The night was clear over the small tribe of Xang.
It was not a sharp brightness like that of the sun. Rather, a cold, diluted light that floated over the world without truly warming it. The new moon offered only a thin crescent, so slender that it looked like a pale scratch in the sky. Yet even that glow was enough to outline shapes: the uneven line of the rocks, the dark lace of trees in the distance, the slope of packed earth that led to the cave. Everything seemed frozen, silent, as if the night were holding its breath.
The air bit. It was so pure and so cold that it felt almost solid. When one inhaled, it entered with cutting sharpness, and when one exhaled, it immediately became visible: a whitish mist that curled, tore apart, and then disappeared. In places, thin sheets of frost caught the light and sparkled like shards of glass. The wind slipped between the stones, not strong enough to howl, but steady enough to find every crack, every opening, and deposit its cold there.
The tribe slept.
Inside the cave, one could barely perceive the movement of the gathered bodies, the collective warmth forming in layers. Deep, steady breathing. From time to time, the brush of skin against stone, a sigh, an indistinct murmur. All of it remained contained, as if muffled by the rock. Outside, the night seemed even vaster, as though darkness extended beyond the horizon.
Then, suddenly, a sound.
It was not a crash. Just a brief sound. Dry. A "tac" of stone against stone, something moved or crushed. So light it could have passed for chance… and yet, it was different. It carried intention.
A movement followed.
A silhouette slid between the rocks, at first only a slight shift in the shadow, then a clearer shape. It moved quickly, but without haste. As if it knew the terrain perfectly, as if every foothold were familiar. Humanoid, perhaps — but above all swift. Too swift to be a simple wandering animal. Too supple as well, too balanced.
The pale light of the new moon finally touched her.
It was a young delta.
She was not tall yet. Her body was lean, wiry, built to run and slip through narrow spaces. Two small wolf ears, placed atop her head, caught sounds with constant attention: they pivoted at the slightest rustle, at the faintest push of wind. Her tail, short and supple, swayed slightly behind her to stabilize her movements, like a discreet rudder. Her bare feet — or almost — touched the stone carefully, seeking rough patches, avoiding smooth surfaces where ice might betray her.
She moved toward the cave.
Each step was calculated. She knew the path, but night transformed everything. Angles seemed sharper, hollows deeper. The rocks, at certain hours, could resemble motionless animals lying in shadow. Even the distant trees looked like patient silhouettes. In that cold clarity, distances became deceptive: a near object seemed far, and a far object seemed near.
The delta slowed for a moment as she approached a slab of stone. She placed her foot down, felt the surface. A thin layer of ice. She immediately withdrew her leg and went around, preferring to lose a few seconds rather than risk slipping and waking everyone. Her breath came out in a thicker cloud. She stopped, attentive, body tense.
Silence.
Nothing followed her. Nothing watched her. The sound had not returned.
She resumed her path.
And it was there, halfway, that something made her stop abruptly.
A detail at first, almost insignificant: a color on the horizon.
She lifted her eyes.
The sky… was not only black.
It had layers.
Above the mountains, the darkness was a deep blue, so dense it seemed to swallow light. Higher up, one could distinguish another shade, like a purer, more velvety black, where the stars seemed stitched directly into the fabric. And near the horizon, an orange band lingered, like the last trace of day refusing to die completely. It was not uniform: it shifted from orange to pale pink, then to deep red before fading into the night's blue.
The delta blinked.
She had seen those colors before, of course, but that night they seemed sharper. More visible. As if the sky had decided to be clear, almost demonstrative, just to mock her understanding.
Why?
Why did the sky color itself like that?
Why was it not always the same? Why did it change, slowly, almost like a breath? Blue, orange, red… then black. And sometimes other shades too, tones one could not name, between violet and gray, as if the world hesitated over which color to choose.
She stared at the horizon.
It looked like a distant fire. But there was no fire. Not that far. No smoke. Nothing. Only that strip of color, fading gently, second after second, like an ember cooling.
The delta felt something stir inside her: a mix of fascination and frustration. A question scratching like a splinter. She did not like things she could not understand. She did not like answers that said "it doesn't matter." If the sky could change, then there was a reason. And if a reason existed, it should be possible to say it.
Her breath came out again, a white cloud rising toward that impossible sky. For a fraction of a second, she had the impression that the mist was trying to reach it, as if even the air wanted to understand.
She finally lowered her eyes.
