By dusk, the great golden bridge was no longer just a path — it had become the spine of a living city.
Between the castles of the Phillips and the Campbells, 350 luxurious tents rose like palaces of silk, divided by lineage, status, and alliance. The ground had been carefully leveled in advance, stone paths had been laid, and torches and lanterns were hung with meticulous precision. It was temporary, but never improvised. Nothing in the Tournament was.
On the northern slope, near Castle Phillips, the five allied families were already beginning to occupy their territory: the Phillips themselves at the highest point, the Wilsons just below, followed by the Astors, the Hartleys, and further down, the Ravencrofts. Their tents were striking, geometric, severe, power dressed in restraint.
To the south, near the domain of the Campbells, the Williams family shared space with the Kadmans, Rowans, Drakes, and naturally, the Campbells themselves. Here, the style was more expressive, symbolic, and ritualistic. The tents opened into circular courtyards, colors blended into the fabrics, and the air was heavy with spices and incense.
The Navarro family had set up camp in the valley between both castles — a space of sober elegance. Neither allied nor enemy. Free agents.
As the sun dipped lower, the official procession began. Each family's head received their signal. It was time to cross the gates.
In the arena, the central podium gleamed under the golden spotlights of twilight. Robert Phillips and Mallet Campbell climbed up together — two titans in impeccable suits, with razor-sharp smiles. The audience fell silent. It had been arranged: Mallet would open the tournament, Robert would close it.
Despite his age, Mallet began with a thunderous voice, authority unquestionable:
— "Ladies and gentlemen, today we do not merely celebrate a tournament. We celebrate the purity of superiority."
He paused, heavy with intention. His eyes swept the crowd, like a blacksmith before a rack of swords, testing which ones would withstand the fire.
— "Our pheromone tests and genetic sequencing confirm it: some are born to lead, others to serve. And here, in this arena, the strong will be recognized. The worthy will be elevated."
He extended his arm toward the crowd below, as if offering both a spectacle and a hunting ground.
— "The ABO world has always known this. Weak blood breeds chaos. Strong blood… builds empires."
Beside him, Robert Phillips smiled, but his fingers tightened slightly around the podium. His emotions didn't waver — this was the system life had dictated.
His eyes were like blades: they landed on Callum, then on Clarice, seated on opposite sides. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He saw the emptiness in Clarice's gaze, and he wished to protect her — even from the summer breeze. Callum, on the other hand, looked calm. Accompanied. Aster was beside him. Robert tasted bitterness. It wasn't the boy's fault — after all, he was his blood in its most abundant form. But it was his duty to find those responsible for the Phillips family's downfall.
At the center of the stage, Mallet continued:
— "That's why the participating families will offer an opportunity. The best alphas of this tournament will be integrated into houses, families, and companies that… refine their potential."
Spreading his arms in a gesture of expansion, he paused once more. The silence seemed to compress.
— "But make no mistake: superior genes demand sacrifice. Emotion is weakness. Bonds are shackles. Only those who transcend them… survive, rise, conquer."
Mallet raised his hand:
— "Let the games begin!"
Robert followed, voice firm:
— "And may the true dominants of this world... reveal themselves."
Let the worthy prevail.
---
Massive, metallic, angular — the Phillips stronghold rose like a monolith. The gates opened with mechanical precision. No trumpets sounded. The silence was intentional.
Robert Phillips stood beneath the main arch, flanked by his guards, greeting each family with a nod rather than a smile.
The "Wilsons" were the first to enter. Can-Bey led, his family following in synchronized formation, posture sharp, a dense scent of arrogance in the air. Eyes tracked them discreetly — drones disguised as birds.
Next came the "Astors" — white carriages pulled by genetically engineered stallions. The omega at their helm carried a fan that scanned pheromone patterns.
The "Hartleys" arrived in carriages of muted earth tones. They spoke little. Their power lay in what they didn't say.
The "Ravencrofts" brought no entourage — only silence and precision. Every step was calculated, as if the ground itself feared their intentions.
Inside the castle, the main hall branched into wings. Each family was guided to its designated corridor, received by attendants dressed in their house colors. The joy of arrival was visible, but formal.
The castle to the south opened like a theater. Tall sculpted arches, torches already lit, casting light over the gardens.
Mallet Campbell stood beside his grandson Callum, both in ceremonial attire. Their presence was warm, yet cautious.
