Rejected Omega Was Told to Sing the Luna Hymn as a Joke – But Her Voice Left the Alpha King Speechless

Someone Worth Understanding

We spent the rest of the night like that—me asking questions, taking notes, occasionally teasing the beast with riddle hints, and the beast pacing, thinking, and gradually relaxing.

When dawn broke and the transformation reversed, the king collapsed as before. But this time, when I approached with the blanket, he caught my wrist gently.

“Catherine,”

his voice was raw.

“What the beast said about me… that’s between you and him,”

I interrupted.

“You’re not responsible for what he feels.”

“But I am. We’re the same person.”

“Are you?”

I tilted my head.

“Because from where I’m standing, you’re two very different people forced to share a body. He’s more honest; you’re more careful. He feels everything; you think everything. That’s not the same.”

He stared at me, something vulnerable in his expression.

“You’re defending him? The monster?”

“I’m observing him objectively. There’s a difference.”

“No one has ever…”

He stopped and swallowed hard.

“No one has ever treated him like a person before. Like something worth understanding rather than just surviving.”

“Then everyone before me was an idiot.”

I pulled my wrist free gently.

“Now get dressed. You’re teaching me about economics today.”

His laugh was shaky but real.

“You survived a night with a beast and want to discuss grain taxes?”

“I contain multitudes,”

I said primly.

Shared Solitude

The days began to follow a pattern. Mornings were with the king: history, philosophy, politics, strategy.

He taught me to read maps, to understand trade routes, and to see the web of alliances and enmities that held the kingdom together. But more than that, we talked—really talked—about our childhoods.

His was lonely and burdened with impossible expectations; mine was isolated and marked by constant rejection. We talked about our fears and our small joys.

“I used to sneak into the kitchen as a child,”

he admitted one afternoon.

“Just to watch the servants talk and laugh together. They looked so easy, like they belonged to something.”

“I used to write stories,”

I confessed.

“Fairy tales where the broken person got saved, where love was enough to fix everything.”

“Do you still believe that? That love can fix things?”

“No,”

I said honestly.

“But I believe it can make broken things bearable.”

He was quiet for a long time.

“Then yes, I think you’re right.”

Afternoons I spent alone, reading voraciously and filling gaps in my education. The library became my sanctuary, and the books my companions.

A Strange, Cautious Dance

Every evening I returned to the underground chamber. Night after night with the beast, it remembered me now, anticipated my arrival, and had riddles ready to trade.

Yes, the beast started giving me riddles, too, testing my wit and challenging me back.

“I have cities but no houses, forests but no trees, water but no fish. What am I?”

the beast asked on the fourth night.

“A map,”

I answered immediately.

“Too easy. But it sounded pleased. Try this: I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body but come alive with wind. What am I?”

I thought for several minutes.

“An echo.”

“Clever, songbird.”

The beast’s approval was palpable.

“You’re learning.”

“So are you. You’re speaking more, using more complex sentences.”

“Because you give me things to think about beyond rage and hunger.”

It settled onto the floor of its cage, watching me with those burning eyes.

“The king wonders if you’re curing him. I know better.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not curing us. You’re teaching us we’re not as broken as we thought.”

Seeing Both Halves

The observation struck deep because the beast was right. I wasn’t fixing the king; I was just being present, accepting both halves of him without trying to change either one.

Maybe that was enough. On the seventh night, something shifted.

The beast emerged as always, but it didn’t immediately seek me out. Instead, it stared at its own claws, flexing them experimentally.

“I remember something,”

it said quietly.

“What? Her? The witch who cursed us?”

It looked up, eyes distant.

“I remember what she said after casting the spell. The exact words.”

I grabbed my journal.

“Tell me.”

“She said you will be split until someone sees you wholly. Not the king alone, not the beast alone, but the truth of both at once.”

The beast continued.

“When someone looks at you with both halves visible and still chooses to stay… then and only then will you be free.”

I wrote it down, my mind racing.

“Both halves visible? But you’re only visible at night. During the day, you’re hidden.”

