Chapter 5 Unspoken Gravity

Tristan's grip on Lucius's collar loosened just enough for the boy to stagger backward, scrambling like a frightened animal. Panic flashed across Lucius's swollen face, his pupils darted, searching for an escape that didn't exist. He gasped for air as though the alley itself had sucked all the oxygen away. The narrow corridor between the old stone buildings seemed to tighten around them, pressing in with each passing second, making it harder to breathe.

"You can't do this, Tristan," Lucius rasped, trying to find his footing, his voice shook beneath the weight of fear and false pride. "You know who I am. I'm from a noble family. You can't just..."

Tristan stepped forward, and Lucius instinctively flinched. A shadow crossed Tristan's face, something deeper than anger. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through the tension like a blade. "Watch me."

Before Lucius could take another breath, Tristan shoved him violently into the stone wall. The thud of Lucius's back hitting the hard surface was dull but final, followed by a choking grunt as the air was knocked from his lungs. His head snapped back and cracked against the stone with a sickening sound. The world around him blurred for a moment, spinning with pain and disbelief.

Then came the fists.

Tristan didn't hold back. The first punch landed hard against Lucius's jaw, and the second split his lip. A third sent blood splattering onto the stone wall, speckling it like crimson raindrops. The pain was immediate, radiating through Lucius's face and skull, it was a fiery ache that dulled everything else. He cried out, but it barely left his mouth before another blow silenced it.

Tristan's fists moved fast and hard, not like someone lashing out blindly, but with purpose. Each strike held years of buried emotion: betrayal, rage, and helplessness. He wasn't just hitting Lucius, he was hitting everything Lucius represented. The nobles who watched others suffer from gilded balconies, the lies, the smug arrogance, and the silent complicity.

Lucius tried to raise his arms to shield himself, but Tristan was relentless. His breathing was ragged, and his chest heaving with effort and emotion.

"Stop!" Lucius finally gasped, blood dribbling down his chin. "Are you going to end me because of..."

"Say her name," Tristan barked, his voice trembling with rage. He paused mid-swing, fist raised, the muscles in his arm taut with fury. "Say Celeste's name again, and I swear I'll forget who I am."

Lucius didn't dare.

From the edge of the alley, a figure emerged from the gloom. The air shifted with her presence. Vivian's cloak swept behind her as she approached, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound besides Tristan's harsh breathing. Her eyes narrowed, sharp as daggers, taking in the scene with one cold sweep.

"Tristan," she called, her voice calm, yet commanding. There was no panic, no shrillness, only steel. It sliced through the moment like a sword drawn in silence.

Tristan froze, his shoulders tensed, and his body still coiled and ready to strike again. Lucius slumped further against the wall, wheezing and bleeding, barely conscious of her presence. His family, who watching from a cautious distance, finally began to move, as if Vivian's arrival gave them permission to act.

They didn't rush in to help. They didn't kneel beside Lucius to comfort him. Instead, they moved with the controlled urgency of people who cared more about appearances than injuries. Their faces were painted with pale concern, but their eyes darted like wolves calculating the cost.

Vivian didn't break stride. She reached Tristan in seconds and yanked him back by the collar with surprising strength.

"Enough," she snapped, her eyes locking onto his with warning. "This isn't who you are."

Tristan didn't respond. His breath came in short, broken bursts. His fists remained clenched at his sides, still trembling, and bloodstained. His jaw locked so tightly it seemed like it might crack under pressure. But his eyes stayed fixed on Lucius, and what lived behind them was not just anger, it was heartbreak.

"This is about Celeste, isn't it?" Vivian's voice dropped, her tone quieter but sharper. "You're letting her get inside your head again. You always do."

Tristan's expression flickered, and for the briefest moment, something softer, something shattered surfaced in his eyes. Guilt, pain and confusion. But just as quickly, it vanished behind the armor he wore so well.

Lucius coughed hard, spitting blood onto the cobblestones. Then, through swollen lips, he laughed, bitter and mocking. "You always were pathetic when it came to that omega girl," he croaked.

Tristan surged forward again, but Vivian gripped his arm tightly, stopping him in place.

"Don't," she warned, eyes flashing. "One more move and I won't protect you."

At last, Lucius's father stepped into the circle, his expression unreadable but his gaze sharp. "We'll speak of this no further," he said evenly. "It was a misunderstanding. A minor dispute between young men. Best left forgotten."

Vivian turned her head slightly and offered him a practiced, tight-lipped smile. "Exactly," she agreed smoothly. "A little scuffle, boys will be boys."

The nobleman gave a shallow nod, but his hand clamped onto Lucius's shoulder with an iron grip. Not to comfort, but to silence.

As they turned and disappeared into the alley's shadows, dragging Lucius with them, Vivian looked back at Tristan. Her expression had softened, but not enough to hide the warning beneath her words.

"You're lucky this didn't go public," she said with her voice low. "That family could ruin everything with one whispered lie."

Tristan didn't respond. He turned from her and walked away, each step heavy and unsteady. His shoulders sagged as though he carried a weight too old for his years.

The alley grew quiet again. The only things left behind were the echoes of what had just happened, the sharp scent of blood, and the silence of things that could never be undone.

Later that evening, back at Celeste's home, the quiet was suffocating.

Harper sat at the kitchen table, with her shoulders hunched forward, and her face blotchy from tears. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, adding a trembling glow to the rough wooden walls. She clutched a fraying handkerchief in her lap, twisting it over and over as she spoke.

"I didn't steal it. I swear, I didn't," she whispered, voice cracking. "Lucius... he gave it to me. It was a gift. I didn't ask for it, but he gave it to me, and..."

Their father sat beside her, the lines on his weathered face deepened by exhaustion. His hand came to rest gently on her shoulder, the only strength he could offer. "I believe you, Harper. We all do," he said quietly, with his voice thick with emotion.

Celeste stood near the window, arms folded tightly across her chest, her jaw clenched. Her eyes didn't leave the darkness outside, scanning for movement, anything. Her heart hadn't stopped racing since she heard about Tristan's outburst. She wasn't sure whether to be horrified or touched.

But even as their father reassured Harper, a silence clung to the room. Heavy and suffocating. They all knew the truth, believing Harper didn't matter in a world where rank decided guilt. They were Omegas, the bottom rung of the ladder, the ones no one listened to and everyone punished.

One whisper of scandal, one accusation from a noble family like Lucius's, could tear their fragile lives apart.

"I should've said no," Harper whispered, clutching the fabric at her chest. "I knew it was wrong. I knew what it would look like. I just thought... maybe for once, someone saw me."

Her voice cracked, and her mother, quiet until now, crossed the room to kneel beside her. "You are seen, Harper," she said gently. "We see you. And we love you."

Celeste turned then, her voice colder than she meant it to be. "Love won't protect us if they decide we're guilty."

The words hung in the air like a curse.

The hours passed slowly, and their candle burned low. Every creak of the floorboards or rustle of the wind outside made their hearts jump. They didn't speak, each lost in spiraling thoughts of what could happen next. Would guards arrive? Would they be exiled? Worse?

For a moment, Celeste allowed herself to imagine a world where this life wasn't one of fear.

Then-a knock.

It echoed through the small house like a death bell. Sharp and final.

Everyone froze.

A second knock, louder this time.

Harper gasped, covering her mouth. Their mother stood upright with her hands trembling. Celeste's heart leapt into her throat. She could hear nothing but the hammering of her own pulse.

Their father moved to the door, slow and cautious, each step deliberate. He paused with his hand on the handle, glancing back at them with a look that said whatever happens, stay silent.

Before he could open the door, it squeaked open.