The first evening of the Fire Circle began under a bruised lavender sky, with the air still thick from a sun-drenched afternoon. The tall trees behind the Gray Pack's houses swayed gently, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind.
Scottland sat on a quilt near the center of the small clearing they'd chosen behind the pack house. A circle of flat cushions and folded blankets had been laid out beneath string lights, hung with the help of Wren and two Beta boys who volunteered after hearing what the Omegas were planning. A firepit burned low in the center, more warmth than heat, its gentle crackling grounding everyone as they arrived one by one.
This wasn't a council meeting.
This was a gathering.
A place to come without expectation or formality. No one had to speak. No one had to listen. But they could. They could, and that made it sacred.
Scottland shifted her legs beneath her, adjusting the soft edge of her dress across her knees. She wore a pale lavender cardigan, too big for her frame, borrowed from Grant's closet when the air started to cool. It smelled like him—pine and warmth and something grounding—and it helped quiet the flutters in her stomach.
Wren lit the small candles placed between cushions. "You okay?" she whispered as she passed behind Scottland.
Scottland nodded, her fingers tracing a soft pattern in the woven fabric beneath her. "I'm just… hoping they feel safe."
"They will," Wren said with a certainty Scottland was still learning to believe in herself.
The first to sit down beside her was Rose, who tucked her long auburn hair behind her ear and offered a small smile. Then Lila, cradling a warm mug of tea, her eyes flickering between the others. Ana. Ellie. Clara. More followed.
By the time the sun slipped fully behind the horizon, over twenty girls and women sat around the fire. Not one voice had spoken yet.
Scottland looked up at the stars peeking through the darkening sky, then down at the soft glow of flames licking upward in the pit.
And she began.
"I used to sleep with my back to the wall," she said, voice soft but steady. "Because it felt safer than sleeping in the middle of the room."
Several girls nodded slowly, eyes wide, lips parted like they'd been holding that breath for years.
"I didn't speak much. Because when I did, it made things worse. I stopped looking at myself in the mirror. I forgot what my own laugh sounded like."
She swallowed.
"But I remember the first time someone hugged me here and didn't want something in return."
A long silence.
"I cried," she whispered. "Hard. Ugly. And it made me feel real again."
The fire cracked gently.
Then someone else spoke.
"My name's Clara. I used to be part of the Whitestone Pack. They made Omegas eat in a separate room. We weren't allowed to speak during meals."
"I'm Lily," another said. "My old Alpha told me Omegas couldn't read. I believed it until I was fourteen."
Scottland blinked. Fourteen.
"I'm Ellie," came another voice. "And I flinch when someone knocks on a door."
It continued, slowly, like a stream finding its way through dry earth. Some stories were short. Others came in fragments. Some didn't speak at all, just reached out to squeeze the hand of the girl beside them.
No one interrupted. No one judged.
There was no correcting. No fixing.
Only witnessing.
When the fire burned lower and the wind rustled the trees, Wren stood and brought forward a small wooden box.
"It's called a release box," she said gently. "You can write something down—a fear, a memory, a lie you were taught—and place it inside. When the fire is low enough, we'll burn them."
Scottland hesitated, then took one of the small slips of paper and pencil offered.
She wrote:
"I am not broken for needing gentleness."
When the box was filled, Wren gently set it into the edge of the firepit, and they watched as flames consumed the paper, sparks drifting like fireflies into the night.
Later, after the group had gone quiet and many had wandered back toward the house, Scottland remained behind, still on her blanket, the fire now little more than glowing embers. Grant emerged from the trees quietly and sat beside her without a word.
"I didn't know you were coming," she said softly.
"I stayed back," he replied, voice low. "I wanted this to be yours. Just yours."
Her throat tightened at that. "You were listening?"
He nodded. "From a distance. I could hear your voice. It was the strongest one."
Scottland looked into the fading fire. "They trusted me with their pain tonight."
"You held it beautifully."
She turned to him, eyes shining. "I don't know how to do this perfectly, Grant. I don't have a plan. I just know I can't let them go back to silence."
He reached out and took her hand. "Then don't. Keep speaking. Keep holding space. I'll stand with you, always."
She leaned into him then, and for a while, they sat in silence. There was no need to fill it. It was sacred, shared, enough.
The next day brought something different.
A knock at her bedroom door. It was soft, careful.
When she opened it, she found Lila there, holding a small folded blanket.
"I, um… I made this," Lila said, thrusting it forward. "For the fire circle. For the next one."
Scottland unfolded it slowly. The blanket was patchworked from soft, worn fabrics in warm tones—some pieces embroidered with small words stitched in a careful hand: hope, warmth, belonging.
"It's beautiful," Scottland whispered. "Lila… this is—"
"I wanted something that reminded us of safety," she said, cheeks coloring. "I never had one before."
Scottland hugged her. Not quickly. Not lightly. But fully.
When Lila left, Scottland placed the blanket on her bed and sat down beside it.
This—this quiet kind of offering—was what healing looked like. Not loud. Not flashy. But deeply, deeply real.
Over the following week, more changes came—not sweeping, but small and meaningful.
A shared bookshelf was placed in the common room. The books were organized by the girls themselves, with handwritten notes tucked inside favorite pages.
A corkboard was hung by the kitchen where girls could post anonymous affirmations or gentle questions. By day three, it was covered in post-its:
"You are more than your past."
"Has anyone else forgotten what they like to do for fun?"
"You deserve to take up space."
Scottland passed it daily, reading each one, always pausing when she saw her own handwriting among the others—knowing she was no longer alone in the voice it carried.
One morning, Scottland found herself sitting outside on the porch steps with Ana, who was teaching a few of the younger girls how to braid small ribbons into their hair. The sun was warm. The wind light. Laughter bubbled now and then, and it didn't sound strained anymore.
"Did you ever think it would feel like this?" Ana asked, gently tying off a braid.
Scottland thought for a moment. "I didn't think I'd feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Whole. Not fixed. Not perfect. But… whole."
Ana smiled. "You're a lighthouse, you know. You don't have to pull anyone in. You just shine."
Scottland blinked back the sudden emotion and leaned her head on Ana's shoulder.
That night, she wrote those words on a slip of paper and tucked it into her bedside drawer:
You're a lighthouse. You don't have to pull anyone in. You just shine.
And so the days turned, softer now, but not without their edges.
Some girls still startled at sudden noises. Others still took food to their rooms, too used to eating alone. Some disappeared for hours, needing silence more than company.
But none of them were doing it alone anymore.
Scottland stood one morning by the tall window in the main hall, looking out as Wren helped two new arrivals from a car—two young Omegas, wide-eyed, clutching one another's hands tightly.
She watched as Wren knelt to speak to them gently, gesturing toward the garden.
Scottland felt something bloom in her chest then—not fear, not pressure—but purpose. Steady. Rooted.
She turned, her eyes finding Grant across the room, watching her with that unshakable quiet strength.
He crossed to her in a few strides, cupping her jaw. "You're doing it," he whispered. "You're changing everything."
Scottland smiled, blinking back tears.
"No," she said. "We are."
And as she leaned into his embrace, watching Wren guide the new girls toward safety, she knew something simple and true:
Home wasn't a place.
It was this.
Warmth. Choice. Healing.
And she was no longer just someone finding it.
She was helping build it—for everyone who came next.