Between The Moon and The Alpha

They’ve always had too many candles in their home. Fat ones in glass bowls. Thin ones on bronze stands. Dripping ones with wax hardened like frozen tears. To most Lunars, candles were sacred — a way to mirror the presence of the Moon Goddess in their homes. To Harriet, they were more like witnesses. Silent, steady things that watched her grow. This morning, they burned brighter than usual. She knelt on the cool marble floor beside her mother, arranging silver petals into the shape of a crescent. The moonstones glowed faintly in the early light as if humming beneath her fingertips. Her hands moved automatically — years of memory guiding every motion. She didn’t need to be told where the salt should go, or which candle was lit last. She’d been doing this since she could walk. It was supposed to be comforting. It was a ritual. It was sacred. But today, Harriet felt something like heaviness settle at the base of her throat. “Light that one next,” her mother said softly, gesturing to the violet candle beside her. Harriet obeyed, reaching for the flint. The flame caught, and for a brief second, her reflection shimmered in the brass bowl. Grey eyes. Dark curls bound neatly in lunar silver. A mark on her right wrist that hadn’t yet faded — the trace of last year’s Moon Vigil. She didn’t look older. But today, she was sixteen. Her mother hadn’t said “Happy birthday”. But she didn’t need to. Sixteen was the year most Lunars transformed — when the Moon’s power finally touched their blood. Harriet hadn’t. And so, instead of blessings or candles for celebration, there was only silence. A quiet tension that filled the space where joy should have been. “You’ve placed the stones too close to the ash bowl,” her mother murmured, adjusting them without looking. “They must circle it — never touch.” Harriet gave a slight nod. “Sorry.” A long pause. The smoke drifted slowly between them. Then her mother said, “Tomorrow is the calling ceremony.” Harriet kept her eyes on the altar. “The council asked me again to offer the invocation,” her mother continued, voice tight with something Harriet couldn’t place. “I told them what I always tell them — that it’s a ceremony I do not support. But still, they insist.” Harriet said nothing. She had nothing to say. Her mother sighed. “No true Lunar would want to become an Alpha. That kind of thirst for power—it darkens the spirit. It’s always the boys. The few of them who don’t quite fit. It’s ambition, not faith, that pulls them there.” There it was again — the line she always heard, spoken in the temple, whispered in the gardens, passed down like some sacred truth. Only male Lunars ever apply. Only the restless ones. Only the ones who don’t listen. Harriet’s hands paused over the last of the silver flowers. She thought about her life, about the candles that watched her, the prayers that never changed, the way the moonstones always glowed the same. She thought about how, every day, she walked the same paths, said the same words, and lived the same way. Was that all there was? She pressed the flower into place. “What if someone doesn’t want to be a priestess?” Her mother turned sharply. “What did you say?” Harriet looked up. “What if someone… wants something different? Not out of ambition. But because maybe... the Moon is calling them somewhere else?” Her mother studied her in silence. The flickering candles reflected in her eyes. Then she turned away. “We should finish the altar. The Moon is watching.” As soon as she was done with her duties, Harriet left to prepare for school. The school bus rocked slightly as it moved slowly over the cobbled streets. Harriet stood near the centre aisle, swaying with each turn, her hand lightly gripping the worn leather strap above her head. She had given up her seat, of course. An older Lunar woman had boarded three stops earlier, her back bent with age, her silver-grey hair tied in ceremonial knots. Harriet hadn't even thought about it — she had simply risen, bowed slightly, and offered the seat. It was what was expected. What her mother would approve of. What the Moon Goddess would smile upon. The bus was full today. Everyone was buzzing, voices layering over each other like restless birds. Harriet tucked herself closer to the aisle pole, invisible, listening. "—this year's Alpha Trials, I hear they'll start by the second moon," someone said near the window. "I wonder what it feels like," a younger girl sighed dreamily, her uniform still stiff with newness. "Imagine being an Alpha. Brave. Respected. Protecting your pack." "Betas have the real strength, we are the backbone of the pack" a rougher voice argued. "If the Betas were allowed, we’d be leading already." "You’re just bitter," another voice laughed. Harriet shifted slightly, trying to ease the cramp in her fingers. She glanced around — the children of Alphas were easy to spot. They wore the same grey-and-blue uniforms as everyone else, but they carried themselves differently. Shoulders squared. Eyes bright with certainty. Already convinced of their greatness. She wondered what it would feel like — to walk through life never questioning your path. The bus jolted, and they turned down a narrower street. The mood inside shifted. Out the scratched glass windows, the Omega district unfolded — sagging houses pressed close together, cracked pavement, and the lingering scent of woodsmoke. Harriet saw a little boy chase a paper kite between two buildings, his bare feet slapping the ground. No one on the bus spoke. They never did when they passed here. Omegas weren't allowed to ride the buses with the other castes. It was tradition. It was order. It was “the way things must be,” as the council always said. The only Omega allowed aboard was the bus driver — a wiry man with grey-streaked hair and tired eyes who kept his gaze locked on the road ahead. Harriet’s stomach tightened. Her mind drifted back to the whispers she’d heard as a child — about the blood-bound ceremony at the town’s heart. About how submitting your name for the Alpha Trials wasn’t something anyone could do for you. Not a friend. Not a parent. Not even the elders. You had to offer yourself. It was said that the Moon herself would reject a false offering. That once, years ago, someone had tried to prank the ceremony by submitting another's name — and the blood-stone had hurled the prankster backwards, breaking two ribs. The Moon knew. Always. And now, the thought grew heavier inside her chest, almost too large to swallow. If she wanted something different — truly different — she would have to step forward alone. No one could choose it for her. And no one could stop her. The bus groaned to a halt outside the school gates. Harriet gathered herself, slipped through the chattering crowd, and stepped down onto the stone path, heart thudding painfully against her ribs. Today, she was sixteen. Today, she would decide.