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The journey to Mercedes had taken a month.
It might have taken two, had Max been given lesser beasts. But the Verstappen bred horses were not like other horses. They were creatures of iron and restless spirit, bred for war and speed, their long legs devouring the earth beneath them as though the world itself were too slow. They do not tire easily, and neither, it seemed, did the boy who rode among them.
So where others would have arrived worn and broken, Max arrived merely quiet.
The Silver Castle of Mercedes Kingdom rose before them in gleaming defiance of the sky, its pale stone catching the sun so sharply it seemed almost blinding. Tall spires cut into the clouds, banners of silver and black snapping in the wind like drawn blades. It was not a warm place. Not in color, nor in feeling.
Fitting, Max thought.
“Welcome to Mercedes.”
The voice was smooth, practiced—used to command, but tempered with something almost resembling charm. Lord Toto Wolff stood at the top of the marble steps, dressed in silver-threaded black, his presence filling the space without effort.
“This is my sons. George and my eldest, nico.”
Max’s gaze moved first to the right. The boy there stood straight-backed, composed, his hands folded neatly behind him. Brown hair, carefully kept. Blue eyes that are clear and observant. Too observant. There was no scent to him, nothing that marked him as alpha or omega. A beta.
George Russell inclined his head slightly, polite, measured. There was something almost delicate about him, in the long lashes, the fine lines of his face—but it was the stillness that caught Max’s attention. Not softness. Control.
Then Max looked left, And there stood Nico.
Golden.
There was no other word for it. His hair caught the light like spun sunlight, falling perfectly despite the wind. His features were almost too symmetrical, too flawless like something carved rather than born, But beauty, Max had learned, often came with rot beneath.
Max’s expression did not change as Nico spoke.
“Father, please,” Nico said, already frowning, already irritated. His voice carried the sharp edge of someone unused to being denied. “I don’t need any more friends. I already have Lu, Danny, and Jenson. Can’t we just send him back?”
A month across dust and rain, through villages that whispered and roads that seemed to stretch endlessly forward and this was the welcome.
Max said nothing but simply watched,And there it was.
The problem.
He would not call himself a gossip—he had neither the patience nor the interest—but even he had ears. And the closer they had drawn to the capital, the louder the whispers became.
Servants murmuring behind half-closed doors. Merchants trading rumors as eagerly as coin. Nobles hiding their words behind painted fans and false smiles.
They all said the same thing.
Nico Rosberg was perfect.
Perfect—except for one flaw.
Too close to a certain alpha.
A dangerous flaw, for someone already promised to Charles Leclerc, Crown Prince of Ferrari.
Max tilted his head, just slightly.
The boy before him did not look like a careful political piece. He looked like a child denied a toy.
The polished image cracked easily, it seemed.
Petulant. Loud. Clinging.
Max’s gaze flicked, briefly, to Toto.
The man was still smiling—but there was strain in it now, something tight beneath the surface. Annoyance, carefully hidden.
Max knew that look well.
His own father, Jos Verstappen, would not have hidden it at all.
There would have been no polite smile. No measured patience.
Only anger.
Max returned his attention to Nico, studying him with quiet, cutting precision.
They would fit together, he thought, almost amused.
Nico Rosberg and Charles Leclerc.
Two polished names. Two fragile tempers.
Two whiny children dressed as something greater.
And here Max stood, dragged into their court like a piece on a board he had never asked to play.
Toto Wolff spoke then, his voice measured controlled—each word placed with care, like a man used to being obeyed.
“Max is here to be a ward of Mercedes. If you had kept up with your studies, you would know that omegas are rare—extremely rare—in the Red Bull region. He is here to be nurtured. Right beside you.”
The words settled over the courtyard, heavy with implication.
Toto was not wrong, Across the vast expanse of Red Bull Territory, omegas of noble birth were almost unheard of. There had only ever been two worth naming.
Max himself and Sebastian Vettel, the bastard omega son of Christian Horner.
The rest of Red Bull was built on betas. Solid. Unremarkable. Replaceable and Useful,
Which made Max something else entirely.
Something watched.
Something weighed.
Behind him, boots shifted against stone.
The men who had ridden with him—the ones bearing the crest of Jos Verstappen—stepped forward at last. Their presence had been silent until now, shadows at his back, but now they made themselves known.
“Our duty is done my lord,” one of them said, voice flat, uninterested in courtly politeness. “We shall return to Red Bull.”
For the first time, Toto’s composure faltered.
“You will stay the night,” he said, not quite a command, not quite a request. “You’ve ridden hard. Mercedes offers—”
“We have no need,” another man cut in, sharper this time. “We have done what was required.”
Max did not turn.
He did not need to.
He already knew.
A brief silence followed, stretching thin.
Then, almost as an afterthought, one of them glanced at Max.
“Do not make a fool of the Verstappen name.”
That, at least, sounded like something his father would say, Max’s eyes flicked toward them, cool and unbothered.
“I won’t.”
No hesitation. No embellishment.
A promise or perhaps a warning.
The men nodded once, satisfied or indifferent—it was hard to tell, betas whos scent would never betray them and without another word,quick bow to lord toto wolf.
They had disappeared Only the sound of boots against stone, fading quickly as they passed through the gates and out of the Silver Castle, as if they had never been there at all.
Max was alone now left alone with the wolves
Lord Toto watched the empty space they left behind, something unreadable passing across his face. Surprise, perhaps. Or calculation.
“...Well,” he said after a moment, recovering smoothly, as though nothing had slipped at all.
His gaze returned to Max, sharper now, assessing.
“We will begin with a tour of the castle.”
But when Toto turned, expecting his sons to follow—
They were gone.
Nico had vanished without excuse, no doubt unwilling to linger another second.
And George had also left , no care for a random omega from redbull
Toto exhaled softly through his nose, something almost like irritation slipping through at last.
“I see,” he murmured.
Then, after a brief pause, he gestured forward to the largest castle anyway.
His eyes flicked back to Max, thoughtful now, as if seeing not just a boy—but an investment. A risk.
Somewhere deep within the castle, doors were already beginning to close and open.