The cave was not far anymore. And if anyone could tell her, it would be her mother.
After all, her mother knew almost everything.
She entered.
The inside struck her by contrast. The biting cold remained outside, replaced by a heavy, compact warmth — that of several bodies gathered together. The smell of damp stone mixed with that of skin, fur, primitive leather, and with a more reassuring scent: that of the tribe, of safety. The ground was packed down from repeated passage. Pawprints and footprints overlapped like memories.
The omegas slept, gathered in a circle. Some were curled against the walls, others at the center. The children, the deltas, stayed in the warmest areas, where the adults formed a natural barrier. The soft snore of one blended with steady breathing. A vague murmur, perhaps a dream, crossed the cave like a shadow.
The delta slipped through without making a sound.
Her mother, the omega, was there. Curled up, her back against the stone, her arms around herself. Her face was calm, but marked by fatigue — not the fatigue of one sleepless night, but of entire days spent surviving, carrying, feeding, holding on.
The delta approached and touched her gently.
"Mom… Mom…"
The omega barely moved. One eye opened slowly, as if the eyelid weighed a ton. Her pupils adjusted to the darkness. She observed her daughter for a few seconds, without irritation, but with the hazy slowness of forced awakenings.
"I was wondering… why does the sky change color? Why blue? Why orange? And why sometimes red?"
The omega remained silent for a moment. She inhaled, and her breath formed a warm puff against the delta's cheek.
"I don't know," she finally replied, her voice low and rough. "And… to be honest… it doesn't change much."
She turned her head away, as if the question were too distant, too abstract for the night she was trying to get through.
"Go ask the beta. She might know."
The delta nodded.
The beta.
Yes. The beta would know.
Everyone said she was the most intelligent in the group — aside from the alpha, of course, but the alpha was the alpha. And above all, one did not disturb the alpha for a question of color. One did not disturb the alpha. Period.
The delta stepped outside again.
The cold returned immediately, like an impatient animal waiting behind the door. She shivered, instinctively tightening her shoulders, and resumed her path, faster this time. Above her, the sky continued to change, almost imperceptibly, as if the colors were slipping into one another.
The beta's den was a little higher up. On ground that was drier and harder, where stones formed a kind of natural terrace. It was a place chosen deliberately: from there, one could see farther. React faster. Protect better.
The delta arrived, slightly out of breath, and stopped at the entrance.
She hesitated. A second.
Then entered.
The beta was awake.
She never slept deeply. Or if she did, it was like an animal resting without lowering its guard. Her presence imposed a particular calm: an attentive calm, the calm of someone who observes even while speaking.
The delta stepped forward and asked her question directly, because she did not know how to do otherwise.
"Why does the sky change color?"
The beta stared at her for a long moment.
It seemed as though she were searching for the answer inside the delta herself. Or weighing the question — not for its difficulty, but for its usefulness.
Then she answered:
"I don't know."
The delta felt a small drop inside her, as if something had collapsed, but she remained upright.
The beta continued, with a patience the delta did not yet notice.
"Even if I did know… what would it change? Would it protect you from a predator? Would it fill your stomach?"
She shook her head slightly.
"Some things do not need to be understood in order to survive."
The delta lowered her eyes. She had not received what she wanted. Not an explanation. Not a "because." Not an old story.
But the beta had not been cruel. She had not laughed. She had not pushed her away. She had simply said… that it was not necessary.
The delta stood there a moment longer, motionless, as if she wanted to insist but could not find the strength. Then she nodded softly and left.
On the way back, she lifted her eyes once more toward the sky.
The red at the horizon was fading. The orange weakening. The night blue taking dominance. As if the night were slowly winning again against the last traces of day.
She returned to the cave.
She curled against her mother's warmth. She rested her head where she could hear the heartbeat. The steady rhythm rocked her like a song without words. Her eyelids grew heavy. The questions slowly dissolved, drowned in warmth and fatigue.
The night passed.
And the sun rose.
Morning entered in stages.
First, a faint paleness at the entrance of the cave. Then a stronger light, spreading across the stone and waking the dust suspended in the air. The air became less biting. Still cold, but breathable without pain.
A deep growl echoed.
The alpha.
This sound was not a cry of panic, nor a gentle call. It was an order. A vibration that passed through the bones.
The deltas lifted their heads almost at the same time. Some rubbed their eyes. Others stood up immediately, already used to it. The delta gently freed herself from her mother's body, who grunted in her sleep but did not fully wake.
