The Omega They Can’t Ignore

My name is Aria, and I'm an orphan. It might sound funny, because thinking back to four years ago, I would have never imagined that I would become an orphan. Four years ago, I was the girl who had everything. A father who would ruffle my hair after training and call me his little pup, a mother who would braid that same hair at night and whisper stories about the Moon Goddess. I had a house that was always warm. I had a future that was already written for me. I lost my parents in a war that our Alpha could have avoided. That's what they say when they think I'm not listening. A border dispute that turned into a bloodbath because pride was more important than peace. My father was part of the warriors — he was a Gamma, loyal to his last breath. He died with a sword in his hand, fighting for a pack that wouldn't even bring his body home for two days. While my mother was accidentally killed. An accidental casualty, they called it. A stray arrow, a rogue warrior from the enemy pack who broke into the Omega quarter. She wasn't supposed to be a target. She was just there. I still feel angry about it because I'm all alone now, and people are starting to talk. Maybe they weren't thinking about it like that, or maybe I just can't stand the fact that I'm alone. They look at me with pity now. The other Omegas bring me food I didn't ask for. The warriors avoid my eyes. The elders whisper that a lone, unmated Omega without family is a curse on the pack house. That my grief is too loud. That my moon mark is too bright for someone with no lineage left to protect. But it still doesn't change the fact that whenever I look at our old house, I remember everything that happened. I still have painful memories. Our little wooden house at the edge of the pack. The chipped blue door my father promised to fix. The kitchen window where my mother used to leave wildflowers. Now the roof is sagging. The scent of them is fading from the walls. Whenever I walk past it, I can still hear her humming. I can still see him sharpening his blade by the fire. It's like the house is a ghost that won't let me go. I miss them. I miss them so much, and it hurts to see them gone. Last week, when they were laid to rest and prayers were said by the priestess of our pack, I knew I shouldn't have gone there. I shouldn't have attended the burial. I stood at the back, hidden behind the crowd. The priestess burned sage and moon herbs and prayed for safe passage to the ancestors. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that they shouldn't need safe passage, that they should be here, that they should be alive. My father's grave was so fresh, the earth still dark and wet. My mother's beside him. Two stones, side by side, just like they used to sleep. I didn't cry. I couldn't. I reached for my wolf inside me and felt nothing. Just silence. She has been silent since the night they died. My father was a Gamma, while my mother was his obedient Omega, and I am an Omega myself. I never wanted to be anything else. I don't have the fury of an Alpha or the fight of a Beta. I have soft hands and a soft heart. I heal small cuts, I calm crying pups, I listen. But in our pack, being an Omega without a family to stand behind you means you are nothing. It means you are waiting to be claimed, or discarded. I have a moon mark on my shoulder. A perfect, pale crescent, silver-white against my skin. My mom used to say that I smelled like sweet vanilla, with a hint of strawberry. It was a weird mixture, but she always said she loved it. She said it was a comforting scent, that one day my mate would follow it through a storm just to find me. I used to hate it when she said that. Now I would give anything to hear her say it one more time. But now, I'm ready to move. I'm ready to leave because staying in this pack only brings back painful memories. Every path leads to their graves. Every scent in the wind is their absence. I'm going to the next pack. Hopefully, they'll accept me, but I'll try. The Northern Crescent Pack. They are bigger, stronger, and I've heard their Alpha is just, not prideful. They take in strays, lone wolves who have nowhere else to go. At least that's what travelers say. I have to work on my own. Maybe my parents foresaw their death. I was their only child, and them having another baby would have slowed me down. My mother always told me, "Aria, you were made to be free, not to be kept." Maybe she knew I would have to run one day. Maybe this is what she meant. So I guess it's a win for me. I looked back at the house with my bag packed and said my final goodbye. My bag wasn't big — just a spare dress, my mother's locket, a small knife my father gave me when I turned sixteen, and a piece of dried meat. It was everything I owned in the world. "Thank you," I whispered to the empty windows. "I'll make you proud." Then I pulled the strap over my shoulder and started walking. Walking was too slow for me. So I ran. On two feet, not four. I ran far away from the pack borders. I ran and ran and ran until I was out of breath. Past the border stones I was never allowed to cross as a pup. The forest was dark and endless. The night was cold, and the wind cut through my thin dress. Thorns tore at my ankles. My lungs burned. My heart was beating so loud I thought every patrol for miles could hear it. I stopped at a stream to drink some water. The water was ice-cold and clear, reflecting the full moon above. I saw my mother's face in mine. I cupped the water in my shaking hands and drank until my throat stopped burning, and I let the stream wash the tears I finally allowed to fall. Afterward, I continued my journey, stumbling over roots, clutching my mother's locket so tight it left a mark in my palm, until I finally reached the border of the next pack. And I stopped. I made it.