No One Wanted the Silent Omega Girl at the Ceremony — Until the Alpha King Claimed Her
The air in the great hall is thick with the scent of pine, roasting meat and a suffocating collective anticipation. It clings to my skin, a film of nervous energy I can’t wipe away. I stand in the shadows, tucked into an al cove near the back, trying to make my small frame even smaller, trying to dissolve into the cold stone at my back. This is the ceremony.
The one whispered about all year. The one every unmated omega is groomed for. The one that feels less like a celebration and more like a market. A meat market. Grandfather would have called it. His voice a low grumble of disdain for the new ways. I traced the worn leather of the thin bracelet on my wrist. his last gift. A sliver of the old world of kindness before he was gone.
And I was left with this. The pack. My pack. The words taste like ash in my silent mouth. The hall is a swirl of noise and color. Betas in their finery laughing too loudly. Alphas, broad-shouldered and radiating a predatory confidence that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. They stand in tight, powerful circles, their gazes sweeping over the omegas, gathered in the center of the hall, assessing, judging.
And the omegas, they prein under the attention, their scents blooming sweet and enticing. Flowers opening for the sun. They are beautiful, vibrant, full of life and hope and a future I can’t seem to picture for myself. Then there is me, Saraphina, the silent Omega, the broken one. I haven’t spoken a word aloud in 6 years.
Not since the day they pulled my parents from the river. Their bodies pale and still. The shock, the grief, it stole my voice, locked it away in a cage of bone and sorrow somewhere deep inside me. The healers said it was trauma, a wound of the mind, not the throat. They gave up trying to fix me years ago. Now my silence is a brand. It marks me as deficient, incomplete.
Who would want an Omega who cannot sing pack songs? Who cannot whisper assurances to her alpha? Who cannot scream his name in pleasure or cry out for him in warning? No one. I know this. It’s a truth as solid as the stone floor beneath my worn boots. The alpha king is here tonight. King Lysander.
His presence is a physical force, a pressure change in the room. Even from here, I can feel it. He sits on the high throne, a figure carved from granite and shadow, his silver eyes sweeping over the proceedings with a detached, almost bored intensity. He is magnificent, terrifying, and utterly alone. They say he is cursed. that his faded mate died before he could find her, leaving him with half a soul and a temper as cold and unforgiving as a winter storm.
He has attended this ceremony for a decade, and for a decade he has left with no one. A part of me, the foolish girlish part I thought had died long ago, feels a flicker of something for him, a kinship of loneliness. But it’s a stupid thought. He is a king. I am nothing. A ghost haunting the edges of my own life. The choosing begins. Alphas step forward, calling names.
An omega, blushing and triumphant, detaches from the group, her head held high. A match is made. The hall erupts in polite practiced applause. One by one they are chosen. Claimed the group of omegas in the center thins out. The sense of hope begin to curdle into the sharp tang of desperation. I press myself further into the wall. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t want the humiliation of being the last one standing.
The unwanted scrap left over at the end of the meal. It’s better to remain in the shadows. If you are never seen, you can pretend you were never offered. The noise of the hall fades to a dull roar in my ears. My focus narrows to the bracelet on my wrist. The familiar texture of the leather.
Grandfather’s scent faint as a memory of wood smoke and soil. He taught me about herbs, about healing. Compassion is the greatest magic, Saraphina. He’d say it can mend what power breaks. A bitter laugh threatens to bubble up, but my throat is a locked gate. What did compassion ever get him? A lonely death. What has it gotten me? Nothing. Finally, it’s over.
The last Omega, a pretty tearful girl named Isidora, is claimed by a grumpy looking beta guard. It’s not the alpha she dreamed of, but it’s a match. It’s a future. The center of the hall is empty now. No one called my name. Of course, they didn’t. The relief is so sharp, it feels like pain. I can go now.
I can slip away back to my tiny isolated cottage on the very fringe of the packlands where my silence is just silence, not a failing. I turn to leave, my movement small and quiet, a mouse scurrying from the feast, but a gaze snags me. Heavy, intense. I freeze. It’s him, the alpha king. His silver eyes are fixed on me.
Not sweeping, not assessing, fixed, like he’s looking past my skin, past my bones, and seeing the trembling, broken thing inside. For a heartbeat, the world stops. There is no hall, no noise, no pack, just that look. A look that doesn’t feel like judgment, but like recognition. It’s impossible. I wrench my eyes away, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My breath catches. I turn and I run.
Not a graceful exit, a panicked flight. I push through the throng of celebrating bodies, ignoring the annoyed grunts and sidelong glares. I don’t care. I just need to get out. Out of the heat. Out of the noise. Out of that look, the cold night air hits me like a slap, sharp and clean.
I gasp it in, filling my lungs with the scent of pine and damp earth. Freedom. I don’t stop running until the lights of the great hall are a faint glow behind me, and the path to my cottage is dark and swallowed by the forest. Only then do I lean against a tree, my body trembling, and let the crushing weight of my own loneliness settle back over me like a familiar shroud.