The "Kadmans" arrived first, in full formation, like a fleet docking. Adam Kadman walked alone at the front — a deliberate gesture. Just behind came Elizabeth Kadman with her brother, sister-in-law, and their children: Matt, Mia, and Penny. Discreetly following was the May family — Taylor among them, dressed in ceremonial sobriety, eyes always alert. The Kadman presence was expansive and striking, and their entrance into the castle carried the weight of those who had always belonged.
Then came the "Williams". Benjamin led without haste. Andrews followed close behind, with Damián and Mason trailing shortly after. Ziggy tried to look indifferent — and failed gloriously.
The "Rowans" brought music — live strings and dancers. Not to impress. To declare presence.
The "Drakes" entered in silence. Their procession exuded strange aromas and carried locked boxes that seemed to seal secrets. No one knew what was inside. Everyone wanted to.
Inside, the Campbell castle breathed. Fires burned in iron braziers. Water flowed through channels carved into the walls. Each guest was escorted by an omega in ceremonial garb.
Each family was led to a distinct wing, decorated not based on their taste, but on their *perceived truth*. The Campbells believed a room should reflect not what you show, but what you hide.
Later, after the opening ceremony, discreet meetings began to emerge within the inner gardens of Castle Campbell. Between shadows and ivy-covered columns, the Kadman head butler approached Benjamin Williams, Andrews, and Damián with an old-fashioned bow.
— "On behalf of House Kadman," he said, voice low and controlled, "I come to formally apologize for the incident involving young Damián and Mason, and any offense caused to your honor. The matter has been recorded by Lady Elizabeth and Malcolm. Malcolm immediately stated: It is now my duty to ensure no shadow remains between us."
Benjamin nodded with dignity, though his eyes — like Andrews' — remained firmly on the butler.
Damián simply said:
— "This matter, for me, is already closed."
But during the exchange, he narrowed his eyes, staring directly, and added after a pause:
— "But choose more carefully where you place your attention, Mr. Cecil."
The butler bowed and withdrew in silence.
Moments later, near the columns by the side courtyard, Taylor May appeared — alone. Mason saw her approach and tensed, but did not step back.
She stopped at a respectful distance.
— "I came to apologize. What I did with the pheromones was unforgivable." Her voice was low, but sincere. "You rattled me. But that doesn't excuse it. I'm here to apologize. Honestly."
Mason, surprised by the honesty, took a moment to respond. Andrews watched from a distance, attentive.
— "It was cruel. And honestly, it's not something easily forgotten. But I accept your words… I just don't know what to do with them. I'm kind of sentimental," he said, glancing away.
— "I'm not asking you to forget," Taylor replied. "Only not to see me as an enemy from now on."
She turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a silence lighter than before.
The main hall was full — echoes of voices, calculated steps, the clinking of glasses, the constant sound of the elite occupying space. But Damián saw none of it.
He just grabbed Benjamin's arm.
— "Can we talk?" he asked in a low voice, but with a subtle urgency that carried something different in the air.
Benjamin looked at him, assessing the unexpected tone.
They walked together to one of the side balconies, semi-hidden behind columns and light curtains. The breeze there was cooler. The world seemed suspended.
Damián turned with a sharp look:
— "Did you hear that insane speech? That whole load of crap? That we're the product of a divine lineage, destined to rule over everything and everyone because of a gland and a genetic sequence?"
Benjamin remained silent for a few seconds. His eyes were fixed on the horizon beyond the golden bridge.
— "I heard it," he said calmly. "And I've heard worse, spoken with even bigger smiles."
Damián stared at him. But this look wasn't just questioning — it was a political opposition's stare, defying words of hate.
Benjamin stepped closer, leaning on the stone balustrade beside his son.
— "Having a heart and mind that work is a good thing," he said. "But it's also dangerous — here and anywhere the powerful rule the world."
— "It's not about a heart that works 'here'. I'm talking about rights. About putting an end to oppression, repression, and superiority speech rooted in contempt!" Damián pressed on. "And you? You accept that? Pretending this whole game is normal?"
Benjamin sighed lightly, like someone who's had this conversation a thousand times — but never with a son.
— "I've been in this political world for many years, Damián. I survived it — and reshaped it. Laws for omega and beta protection, civil rights. But to survive, sometimes you have to speak the monsters' language — until you can poison them or heal them from within."
