From Useless Dud To The Alpha's Queen

The Ascension Trials were imminent—the absolute only chance for their squad to leave this decaying planet and enter the vast, elite sea of stars. And Alana, the only 'Dud' conduit in the squad who couldn't summon an Eidolon, was bearing all the crushing pressure.

In this world, women held absolute power. They ruled the cities, commanded the armies, and took multiple husbands as a sign of status. Men existed to serve—as warriors, laborers, or consorts. A woman without an Eidolon was a disgrace; a man without a squad was worthless. But Alana, born female, had failed twelve summoning attempts. In the eyes of society, she was less than nothing.

Alana stared at the holographic tactical board. The blue light flickered, stuttering as the outdated processor struggled to render the terrain of the upcoming Ascension Trials. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, rubbing her temples until dull pain bloomed beneath her skin.

The heavy metal door of the underground tactics room slammed open.

A gust of cold, damp air rushed in. Cash Patterson strode into the cramped space, his heavy combat boots thudding against the grated floor. He didn't say a word. He just raised his right hand and slammed a thick, gold-embossed paper contract onto Alana's console.

Dust exploded from the impact, catching in Alana's throat. She coughed, her chest tightening, and picked up the heavy parchment.

Her eyes scanned the bold lettering at the top. It was a "Deep Sponsorship" agreement from Chet Wolfe, the heir to one of the most ruthless corporate conglomerates in Zenith City. Below it sat a list of high-tier gear that could easily guarantee their squad a flawless victory.

Then, she flipped to the second page.

Her eyes stopped on a single, highlighted paragraph. Clause 4: Full-time private companionship and physiological comfort to be provided by the squad's Conduit, Alana Nicholson.

The air in her lungs vanished. A cold, heavy stone dropped directly into her stomach, pulling her organs down with a sickening lurch. Her pupils dilated. The words blurred, replaced by the memory of Chet's greasy, lingering stares and his sweaty hands. Chet already had three wives and nine consorts, but men of his wealth could never have enough. He wanted her as another ornament—a female broken and tamed.

She snapped her head up. She stared at Cash, her fingers trembling so violently the thick paper rattled.

"You want me to sign this?" she asked, her voice a raw scrape.

Cash pulled a silver lighter from his pocket. He lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, and blew a cloud of gray smoke directly into her face.

"Sign it," Cash said, his tone flat, as if he were asking her to pass the salt.

Alana threw the contract. The heavy pages hit Cash square in the chest and scattered across the dirty floor like dead leaves.

"No," she spat.

Cash's face darkened. The casual arrogance melted into something ugly. He took a heavy step forward, closing the distance between