“Exactly.”

The beast’s voice was bitter.

“The curse requires someone to love what they can’t see. How do you love what you can’t perceive?”

The Theory of Love

“What if—”

An idea was forming.

“What if the point isn’t that they see both forms physically? What if it’s about understanding both halves exist and accepting them equally?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning someone would have to know about you, the beast, and still want the king—and know about the king and still accept the beast. Not choosing one over the other, but wanting both.”

The beast went very still.

“You’re describing yourself.”

“I’m describing a theory.”

But my heart was hammering.

“You spend your days with him, your nights with me. You know both of us. You’ve chosen to stay with both.”

The beast’s voice dropped lower.

“So why hasn’t the curse broken?”

“Knowing and loving are different things,”

I said quietly.

“Are they?”

It moved closer to the bars.

“Tell me honestly, songbird. Do you care about us?”

“That’s not a fair question.”

“Answer it anyway.”

Falling for Both

I met its burning gaze.

“Yes. I care about both of you. You’re… you’re both fascinating and frustrating and more alone than anyone should be. And I—”

I stopped, not sure I could say it.

“You what?”

“I look forward to seeing you both,”

I admitted.

“Every day, every night. This strange arrangement has become the best part of my life. So yes, I care.”

“But caring and loving are closer than you think,”

the beast finished.

We stared at each other, something profound settling between us.

“Tomorrow night,”

the beast said finally.

“Tomorrow night, I’ll tell you the answer to the first riddle. The one about being given but never taken.”

“You solved it?”

“I’ve always known the answer,”

it said quietly.

“I was just waiting for you to be ready to hear it.”

The King’s Confession

Dawn came too quickly. When the king emerged from the transformation, he looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

“The beast told you about the witch’s exact words?”

he said. It was not a question.

“Yes. And you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?”

He crossed the space between us, stopping just inches away. We were close enough that I could see the silver flecks in his gray eyes and feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

“Catherine,”

he said softly.

“I need to tell you something. Something I should have said days ago.”

“What?”

“I’m falling in love with you.”

The words were raw and honest.

“I know that wasn’t part of our agreement. I know you just wanted knowledge and I wanted survival. But somewhere between riddles and history lessons, I stopped thinking of you as an experiment. And now I…”

He swallowed hard.

“Now I can’t imagine you leaving.”

My breath caught.

“Your Majesty—”

“Charles,”

he interrupted.

“When it’s just us, call me Charles.”

A Terrible Hope

“Charles,”

I repeated, testing the name.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll stay. Even if the curse never breaks, even if this is all there ever is. Stay anyway.”

I looked up at this powerful, broken king who’d given me purpose and education and something dangerously close to belonging.

“I’ll stay,”

I whispered.

And when he smiled—really smiled—with joy and relief and wonder, I felt something crack open in my chest. It was something that felt terrifyingly like hope.

I didn’t sleep that night. How could I, with Charles’s confession echoing through my mind?

“I’m falling in love with you.”

I paced my small room, watching moonlight paint silver across the floor. I tried to understand what I felt, trying to separate gratitude from affection from something deeper and more dangerous.

Burning the Stories

The truth was I’d been falling, too. Maybe it started from the first moment he defended me in that banquet hall.

Maybe it was from the first morning he’d listened to my questions like they mattered. Maybe it was from the first night the beast had called me “songbird” and treated my mind like something precious.

But love—love required belief in fairy tales, in happy endings, in the possibility that broken things could be whole. And I’d burned those stories weeks ago, hadn’t I?

Dawn came eventually, pale and gray. I dressed in one of the simple gowns the king had provided—nothing fancy, but clean and well-made and mine.

The ring on my finger caught the light, the moonstone gleaming.

“A promise,”

he’d called it. Maybe it was time to understand what that promise truly meant.

I found Charles in his study, bent over correspondence, already managing the kingdom despite barely three hours of sleep. He looked up when I entered, and something vulnerable crossed his face.

“Catherine. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Where else would I be?”