I wake before the first light of dawn, as I always do. The sky outside my narrow window is still the color of cold ink, and the frost that clings to the edges of the stone sill sparkles faintly in the moonlight. My body aches in the familiar way, bones reminding me of each year I have survived under Crescent Ridge's unyielding hierarchy. But today, the ache carries an unusual edge—a subtle warmth that coils beneath my skin, stretching through my chest and spine, restless and unfamiliar. I press a hand over my heart, steadying the pulse that seems to have a mind of its own.
I braid my hair tightly, as always, securing it away from my face, and dress in plain, practical clothes. Attention is dangerous currency in a pack like ours, and I have spent twenty-two years learning how to avoid it without vanishing completely. I step out into the quiet compound, the frost crunching under my boots, inhaling the familiar scents of pine resin, damp earth, and smoke lingering from last night's fires. Even here, however, I notice subtle changes: glances that linger too long, whispers that cease abruptly when I draw near. The pack is watching me more closely than ever.
My chores await: sweeping the stone steps of the Alpha house, collecting water from the well, tending to the herb garden. Each motion, each scrape of broom against stone, is measured, deliberate. Omegas are expected to work, to serve, to remain background pieces. And yet, every task I perform today feels charged. I sense curiosity and apprehension, unspoken words and unacknowledged fear brushing against my skin like wind against the trees.
Lena finds me first, moving silently through the frost-laden garden. Her eyes sweep over me, searching, assessing. She kneels beside a patch of moonwort, her fingers brushing the leaves in a gentle mimicry of my own movements.
"You're restless," she says softly, voice barely above the wind.
"I'm fine," I reply, though the words feel hollow. "Just thinking."
She studies me, brow furrowed. "They're talking about you again."
I glance up sharply. "Who?"
"The elders," she whispers. "And others. The whispers travel faster than you think. People are uneasy… about you."
My stomach twists. "Uneasy? About what?"
Her gaze flits to the edge of the forest, cautious. "Your scent. It's changing, Eva. Stronger than it should be. Sharper. There's… something stirring, something they cannot control or explain."
I tighten my fingers around the basket I carry. The warmth beneath my ribs coils tighter, a mix of fear and unexplainable excitement. "They won't… notice me, surely?"
"They notice," Lena replies quietly. "Even if they cannot name it. The elders are watching more closely. The pack… they feel it too. Fear, curiosity, awe. It travels through whispers and glances, small tremors no one admits."
I swallow hard. My pulse flares. Even in the morning chill, sweat prickles at the back of my neck. The forest that usually feels like sanctuary now carries weight—the silent judgment of unseen eyes.
We move through the herb garden together, tending moonwort, lavender, and nightshade. Each plant hums beneath my touch, responding to my hands in ways I have learned to recognize over the years. Their delicate energy feels grounding, almost comforting, in contrast to the pressure pressing down on me.
"Have you felt it?" Lena asks softly, voice low, almost conspiratorial.
"Felt what?"
"This… change. How your body reacts, the heat, the pulse beneath your skin. I've noticed it. Others notice it too. But no one will say so aloud."
I press my lips together, attempting to mask the thrill and fear that surges through me. "I… I feel it sometimes. But it passes. It's nothing. Surely…"
"Nothing?" she interrupts gently, a trace of sharpness in her tone. "Eva, do you not understand? They fear what they cannot control. And what is changing in you… is exactly that."
I glance at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Endure," she says simply. "Survive. Hide it if you can. But prepare. The elders will test you. The ritual is tomorrow night, and they will not be gentle."
My stomach tightens. The ritual. The word carries weight, threat, and uncertainty. It is an assessment, a judgment, a measuring of what I am and what I might become. And I have no choice but to attend.
The day drags on. I sweep the stone steps, scrub the floors, tend the garden, check the stables. Each moment is punctuated with awareness: the sharp glance of a beta, the whisper of another omega, the measured step of an elder. Everything is watched, assessed, weighed. Even small actions—placing a pot just so, straightening a line of herbs, adjusting my braid—feel like tests.
By midday, the bell tolls. Its hollow sound carries across the compound, calling all pack members to the central hall. Omegas fall into line, heads bowed, shoulders rigid. Betas stride past with authority, eyes flicking over me like measuring tools. I keep my posture straight, hands clasped in front of me, yet every nerve is alert, sensing the subtle shifts in the air.
The elders pass, robes brushing stone floors, eyes sharp, silent judgments cutting through the crowd. I feel their gaze like a weight on my shoulders. Each movement, each sound, each heartbeat of mine seems amplified, exposed.
I overhear fragments of whispered conversations as other omegas shuffle past:
"She's… different."
"Have you noticed? Something is stirring."
"The elders are worried."
I feel the heat flare beneath my ribs again. My pulse races—not from fear alone, but from the raw awareness of being seen. Being measured. Being feared. And yet, in that fear, there is recognition. Dangerous, forbidden recognition.
After the assembly disperses, I take the excuse of gathering herbs to slip toward the forest's edge. Here, the air is thick with pine and damp earth, the frost melting into dew. The forest welcomes me in silence. I kneel among the plants, running fingers over leaves, trying to lose myself in routine. But the warmth inside me refuses to abate. It pulses through my chest, curls in my stomach, travels down my spine.
Lena appears again, stepping silently over the dew-laden earth. "They are serious," she whispers. "Tomorrow, the ritual will not be a simple assessment. It will be a measure of what is waking in you. And some may not even care what becomes of you if you fail their expectations."
I straighten, tension coiling in my muscles. "Then I will prepare. I will endure, as always."
"You must," she says, voice heavy with concern. "But even endurance has its limits. Remember that."
The day stretches long, hours passing in quiet, tense observation. I watch the pack from the forest edge: betas striding confidently, omegas sidestepping with silent wariness, elders' eyes glinting with unspoken calculations. Even the wind seems alive, carrying hints of fear, curiosity, and expectation.
I return to my quarters at dusk. Moonlight spills across the stone floor, cold and unyielding. I sit on the edge of my bed, hands clasped, mind racing. Every interaction, every whisper, every glance of the day spirals through my thoughts. The warmth in my chest continues to thrum, relentless and unfamiliar. My senses are heightened—every sound, every movement, every scent amplified.
And I know, with a certainty that chills and excites me in equal measure: tomorrow will not be ordinary.
The pack may try to suppress me, measure me, contain what is stirring beneath my skin. But whatever it is, it will not remain hidden.
I close my eyes, focusing on the rhythmic pulse of my heart, grounding myself. I will endure. I will survive. And I will face whatever comes with my eyes wide open.
Because something inside me is awakening—and it is impatient to be seen.