I wake before the pack.
I always do.
The sky outside my narrow window is still ink-dark, the moon only a pale ghost retreating behind drifting clouds, but my body is already moving. There is no alarm. No need for one. Omegas who oversleep are corrected quickly, and correction is rarely gentle.
I swing my legs off the bed and press my bare feet to the cold stone floor, breathing through the familiar ache in my bones. The room assigned to me is small—barely large enough for the cot and the wooden chest shoved against the wall—but I keep it clean. Immaculate, even. Cleanliness is one of the few things no one can fault me for.
The chest creaks softly as I open it. Inside are my folded clothes, plain and carefully maintained, and a small bundle of dried herbs wrapped in cloth. I keep those hidden beneath everything else. Useful things earn tolerance in this pack. Decorative ones invite scrutiny. A faint memory rises unbidden: the first time I tried to paint on the walls of my old room. The elders found it, and the corrections were swift. I still remember the sting—not from the physical pain, but from the humiliation. From that day on, I understood what it meant to stay invisible.
I braid my hair tightly, pulling each section into place with practiced efficiency. Long hair is considered vanity unless you are born into status, and I learned early to make myself as unremarkable as possible. Practical. Contained. Invisible when necessary.
Then I dress—nothing fitted, nothing that draws attention. Attention is dangerous currency in Crescent Ridge. Clothes are only armor against the constant surveillance of the pack. The leather boots are stiff, biting at my heels, but they ground me. Each step feels purposeful, measured.
Here, everyone knows their place.
Alphas command.
Betas enforce.
Omegas comply.
And I have spent twenty-two years learning how to exist inside that final category without letting it hollow me out.
The compound is quiet when I step outside, the air sharp with early morning chill. I inhale deeply, grounding myself in familiar scents—pine resin, damp earth, faint smoke lingering from last night's fires. The pack scent lies heavy over everything, a constant presence that presses against my senses like a hand at my back. Belonging, they call it. Ownership feels more accurate.
I retrieve the broom from its hook and begin sweeping the stone steps of the Alpha house.
It's menial work. Symbolic work. Omegas are expected to serve in ways that are visible enough to remind us of our position, but never important enough to grant influence. No one explicitly says it, but everyone understands: we are background pieces, meant to support the structure, not reshape it.
The broom scrapes rhythmically against stone. I focus on the sound, on the motion, on the quiet resistance of the task. It helps me think.
My life has always been like this—measured, careful, controlled. I was born into this pack, raised beneath its rules, shaped by expectations that were never mine to question. I learned early when to lower my gaze, when to speak, when to disappear. I remember the stings, the whispered lessons from my mother: "Eva, strength hides in stillness. Never let them know you are restless."
But learning the rules doesn't mean accepting them.
"Eva."
The voice cuts cleanly through the morning.
I don't look up right away.
That alone is a small act of rebellion, and I savor it for half a second before turning.
Mira stands a few paces away, arms crossed, posture rigid with habitual authority. She's a beta's daughter, raised on the certainty that power will one day rest comfortably in her hands. She wears confidence the way others wear jewelry—easily, without thought.
"You're late," she says.
"I'm not," I reply evenly. "The sun hasn't risen."
Her lips thin. "Don't get clever with me."
I set the broom aside carefully. "What do you need?"
Her gaze flicks over me, assessing. Judging. "The elders want the eastern hall cleaned before the gathering tonight. And you missed a corner here."
She gestures vaguely at the steps.
I glance at the spotless stone, then back at her. "I'll handle the hall."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.
Mira steps closer, lowering her voice. "You forget yourself."
I meet her eyes. Hold them. "I remember exactly who I am."
An omega.
The word is never spoken aloud, but it hangs between us anyway, heavy with implication. Omegas aren't supposed to meet gazes for too long. We aren't supposed to challenge, or question, or negotiate.
But I do.
Her mouth curls slightly, a smile without warmth. "Be careful, Eva. Confidence doesn't suit your station."
I pick up the broom again. "Neither does cruelty."
She laughs once, short and humorless, then turns away. "Just make sure the hall is spotless. Or I'll report you."
Her boots strike stone with purpose as she leaves.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to loosen.
This is my daily trial—not the labor itself, but the constant testing. The subtle reminders. The pressure to bend without breaking. Some omegas crumble under it, shrinking into themselves until compliance is second nature.
I refuse.
The eastern hall is cavernous and cold, its high ceilings supported by carved pillars depicting past Alphas in moments of triumph. Their stone eyes follow me as I work, silent and judging. I scrub floors, wipe tables, rearrange benches until my arms burn and sweat slicks my back.
No one helps.
No one ever does.
By the time the sun finally rises, my stomach is tight with hunger, my hands raw. I straighten slowly, stretching aching muscles, and allow myself a single moment of stillness.
Something feels… off.
It's subtle at first. A warmth beneath my skin that doesn't belong to exertion. A faint hum in my chest, like a low note held too long. I press a hand to my sternum, frowning.
This has been happening more often lately.
At night, my dreams are vivid in a way they've never been before—too intense, too intimate. I wake flushed and restless, tangled in sheets, my heart racing for reasons I can't name. During the day, my senses spike without warning. Sounds sharpen. Scents linger. Emotions feel closer to the surface, considered less safe.
It's unsettling.
"Omegas bloom quietly," the elders always say. "Gently."
This doesn't feel gentle.
I gather my basket and slip toward the edge of the territory under the familiar excuse of herb gathering. No one questions me. This is one of the few freedoms afforded to me, and I guard it fiercely.
The forest welcomes me with open silence.
Here, the pack's weight eases. The air smells cleaner, layered with moss and damp bark and the faint sweetness of blooming night-flowers. I kneel beside a patch of moonwort, fingers brushing the cool leaves. The plant hums faintly under my touch, reactive to lunar cycles.
I've always had a knack for herbs—another skill that keeps me useful. Tolerated. Another layer of control, another way to survive.
As I work, that warmth returns, stronger now. It coils low in my abdomen, unfamiliar and sharp, sending a shiver through me.
I straighten abruptly.
"No," I mutter. "Not now."
My scent—normally muted, suppressed by pack treatments and years of conditioning—stirs.
I can feel it.
Not blooming. Not spreading.
Just… shifting.
A pulse, like something stretching awake after a long sleep.
"Eva."
I turn quickly.
Lena stands a short distance away, her expression tight with concern. She's one of the few who speaks to me without condescension. A beta, yes—but kinder than most.
"You slipped away again," she says softly.
"I needed air."
Her gaze searches my face. "You don't look well."
"I'm fine."
She doesn't believe me. "The elders are watching you."
The words settle heavily in my chest. "Why?"
She hesitates, then lowers her voice. "There are rumors."
My fingers curl around the basket handle. "About what?"
"Your scent," she admits. "They say it's… changing."
"That's impossible."
Omegas don't draw attention. We don't awaken power. We don't—
"They've scheduled a gathering," Lena continues. "Soon."
Not a ritual. Not yet.
But close enough.
My stomach tightens. "I'll attend."
Refusal isn't an option.
As the sun dips lower and the pack stirs into evening activity, unease coils tighter around me. Eyes linger. Conversations stop when I pass. Even the air feels charged, waiting.
I return to my room as darkness settles, closing the door behind me with care. The moonlight spills through the window, pale and watchful. I sit on the edge of my bed, hands clenched in my lap, listening to my heartbeat.
Too steady.
Too loud.
Something is changing.
And whether the pack admits it or not, I know one truth with aching certainty—
They're afraid.
So am I.
But unlike them, I intend to survive what's coming.