Altair lay stretched out in the field behind Astralis High, the grass his pillow, the sky his ceiling, the shade of the tree his private sanctuary. Senior year, they called it, as though it were something grand and final, as though it carried weight. But to Altair, it was nothing more than repetition.
Day after day, the same routine. The same classes. The same people. The same pointless drama that masqueraded as life. He had already outgrown it all, outshone it all, and now it bored him.
Students passing by stole glances his way, whispers curling in the air like smoke. Some admired, some envied, some simply stared, unsure whether to approach or to flee.
He ignored them all.
Altair was beautiful—he knew this, and beauty was never free. His face, his poise, his aura—it all drew eyes the way flame drew moths. But unlike flame, he was not meant to consume. He was meant to sting. He was not the rose, but the thorn. And anyone foolish enough to reach for him always learned quickly enough: his words cut deeper than any blade, and he had a particular joy in using them.
Dominant Omega. That was the title stamped upon his existence, rare and reverent, whispered as though sacred. A creature meant to be adored, pursued, coveted. A creature rare enough to topple empires.
And yet—what did it matter?
It was all so dreadfully dull.
---
He tilted his head, watching the branches sway above him. The light filtered through the leaves in broken mosaics, shadows dancing across his skin. Somewhere nearby, a group of Betas laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn't funny. Somewhere else, an Alpha strutted by, confident in the brute way Alphas often were.
Altair rolled his eyes. How utterly predictable.
He closed them again, drifting into the half-sleep he often indulged in when the world failed to entertain him. And in that drifting haze, his mind wandered—not to the present, but to the past.
To crayons. To chaos. To a boy with steady eyes and sharper words.
Cassian.
Even in dreams, the name was irritating.
The image of him—always calm, always rational, always infuriatingly unshaken—floated to the surface. And Altair, even in memory, wanted to throw something at him. Or perhaps kiss him. No, certainly not. Just throw something. Preferably heavy.
He scoffed, half-asleep. Years had passed since their last battle. Since Cassian's family had packed up and moved away, leaving the neighborhood—and Altair—behind. And for years, Altair had pretended to feel relief.
But truth gnawed quietly at him: ever since Cassian left, everyone else seemed so... insipid.
Nobody argued like him. Nobody matched his wit, his sharpness, his refusal to bend. Everyone else either surrendered too quickly or fawned too eagerly. They melted before him, and what fun was that? He wanted fire. He wanted defiance. He wanted war.
But Cassian was gone.
Altair opened his eyes to the swaying leaves once more, exhaling a sigh that was equal parts boredom and longing he would never confess.
The bell rang.
So much for solitude.
---
Dragging himself up, Altair dusted stray blades of grass from his uniform. Afternoon classes beckoned, with all the excitement of watching paint dry. Teachers who thought themselves profound. Students who thought themselves clever. Alphas who thought themselves irresistible. Betas who thought themselves invisible.
And Altair, trapped among them, his brilliance wasted.
He strode back into the building, head held high, mask of indifference perfectly in place. People parted around him, whispers trailing in his wake. He did not hear them—no, he refused to hear them. He was too far above them for their voices to matter.
Sliding into his seat by the window, Altair let his chin rest on his hand, gaze drifting lazily back to the world outside. Leaves still swayed, clouds still crawled, life still dragged on in its dull, monotonous rhythm.
The teacher began her usual lecture, but Altair heard nothing. He had long ago memorized the patterns of her voice, the rise and fall of her intonations. It was less an education and more a lullaby, and he was half a breath from sleep once again.
Until the door opened.
"Class," the teacher said, "we have a new student joining us today."
Altair didn't bother looking. Transfer students were not rare. Most came in shy, uncertain, eager to make friends. Some tried to flirt with him, most tried to avoid him. None ever lasted as more than background noise in the script of his life.
But then—
"Introduce yourself, please."
A voice. Calm, steady, unyielding.
"My name is Cassian."
The world seemed to tilt.
Altair's head snapped toward the front of the room so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash.
There he was.
Cassian.
Older, taller, sharper, but unmistakably him. The same calm eyes. The same maddening composure. The same aura of quiet defiance that Altair had spent years pretending not to crave.
The classroom whispered. The teacher smiled. Cassian simply stood there, steady as ever, as though he hadn't just cracked the entire foundation of Altair's carefully built indifference.
Altair's pulse jumped. His lips parted. His heart—traitorous thing—stumbled.
And then, as though the universe itself conspired for drama, Cassian's gaze found his.
Unblinking. Unshaken. Infuriatingly Cassian.
Altair rolled his eyes with theatrical disdain, hiding the storm that swirled beneath his chest.
Of course. Of course the universe would throw him back into Altair's orbit now, when life had grown unbearably dull.
Of course it would be him.
The thorned flower finally had his fire back.
The war was about to begin again.