Minho

The rustling of reeds and the crackling of Kupala fires echoed through the dark forest. It was 1524, and the community in which the nineteen-year-old omega Khan grew up sacredly observed ancient, almost pagan laws. On the night of Ivan Kupala, the community's strictness gave way to magic. Khan stood at the very edge of a cool river, holding a wreath of wild herbs. The young man hoped the current would carry him to his betrothed, who would take him away from a world of strict taboos.

Omega sank to the ground and released the flowers into the water. The wreath floated, but suddenly the river began to ripple heavily. The current died down, and the flowers floated back. From the black, fog-shrouded depths, a tall, broad-shouldered figure began to rise. Khan recoiled, holding his breath.

It was Lee Minho. The blacksmith's son, a strong and handsome alpha male who had drowned here three years ago. Minho looked exactly as he had on his last day: wet hair plastered to his forehead, droplets of cool water shimmering on his pale skin, and an otherworldly fire burning in his eyes. He stepped onto dry land, and the water parted before him.

The alpha stopped at the feet of the omega, frozen in primal fear, tightly clutching his wet wreath in his pale fingers.

"Your call disturbed my peace," Minho's voice rang deep, like the rustle of a riverbed. "For three years I waited in the icy abyss for a pure soul to call me. And now I am here. Now you belong not to the community, but to me. Will you come with me, my betrothed?"