"Listen closely to my words, son: I believe we are transformations. We are pheromones and will. Wealth and instinct. Dominance, yes. But also creation. Our body is not merely a form. It's the reflection of a state of being — and that's what determines what we conquer."
Damián turned abruptly, eyes lit.
— "That part sounds like arrogance disguised as philosophy."
— "No," Benjamin stepped forward. "That's accepting what we are without shame. Without denial. When we are aligned — body, mind, and desire — everything falls into place. You know it."
Damián opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
Benjamin went on:
— "You want to change this world? Then don't enter as a torch. Enter like a drop of venom. And be patient. The most fragile empires are the ones that never see the enemy coming."
Benjamin placed a firm hand on Damián's shoulder.
— I want you to ignore what you'll hear here, son. But I also want you to know exactly who to aim your fury at. Don't waste it on those already at the end. *(Clearly referring to Mallet Campbell.)*
The conversation between father and son had left a glowing ember in the air — still hot, still pulsing.
That's when firm footsteps echoed across the marble corridor. Adam appeared between the columns, posture impeccable, gaze scanning the space like someone searching for something that belonged to him by right.
— Hiding out? — he said with a half-smile. — I was looking for you, Damián.
Benjamin turned first, and with the calm calculation that had made him one of the most feared men on the continent, he replied:
— We were discussing the tournament's opening.
His voice came out light. Calm. As if, minutes earlier, they hadn't been discussing a rebellion against the ABO system itself.
Adam stepped closer, hands in his pockets, his gaze now fixed more on Damián than on Benjamin's reply.
— A great subject, then. Lord Mallet's speech was… perfect.
Benjamin didn't respond immediately. But there was a subtle motion — a nearly imperceptible glance toward his son. A quick, personal signal, meant only for Damián.
Damián said nothing. He held Adam's gaze for a second before looking away.
Benjamin then left the balcony with measured steps, leaving behind a silence that lingered two seconds longer than necessary.
And as he crossed the corridor, alone again, his thoughts drew a straight line:
> *He doesn't know.*
> *Adam still doesn't know who Damián really is…*
> *Or he's pretending not to, to avoid conflict.*
He couldn't decide which possibility was more dangerous.
---
Benjamin disappeared into the hallway, and the balcony took on a new atmosphere.
For a brief moment, Damián stood still — but inside, his pulse spiked.
His body reacted even before his mind registered Adam's presence — it was always like that. But the approval of that speech made the blood vibrate in his temples. *Rage? Attraction?* He no longer knew the difference.
It was all mixed. Body, memory, and a deep, irrational disappointment for feeling so much for someone who seemed to thrive in the very system he despised. A system that crushed the weak. A system Adam seemed to embrace with elegance. It wasn't elegance — it was pride.
That affirmation, even simple, offended something old, deeply rooted in him. It betrayed a principle. Damián felt the disappointment rising in his throat but masked it — as he always did.
Outside, Adam feigned nonchalance. But inside, instinct throbbed.
> *They weren't talking about compliments.*
He knew. He knew Damián was hiding something — secrets that never ended. That he wore that calm air, sweet smiles, and carefully measured words like armor. Adam saw the mask — and the omissions. And if the truth wouldn't come willingly… he'd find another way.
Because their relationship had reached this point, Adam was determined to "play to get everything out of him." And if Damián was hiding something, he would find out.
For a moment, he felt furious — for so many reasons. He didn't trust his omega. In recent days, he realized he didn't truly know Damián. But something had shifted in his desire: the scent of his hair, the taste of his mouth, the softness of his skin had sunk into him. Damián had become a physical necessity — something he didn't just want, but felt entitled to claim.
If he were going to act like nothing had happened, he would start now!
Without warning, Adam stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, pulling their bodies together.
— I missed you. — he whispered close to his ear, and then kissed him.
It wasn't a kiss. It was raw hunger. It was touch. It was dominance. It was desperation shaped into desire.
Their bodies pressed together. Adam's hand slid to Damián's waist, pulling him tighter.
The hot, wet mouth was explored with precision and urgency. The sound of the kiss was audible—moist, undeniable. The kind of sound that could scandalize if heard. And it was.
Damián returned it as if that moment were necessary to keep breathing. His hands clutched Adam's shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric as if trying to penetrate him. Through the clothes, he felt Adam's heart, strong, pounding like a drum against his chest.
