Omega Saved Alpha, He Named Me His Luna

Chapter 1

My name is Wren.

I am the most forgettable Omega in the Hollowmoor Pack.

In the werewolf world, Omegas are at the very bottom of the hierarchy. We are the ones people order around, dismiss, and step over.

When I was twelve, my parents died in a rogue attack.

After that, no one ever spoke up for me again.

But I had one thing no one else had.

Hands that could save lives.

Before the old Pack Doctor died, he taught me everything he had learned about herbs in half a lifetime.

Which leaves could stop bleeding.

Which roots could bring down a fever.

Which remedy, if mixed with wolfsbane, could kill a wolf instead of saving one.

I could tell them apart with my eyes closed.

Every night, the one stitching wounds in the infirmary and brewing fever medicine was me.

But every morning, the one wearing the Pack Doctor’s badge and accepting everyone’s gratitude was Seraphina.

She was Gamma Roderick’s daughter.

The beauty of the pack.

Long golden hair. Judging eyes. White dresses that never saw a drop of blood.

She couldn’t tell wolfsbane from mint, yet she wore the credit for my sleepless nights as if it belonged around her neck.

"Wren."

That morning, she kicked a pile of dirty bandages to my feet and smiled brightly.

"Wash these. My hands are for serving medicine to the Alpha, not touching disgusting things like this."

Several she-wolves behind her burst into laughter.

I didn’t answer.

I only bent down and picked up the bandages.

Not because I was afraid of her.

Because this pack didn’t deserve an explanation from me.

Last month, the Lead Warrior had his thigh torn open by a rogue during patrol. The wound festered so badly he was about to lose the leg.

I stayed up for three nights, using the strongest herbs I had to clean the dead flesh bit by bit, dragging him back from the edge of becoming crippled.

The day he recovered, the one he knelt before in front of the entire pack was Seraphina.

I stood three steps away.

Not a single person turned to look at me.

I was used to it.

An Omega’s shadow weighs almost nothing.

"Endure it a little longer."

Sorrel’s voice sounded coldly in my mind.

She was my wolf spirit, a rare pale silver wolf.

The pack thought her color was strange. Behind my back, they called her a "sick wolf."

"Once we save enough, we leave. We’ll go east, to that pack that needs a healer. No one there will know us, and no one will be able to steal what’s ours."

Under the loose floorboard beneath my bed, I had hidden a small leather pouch.

Inside was more than half a year’s worth of saved payment.

In another month, I would have enough to buy a pass to the Eastern Territory.

That was the only thing I looked forward to.

I didn’t want to be an Omega whose name people stepped on.

I wanted to go somewhere my hands would make people remember the name Wren.

That night, the moon was dim behind thick clouds.

As usual, I carried my herb basket to the wolfsbane field at the edge of pack territory to gather herbs soaked in night dew.

That was the best time to brew antidotes.

Wolfsbane was deadly to werewolves, so no one came near this place.

It had become my private refuge.

But that night, beneath the heavy scent of purple flowers, there was another smell.

Blood.

So much blood.

And beneath it, something scorched and sharp.

The smell of silver burning through flesh.

My heart dropped.

I clutched my basket and pushed through the waist-high grass.

Deep in the field, a massive black wolf lay in a pool of blood, half his body sunk into mud and rainwater, barely breathing.

A broken silver blade was lodged in his shoulder.

The edges of the wound had turned the bluish-black color of wolfsbane poisoning.

The darkness spread along his veins like a tightening net.

I had never seen a wolf that large.

A normal shifted werewolf would reach my chest at most.

But even lying on the ground, this wolf’s shoulder nearly came up to me.

And I had never seen a wolf survive injuries like that.

A silver blade coated in wolfsbane should have killed any werewolf with a single strike.

The fact that he was still alive meant his strength was terrifying.

My palms were slick with sweat.

I knew every choice I made next could get me killed.