Fated To Two: She Belongs To The Alphas

Who is that?

It should have been a night like any other. But it wasn’t.

Maybe it was the market incident… maybe it was talking about Grisha… Or maybe it was just the suffocating weight of everything pressed against her and the fact that all she wanted to do was bury it.

Whatever the reason, Amara had a blast to the past, a dream so immersive it was indistinguishable from reality and she experienced her last happy days all over again.

And in this dream, she would remember something vital to understanding why she was able to cross the border.

On waking, Amara blinked the blur from her eyes. The images… she couldn’t quite remember — slipped through her grasp the harder she tried to recall even the slightest detail.

Only the echo of terror remained, an invisible weight crushing her chest.

She instantly rushed out and found Lucian. Planning to recount what she could remember no matter how little.

Weird it might have sounded. The memory unlocked in the dream meant she knew what was going to happen, but she somehow forgot it all…

“You mean to tell me you believe you had a dream of what happened before it happened? And you forgot it somehow?”

“Yes,” Amara replied flatly.

“So this is what I remembered of my life before the fire.”

Narrating from what she remembered she started;

×××

*Almost a month before the fire*

Amara’s life before the unfortunate incident was one for the books.

She used to constantly be plagued by recurring dreams of terror and things falling apart.

She never really knew what it meant but now she knew that they were premonitions to the disaster that eventually ravaged her village.

Awoken on one of those nights, she had one of those dreams again

It’s a nightmare," she muttered. Yet, even that felt flimsy.

The lingering sense of loss was too great, too real, for it to just be ‘a bad dream’. All attempts to focus on the fading fragment failed

“Ouch!” she cried out in pain as she stubbed her feet against the table as she moved through the dark.



"Amara. Are you ok in there?" Her father’s voice was rough with sleep, yet sharp with concern.



She took in a shaky breath, forcing her voice steady; "Fine, Dad! Just... stubbed my toe in the dark. Bad dream."



A chuckle rumbled through the wood. "Well, shake it off, pup. Sun's barely up and your sister's already threatening to eat your share of the blueberry pie. Move it!"



The normalcy of it – Dad’s teasing, the promise of breakfast, Ashe’s predictable greed – was all she needed to shake off the dread. The nightmare receded, leaving behind only a dull craving in her mind. Just stress, she repeated firmly.



“Time to go.”

Breakfast was a lively assault on the senses. The warm, greasy scent of pie filled the small kitchen.

Ashe, already halfway through her third one, waved a dripping fork. "Sleepwalking again, Mara? Heard you yell clear across the yard.

Did you dream about that mangy fox that stole your tools last week?"



Amara managed a weak smile, accepting the plate from her father. "Worse. I dreamt that I dropped Mrs. Garrow’s new shears in the creek. It was horrifying." She focused on the mundane: the sticky sweetness of maple syrup, the texture of the wooden table under her elbows, the comforting sound of dishes.



She turned to her father, Silas, his broad shoulders straining his worn tunic as he flipped another cake.

"Wouldn't be the first time you lost tools down there, clumsy pup. Eat up. Ermmmm….infirmary stocks won’t restock themselves, and I’ve got a new batch of horseshoes cooling." He completed, “Also, don’t forget about the bonfire tonight.”

And with that, her rhythm for the morning was set. Packing fresh bandages and bark into her sturdy satchel. Delivering her father’s newly forged tools to Old Man Hemlock, a couple of hunting knives to Anya, and everything in between.



Along the way pleasantries were exchanged; greetings about the weather, inquiries about ailing relatives, the comfortable hum of pack life.

The fulfillment that came from being of service to others, just like her dad, was something Amara cherished.



"Morning, Amara! Bless you, dear," said Mrs.Garrow, accepting her repaired shears with aged hands. "Saved my prize roses from looking like a wolf chewed them!"



"Just glad they fit, Mrs. Garrow," Amara smiled.



For a moment, the nightmare felt truly distant, absurd. Then she pushed open the door to the bakery.

The usual warm embrace of yeast and baking bread hit her first. Then, underneath it, sharp and acrid: burning.

Her breath hitched like muscle memory. The world tilted as the cheerful chatter of the baker faded into a muffled roar. The thick, choking smoke pulled her into a scene of screams that weren't human. Heat that wasn’t flame. Terror that wasn’t real.

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, her palms squeezed against the leather strap of her satchel.



She swayed slightly, almost falling to the ground.

"Amara? Amara, lass?" Borin's voice pierced the haze as a large, flour-dusted hand landed gently on her shoulder. "You look like you've seen a ghost! Was it the bread? Burned a batch just before you came. Stinks, doesn't it? Here..."

He dropped a warm honey bun into her free hand. "On the house. To chase away the smell and the fright I gave you, keeping you waiting. Deep breaths now."



"Sorry, Borin," she managed, "Just... dizzy spell. Didn't sleep well. The bun smells wonderful by the way, thank you."



That was the last of her deliveries, notepad in hand she scribbled madly; “And that’s the last one for the day.”

Despite how fulfilled she would usually feel after deliveries, the walk to the infirmary felt longer than usual. The cheerful village sounds seemed muted. The weight of her satchel pressed uncomfortably against her side.

She needed the quiet focus of organizing supplies, the familiar scent of antiseptic herbs. Routine would fix this lingering unease.

Pushing open the heavy wooden doors of the infirmary building, the cool, clean scent of drying herbs and soap washed over her. Sunlight streamed through high windows, carrying with it particles of dust dancing in the air. Relief started to seep in.

Then she saw her.



Matriarch Elara, Amara’s stepmother, stood near the central preparation table. Her posture was rigid, her usually serene face etched with a tension Amara rarely saw.

She was speaking quietly but urgently to a Healer, gesturing towards one of the curtained-off cots at the far end of the room.



"Mother?" Amara called softly, stepping inside. The relief vanished, replaced by a fresh serving of unease. Why was the Matriarch here, looking so strained?



Elara turned, her expression softening only marginally when she saw Amara. "Amara… Good. Brenna needs extra hands."

Amara moved towards them, setting her satchel down on the nearest bench. "Of course. What happened?" She looked around the infirmary. A few minor cases. Nothing urgent. So why the tension from her mother?



Healer Brenna wiped her hands on a clean cloth, nodded towards the far cot. "New arrival last night. Found during this morning’s rounds. Barely conscious. Want to know the real weird part? No pack markings we recognize. Malnourished, weak... and something else. He won’t speak to anyone. Just stares. Or mutters nonsense."



For a fraction of a second, Amara’s focus remained on her mother’s face, the worried lines around her eyes. Then, as Elara moved, the background behind her seemed to shift. The details of the infirmary wall, the shelves of jars, the sunlight patterns – The rest of the room dissolved into a soft, unimportant haze around the sharp, still point of the stranger.

Sharpening into impossible, crystal clarity was the figure lying on the cot in the far corner. Gaunt, weathered face. Eyes closed, but the lines around them spoke of decades of hardship.

“Who is that?”