Adam's mouth traveled down to his neck in a trace of heat, and a muffled moan escaped. The touch was firm. The tongue is relentless. The whispers had an extravagance and appetite of their own.
— Damián felt Adam's lips taste his cheeks and his jaw... — he murmured between kisses. This is good!
— I'm just reminding you who's in charge here. — Adam replied, nipping the skin with a lascivious smile.
When they pulled back, still pressed together, breathless, Adam pressed his forehead to Damián's. With surprising agility, he returned to the conversation.
— That tournament speech was excellent. — he said in a low, charged voice. — Which part did you like the most, Damián?
Damián blinked slowly and lied with the grace of someone born to survive.
— I liked its meaning… after that speech, I felt you and I are like diamonds in the sky. The vision of ecstasy. Pure.
Adam smiled—not a smile of scorn, but of someone seduced by the most beautiful lie he'd ever heard.
Brave, huh, he thought. To lie to him like that, so beautifully… — his eyes glinted.
He backed Damián just enough to see him completely, still holding his arm firmly.
— Yes. We are diamonds. — he said, with a tone that seemed both scorn and adoration. — You and I… I and you… diamonds in the sky.
And he pulled him into another kiss.
Hotter. Deeper.
Hands roamed his back and waist. There was no restraint. Tension is only released through touch. Desire flowed from mouth to fingers, across skin begging to be discovered.
Then a sound—a footstep. A discreet cough.
They were no longer alone.
Adam, without turning to see who had arrived, grabbed Damián's hand decisively.
— Come with me. Now.
Damián followed without hesitation. Adam knew every corner of this castle. They moved through servant passages, stone corridors, and spiral stairs until they reached an ancient, dark wood door.
Adam pushed it open. The room was large, silent, with heavy drapes and a lit fireplace.
Once inside, Adam closed the door with a soft thud. His hands were already at Damián's back, slipping under his shirt.
Kisses resumed with even more intensity. Clothes were quickly discarded by hungry, nimble fingers. Their bodies spoke louder than any word.
Tension between them only melted with touch.
Their bodies met in half-light. Clothes slid across the thick rug to the floor. Firelight washed their profiles in golden and ruby tones.
Adam laid Damián gently on the bed as if placing something precious, while simultaneously throwing himself on him like one finding refuge.
Warm hands. Errant mouth. Skin on skin.
Damián pulled him with the same urgency he resisted. They moved as one—savage yet careful, fury and precision entwined.
No promises remained. Only unrestrained acts...
Driven purely by desire, Damián trailed kisses down Adam's athletic torso toward that place. When Adam gripped his hair more tightly, Damián heard a deep moan of his name whispered.
Something intensely warm pulsed at the back of his throat...
While Damián's mouth worked with skill, it felt like a bomb inside him ended its countdown and finally exploded him alive. For a moment, he saw lights and heard his body combust.
And when their bodies finally joined, there was no doubt: that was exactly where they belonged.
There, between ancient linen sheets and the crackling wood behind them, the world paused for an instant.
Damián thought of no revolutions. No systems. He simply felt.
Adam placed a hand on Damián's shoulders, lifting him so he could sit in his lap. He kissed him softly on the lips.
Adam entered him and continued devouring with slow movements, in and out. Torturing and sucking Damián's nipples with erotic patience. They had always preferred something more violent, primal.
Yet the thrusts remained slow, "because this was making love".
Meanwhile, the luxurious town between the castles simmered with intrigue...
The tent city rising between the castles wasn't heated only by fire. Rumor boiled like steam beneath luxury fabrics. This small, improvised metropolis of 350 tents never rested. Gossip whispered faster than footsteps, and eyes sought more than political and financial alliances.
Aster's figure, dressed in the colors of House Phillips, drew attention. Young, handsome, dominant—but a bastard. A name that sprang from nowhere and now occupied the same space as Clarice, the legitimate daughter. And as if that weren't enough, he was involved with Callum Campbell, the ex-suitor of his sister. A real, fiery scandal. Speculations flew.
One or two hours before the opening ball, a new rumor exploded: it was said Adam Kadman was seen having sex on one of the Campbell castle balconies. What was just a shadowed kiss became, in the mouths of the public, an explicit scene for all to see.
The camp buzzed with distorted truths, clever lies, and conspiracies in full boil. Under candles and costly scents, the real tournament—the social one—had already begun.
And nobody would emerge unscathed from it.