Outside, the alpha was already standing straight, an imposing silhouette in the morning light. Her gaze swept over the young ones with an intensity that made many lower their eyes. The betas were present, motionless, vigilant. The omegas stayed slightly behind.
The teaching was about to begin.
The delta took her place among the others.
That morning, it was the beta who spoke.
Her voice carried well. She did not need to shout. She had that tone that compelled listening, that tone where every word seemed chosen.
She reviewed the foundations once again — not because the deltas were foolish, but because one day they would become adults, and a single forgotten thing could cost a life.
There were the alphas.
Few in number. Powerful. Responsible for protecting the tribe. They were the ones who stood against danger. Their magic was not gentle: it was made to strike, to repel, to wound. Each spell drew on their energy like an invisible hunger. Even moving while using their abilities required effort: strengthening muscles, sharpening senses, preparing magical shields, activating ancient instincts.
There were the betas.
Often as strong as an alpha, but different. Their magic was more defensive. They stabilized. They protected. They taught. They carried the past — the memory of wars, of mistakes, of rules, of traps. They were the link between what had been and what must be.
There were the omegas.
They formed the majority. Child-bearers, supporters, hunters, cleaners — all the invisible hands without which the tribe would die. Their strength did not lie in the individual, but in the group. In cohesion. In the ability to be many, to take turns, to endure despite fatigue.
Alone, they were vulnerable.
In a group, they could become a tide.
The delta listened. She already knew these words, but she liked hearing the beta's voice. She liked the certainty that this structure gave: the world had rules. Even if the sky changed color, at least the tribe had logic.
And then…
A sound.
To the north.
Brief. Dry.
The beta stopped speaking.
Her ears rose instantly. The alphas reacted just as fast, their gazes hardening in a single heartbeat.
Silence fell.
One could even hear the wind.
The sound stopped, as if it had never existed.
Then returned, louder.
And this time, it carried fear.
Without a word, the alphas and betas ran north. Their departure was so sudden that dust lifted slightly behind their steps. One of them gave a sharp order:
"Into the cave!"
The omegas gathered the deltas. Some grabbed the smallest by the shoulders, others pushed gently but urgently, without visible panic.
The delta obeyed at first.
Then hesitated.
Curiosity — that old scratch in her mind — awakened again.
She slipped between two bodies, took advantage of an opening, and escaped.
She ran.
Her breath became a rapid mist. Her heart pounded hard. The ground beneath her feet changed: less rocky, more earthy. And suddenly, she felt something wrong.
The earth was dry.
Too dry.
As if someone had drained the life out of it.
She slowed down and looked at the ground.
Cracks.
Grass, in places, withered in seconds. Small stems bent, lost their color. Moisture vanished. The soil cracked audibly.
This was not natural.
It was magic.
But not gentle magic.
Not protective magic.
Magic made to kill.
War magic.
The delta understood without knowing how. Her body knew before her mind: an ancestral instinct, a fear passed down through centuries of stories.
She should have fled.
She knew it.
But she moved forward.
One step. Then another.
And then…
She arrived.
And she saw.
Bodies.
Everywhere.
The scene did not explain itself. It imposed itself.
The metallic smell of blood filled the air, mixing with the cold and the dry dust. Betas lay torn open. Omegas lay motionless. Some had fallen as if they had tried to run. Others seemed to have been struck where they stood.
The delta felt her stomach tighten.
It was impossible.
No enemy should have been able to approach this close without being detected. The alphas would have sensed the danger. They would have warned the tribe. They would have reacted before the first body fell.
And yet…
She heard nothing.
No screams. No running. No battle.
Only silence. Heavy. Strange.
As she remained frozen, she perceived movement.
She turned her head.
A delta emerged.
Then another.
Then another.
And behind them…
omegas.
Armed.
Their steps were steady. Their gazes… empty. Almost cold. As if something inside them had been replaced.
And on their bodies…
blood.
The alpha's blood.
The beta's blood.
The young delta stepped back. Then again. Her heart beat so loudly she felt it could be heard. Her throat was dry. Her fingers trembled.
It was impossible.
Omegas should never have had that kind of power.
She had already seen attempts at revolt. She knew their rage, their courage — but also their limits.
What she was seeing now surpassed all of that.
So how?
How could this be happening?
And above all…
Who was leading them?