back to a filthy mess?” Lyra suddnely kicked out at the bucket of water by my feet that i had been in the middle of using to mop the last part of the long corridor before finally getting the chance to take myself up to my bedroom and sleep.

“Opps sorry didnt see that there.” lyra smirked before flicking hair from her shoulder and turning on her heel with a satisfied grunt, her minions following quickly behind her.

I watched them go and then released a heavy sigh.

I shouldnt cry, i wouldnt cry.

Why should i?

They were awful to me. I quickly finished cleaning up the mess

My days started before dawn, waking in the damp, cold basement where I was kept. The stone walls were cracked and stained, shadows flickering like ghosts in the faint light filtering through a tiny, barred window. The only sounds were the drip of water and my own breathing. My chores were endless—sweeping the dusty corridors, scrubbing the grimy floors, hauling buckets of water from the well to quench the household’s thirst. My muscles ached, and my hands were raw from the constant work.

I am mute—unable to speak—my voice trapped inside, a silent witness to the cruelty inflicted upon me. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone would believe my suffering if I could speak. But I’ve learned to communicate without words—through quiet tears, subtle gestures, and the slump of my shoulders when exhaustion overtakes me.

Lyra’s words cut like knives, but I’ve grown used to the pain. I’ve learned not to voice my feelings aloud; speaking only seemed to make things worse. Instead, I carry my suffering silently, a shadow in the grand halls of Blackwood Manor—an invisible, voiceless presence in a world that regards me as nothing more than property or a servant to be used and discarded.

The cold of the basement seeped into my bones as I finished wiping the last remnants of water from the cracked tiles. My hands trembled slightly, not from fatigue alone, but from the weight of it all—the quiet despair that had become my constant companion. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to summon some semblance of warmth or comfort, but there was nothing here—only the darkness and silence.

A faint, distant rumble echoed through the halls of Blackwood Manor, a reminder of the world beyond these stone walls. The house was alive with the sounds of life—laughter, footsteps, the clatter of silverware at dinner—yet I was always outside that circle, invisible and unheard.

I pressed my forehead against the cool stone wall, wishing I could disappear into the shadows. Sometimes, I wondered if my suffering was all there was to me—a ghost haunting these halls, unnoticed and unloved. But deep inside, a flicker of defiance still burned. No matter how much they tried to break me, I refused to let them steal my spirit completely.

A sudden, faint sound caught my attention—soft footsteps approaching. My heart jumped, instinctively shrinking into myself as if that alone could hide me. The footsteps grew closer, slower, deliberate. Then, a voice, muffled but familiar, whispered from above.

“Elara?”

My breath hitched. It was faint, but I recognized it—the gentle, cautious tone of the housekeeper, Mrs. Hawthorne. She was one of the few who treated me with some kindness, though her visits were rare and discreet.

“Are you down here?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

I hesitated, uncertain if I should respond. But something in her voice made me want to speak, to tell her that I was still here, still surviving.

“Y-Yes,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

A soft sigh of relief echoed from the staircase. “Hold on, dear. I’ll be right down.” There was a gentle pause. “You don’t have to endure this alone. I’m here for you.”

For a moment, I closed my eyes, clinging to her words like a lifeline. In my silence, I found a fragile hope—that maybe, someday, someone would see me not as a thing to be used, but as a person worthy of kindness. Until then, I would endure—silent and steadfast—waiting for my chance to break free from these shadows.