The Omega's Rebirth

Prologue Us wolves had all read the human’s stories about us. As barely-there teens, we’d sit up late at night in our rooms poring over the highly romanticised works of fiction, before giggling to each other about our favourite parts the next day. With rose coloured glasses on we would idealise our future mates, the soul bond, the first time our wolves would appear. As we aged, whispers and rumours fell to our ears from the older pack members. About what the humans had right, and the terrifying ways they had it wrong. As if the teen years weren’t complicated enough, the coming-of-age for any werewolf became an event to be feared rather than revered. Coming of age wasn’t an eerie ceremony under the full moon before our first transformation, and the soul bond with our fated mate wasn’t an unwavering, undeniable cosmic force. At the cusp of womanhood & adulthood… the brink of discovering my wolf and finding my soul mate; I sorely wished the humans had been right. Chapter 1- Zara I am Zara. An unfortunate name, the result of an archaic practice within the Amethyst pack. For as long as we could remember, our first initial was directly linked to our standing within the pack. Through centuries of intermingling with select members of the human race, some aspects of our way of life had escaped and ranking was well known. You had your Alphas and Lunas, your Betas, warriors, and the lowly Omegas. Like yours truly. Z. Last letter of the alphabet. Lowest of the low, with only our innate sense of respect for other beings standing between me and being treated like the scum of the earth. Rather, I was merely invisible, not that this was necessarily a bad thing. Tradition thus dictated that all the Alphas had “A” names, I often wondered how many had been repeated in history. Surely they’d run out of new names eventually, or perhaps we’d adopt the embarrassing human habit of introducing weird and wonderful ways of spelling & phonetics to our names. Our current Alpha was Abram; his Luna was Chelsea; future Alpha and son Alexander and daughter Annette. Interestingly, the Luna-being a soul mate- could be plucked from any rank, any walk of life, have any name- and be instantly revered. The mate bond was irrefutable. Chelsea had already been a relatively high ranking member of a neighbouring pack which made her transition easier. These high ranking pack members were typically blessed in the aesthetic and intelligence departments too; after all who would respect and follow an Alpha one didn’t believe could win a battle with neither pen nor sword. You can just about guess where that leaves me. Diminutive and mousy were two words I’d use to describe myself- physically at least. Mentally I felt trapped, I yearned for more. I graciously accepted my lot in life outwardly, but on the inside I writhed with discontent. A life of serving the pack via menial labour never quite sat right with me, however I felt powerless to change. So I watched. I was all but invisible, after all. My formative years were spent learning the ins and outs of how the pack functioned, no one cared about the lowly Omega sitting under a tree looking like she was day dreaming. As long as my tasks were done, my free time was my own, I was no threat nor a traitor. By the age of 15 I felt it fair to say I likely had a better grasp on how the pack worked than any other Omega, even most of the warriors. I took pride in predicting how things would play out, or who would react in what way. Now, at the cusp of turning 18, I felt more trapped than ever. My prospects were that of a weak wolf, merely there to facilitate just enough strength and healing to continue my work in the pack house; and a soul mate of similar ranking with whom I would have pups, beginning the cycle of drudgery once again. The prolonged pain and torment I would soon undergo to discover and release my inner wolf seemed preferable to the life I would lead after. Contrary to popular fiction, there were no ceremonies for our coming of age. Perhaps if there had been, it may have been easier to endure. A tribal fire in the forest under the light of a full moon, who knows maybe it would take a slight edge off. As someone who rotated cleaning in the hospital wing occasionally, I saw it all. Every torturous scream, every c***k of bone, every moan and whimper. The “Transition Wing” as it was dubbed, was at the furthest edge of the hospital, and as far as you could get from the main packhouse without leaving it. The occasional brave pre-teen wolf would be seen hiding in the hallways, no doubt egged on by their less brave peers, trying to sneak a peek as confirmation of the rumours they’d have begun to hear at their age. Most left with pale faces and sombre attitudes. We’d all seen older friends and family members leave when the time of their transition came near, and return days, weeks, and rarely months later. Youthfulness struck from physical frame as well as mind, returning to the fold with speed, strength, heightened senses and healing abilities. Some spoke of their experience, most chose to leave it behind. I was 3 weeks out from my 18th birthday and could expect my transition any time now.