OMEGA

The bell rang, and Amara tucked her books into her backpack with a tired sigh. School had felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was just her body knowing something was coming—even if her mind didn’t. The sun was beginning to dip as she stepped off the bus. Warm orange light stretched across the quiet village paths, painting long shadows over the dirt road. She kicked a stone, half-listening to the crunch of gravel beneath her sneakers as she made her way home. The kind of peaceful walk she always took for granted. She didn’t know it would be the last. When she pushed open the gate, the scent of smoked spices hit her nose first. Her mom was cooking. “Amara?” her grandmother Liana called from the front porch, rocking gently in her chair, a half-knitted scarf in her lap. “Hi, Grandma,” Amara replied, dropping her bag near the door. Her mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “You’re just in time. Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up.” Inside, her father stood by the fireplace, oiling a wooden carving he’d been working on for days. He glanced over his shoulder. “Still top of your class?” “Barely,” Amara mumbled, trying not to smile. The house was small but warm, filled with the kind of comfort that wrapped around you like a thick blanket. Safe. Familiar. The windows were open, letting in the breeze and the hum of pack life beyond their little home. They sat down together for dinner—something with yam and peppered stew—and laughed over nothing. Her mom asked about school. Her dad teased her about the boy who kept staring at her during training. Her grandma told her stories, as always. Tonight’s story was different, though. “Have they taught you about mating yet?” Grandma asked, wiping her lips with the corner of her wrapper. Amara choked a little on her food. “Um… yeah. Sort of.” Her mother chuckled. “Sort of?” “It’s not like a whole class,” Amara muttered. “They just… mention it. That one day, if we’re lucky, we’ll feel the bond.” “It’s more than luck,” Grandma said softly. “It’s fate. You’ll know it when it happens.” Amara frowned. “How?” Her dad leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The first time you see them, something changes. It’s in your blood, in your bones. A pull. And the scent—” “Oh, the scent,” Grandma interrupted with a dreamy sigh. “It’s like breathing in something you didn’t know you were missing. It hits you so suddenly.” “And the sparks,” her mother added, reaching for her father’s hand across the table. “Like your soul is waking up.” Amara blinked. “So… like a magical punch to the face?” They all laughed. The rest of the evening passed like that—jokes, stories, warmth. Amara curled up on the rug beside her father as he continued his carving, the steady rhythm of the knife against wood lulling her. Her mother hummed softly in the kitchen, and her grandmother was dozing lightly on the couch. Then everything shattered. A howl split the air—loud, urgent, wrong. Not the kind that called a pack together. This one screamed danger. Her father stood instantly, his carving forgotten. “Stay inside,” he ordered, voice suddenly sharp. “What’s going on?” Amara asked, heart racing. Another howl—this time cut short. Screams followed. Cries. A loud bang. Her mother grabbed her arm. “Amara, go to the back room. Stay low.” But Amara couldn’t move. She was frozen in the middle of the living room, watching her father's body tense like he already knew what was coming. Then came the crash. The front door exploded inward, splinters flying. Figures poured in—men, not wolves. Humans. Armed. Cold. One of them fired a shot into the ceiling. Her grandmother screamed. “Get down!” her father roared. Amara dropped to the floor as hands grabbed her father. Her mother lunged forward, claws out, but was struck down hard by the butt of a rifle. “NO!” Amara screamed. One of the men—tall, with a scar down his cheek—spoke over the chaos. “Take him. Alpha Three’s blood is priority.” “What does that mean?” Amara cried, struggling toward her mother. Another man looked at her—cold eyes, no emotion. “She’s not needed.” They dragged her father out. Her mother, bleeding from the head, tried to crawl after him. “Run,” she rasped to Amara. “Baby, run—!” A final shot rang out. Then silence. Her mother's body slumped, unmoving. Her father's voice had vanished into the night. Amara couldn’t hear anything but the sound of her own breathing. Then a firm hand gripped her arm—her grandmother. “We have to go.” “But—Mama—Papa—” “They’re gone,” her grandmother whispered, eyes shining with tears. “And if we stay, you will be too.” They slipped through the back, crawling behind broken fences, under trees, into the dark. No one followed. No one needed them. --- But as they vanished into the woods, Amara looked back one last time… And saw one of the hunters standing in her doorway, watching them flee. He smiled. Like he had let them go on purpose.