Three
870 Words
It started as a whisper in her bones.
At first, Abigail thought it was just her imagination—like when your limbs go numb from lying too long in one position. But this wasn’t numbness. It was… energy. Alive. Surging just beneath her skin.
She sat by the wide bay window in her small but cozy room, the late afternoon sun casting golden stripes across the hardwood floor. Her sketchbook lay untouched on her lap. She was supposed to be drawing—something simple, like trees or birds—but her hand trembled, pencil twitching in her grip.
“Something’s wrong with me,” she thought.
“Nope. Something’s happening to you,” Iris said, her voice sharper than usual in Abigail’s mind. “And I don’t like it. What’s going on, Abs?”
Abigail clutched her stomach. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t fear. It was… pressure. Like something deep inside her wanted out—but not in a violent way. It felt more like the sun pushing through storm clouds.
Her heart raced.
Her wolf stirred.
“It’s probably nothing,” Abigail thought. “My birthday’s in four months. Maybe this is just… shifting signs?”
“Four months is way too early for that,” Iris grumbled. “I mean, yeah, you’ve been feeling me more lately. I’ve been feeling me more lately. But this? This is different. It’s like your body’s trying to do something it shouldn’t be doing yet.”
A sudden pulse shot through her chest—sharp, electric. The lamp beside her flickered.
Abigail blinked. “Did that just—?”
“YUP.” Iris snapped. “Okay, we are officially past weird. That lamp just freakin’ blinked when you got anxious. And you’re mute, not a damn light switch!”
Abigail stood up too fast, nearly knocking her sketchbook off her lap. She crossed the room and ran cold water over her hands in the sink. The sensation grounded her. She stared at her reflection in the mirror above it—same soft features, same wide eyes, same thick dark curls pulled into a messy bun. But something in her gaze looked sharper, deeper. Glowing almost.
“You’re scaring me,” she thought to Iris.
“You’re scaring me!” her wolf shot back. “Whatever’s going on, it’s not normal. Not omega-normal. Not even alpha-normal. This is something else.”
⸻
Downstairs, the packhouse was unusually quiet for late afternoon. Most omegas were in their rooms resting before the dinner shift. A few young warriors sparred in the courtyard, their playful growls and thudding footsteps echoing against the stone walls.
Abigail walked the halls slowly, hoping movement would shake the tension off. Her footsteps padded over the smooth floors as she made her way toward the library, the one place she could be alone.
She paused outside the heavy double doors, pressing a hand to the cool wood.
And then it happened again.
A burst.
A ripple of warmth spread from her chest outward—so fast and so intense, she had to grab the doorframe to keep herself upright. Her vision swam. The chandelier overhead sparked once, then steadied.
“Nope, nope, nope,” Iris panicked. “You just flinched, and a light sparked. That’s not us. That’s not me. That’s something else.”
Abigail’s breathing was shallow now. She backed away from the door, turning around, heart pounding like a drum in her ears. She needed fresh air.
⸻
She darted outside, past the back gardens and the training fields, to a quiet edge of the territory where the forest started. The breeze hit her face, cool and earthy, and she finally exhaled.
She sank to her knees beneath an old birch tree, resting her hand against the trunk.
And that’s when she saw it.
Her fingertips—just for a second—glowed.
A soft silvery-white shimmer, like moonlight trapped beneath her skin.
Abigail yanked her hand back, staring in horror.
Iris was silent now. Shocked into stillness.
“What the hell is happening to me?”
⸻
Meanwhile…
In his private office, Alpha Jake stared down at the etched replica of the Moonstone embedded in the ancient war table. It wasn’t the real artifact—no one could go near the true Moonstone without risking death—but this carved map was laced with old magic, tuned to its energy.
Every now and then, the replica would pulse—just once, like a quiet heartbeat from far away.
But for the past week… it had pulsed twice a day.
A warning.
Or a sign.
He did know one thing, the last time the moonstone had pulsed repeatedly, a war had broke out.
⸻
Back under the birch tree, Abigail hugged her knees to her chest, burying her face in her arms. She couldn’t tell anyone. Not yet.
Even if she could speak… how would she explain it?
That her body was changing.
That something ancient was waking inside her.
That maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t the weak, quiet girl everyone thought she was.
And deep down, in the quietest corner of her heart, a terrifying thought bloomed:
What if I’m not meant to be normal?
- Writer