The king saw me and I ran like a coward, like the broken thing they all think I am. My cottage is a small solitary comfort. It was my grandfather’s. It smells of him, of dried herbs and old books and wood smoke that has seeped into the very grain of the walls. It is my sanctuary, my cage. I bar the door, the heavy thud of the wood, a final reassuring sound, safe, alone.
The fire in the hearth is low, just a bed of glowing embers. I poke it back to life, the small ritual, a comfort in itself. Watch the flames lick up the dry kindling, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, the wind begins to howl. A storm is rolling in from the mountains. I can feel the pressure drop, the air growing heavy and electric.
I make myself a cup of chamomile tea. My hands shaking so badly that water sloshes over the rim of the mug. His eyes. Why can’t I get them out of my head? That silver piercing gaze. It felt It felt like he knew me, like he had been looking for me. I shake my head, scoffing at my own foolishness.
It’s the ceremony, the loneliness. It’s making me imagine things. He was probably just looking at the strange silent girl cowering in the corner. An oddity, a curiosity, that’s all. The storm breaks with a sudden violent crash of thunder that rattles the single window pane. Rain lashes against the roof, a frantic drumming. I curl up in the large worn armchair by the fire, pulling my grandfather’s old quilt around my shoulders.
The wool is scratchy and smells of lavender and thyme. I should feel safe here. I always feel safe here. But tonight, the storm feels different. It feels angry. The wind shrieks through the trees, sounding like something in pain. And beneath the roar of the wind and rain, I hear something else. A sound that doesn’t belong.
A crack like a large branch snapping. Too close. I sit up, my body tensing. My ears strain, trying to parse the sounds of the storm. There it is again. A heavy dragging sound. Something being pulled through the wet undergrowth. And then a low wine of pain. An animal. My heart clenches. A fox caught in a trap.
A deer injured by a fall. Grandfather’s voice whispers in my memory. Compassion. Saraphina. It’s what separates us from beasts. But the alphas have always warned us. Stay inside during storms. The forest is not safe. Rogue wolves displaced by the weather can be aggressive. Desperate. I stay frozen in my chair, my knuckles white where I grip the quilt.
It’s just an animal. The forest will take care of its own. That is the way. But the whining sound comes again, closer this time. It’s a sound of pure agony, and it cuts through my fear like a knife. It’s the sound of something giving up. I think of myself in the great hall, unseen, unheard, left alone. I think of the indifference of the pack.
The way they look through me, the way no one ever reaches out a hand. I will not be like them. I cannot be like them. My fear is a cold, hard knot in my stomach. But the thought of leaving a creature to suffer alone in the dark is worse. So much worse. I stand up, my legs unsteady. I grab the heavy iron poker from the hearth.
It’s not much of a weapon, but its weight is a small comfort in my hand. I take the lantern from the mantelpiece, the flame inside flickering wildly, casting my own terrified shadow large against the wall. Logic screams at me. Stay inside. Bar the door. You are an omega, small and weak.
You are no match for whatever is out there. But instinct, a deeper, older thing, pushes me forward. The instinct that grandfather nurtured, the one that values life, that feels the pain of others as its own. I take a deep breath, the air tasting of ozone and fear, and I unbar the door. The storm greets me with a furious gust of wind and rain, trying to force me back inside.
It whips my hair across my face, stings my eyes. The flame in the lantern sputters, threatening to die. I shield it with my hand, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I step out onto the small porch, my bare feet recoiling from the cold, wet wood. Hello. The word is a thought, not a sound. A silent call into the raging dark.
I hold the lantern high, its trembling light cutting a weak circle into the oppressive blackness. The rain plasters my thin night dress to my skin, chilling me to the bone in seconds. The dragging sound has stopped, but the whining is closer. Just beyond the edge of my herb garden, I inch forward, my knuckles white on the poker.
My eyes scan the thrashing wall of trees and bushes. And then I see it. My breath catches in my throat a strangled gasp that makes no noise. It’s a wolf. But it’s not just any wolf. It’s a monster, a beast of legend, bigger than any wolf I have ever seen. Its body a mass of thick night black fur. It’s easily the size of a pony. Its massive head low to the ground.
And it’s bleeding. Dark blood mats the fur on its flank. A deep, vicious gash that seems to pulse with every pained breath. One of its front legs is twisted at an unnatural angle. This is no rogue. This is an alpha, a powerful one. And he is dying at the edge of my garden. Fear, stark and absolute, paralyzes me.
My mind screams, “Run! Run! Close the door! Hide!” An alpha wolf, injured and cornered, is the most dangerous thing in the world. It will lash out. It will kill me. I take a stumbling step back, but then the wolf lifts its head and its eyes find mine. Silver. They are silver, shining in the lantern light with a familiar, impossible intensity.
The king, it can’t be. It’s a trick of the light, a delusion brought on by fear in the storm. The king is a shifter. Yes, but he is in the great hall. Safe, warm. This is just a wolf. A very large, very dangerous wolf with the same color eyes. But as I stare, frozen, the wolf does something that shatters my reality.
It shifts its massive wounded body just slightly. And I see what it was hiding, what it was protecting. A bundle wrapped in what looks like a heavy oil skin cloak. From inside the bundle comes a tiny fretful whimper. A baby, a pup. The world narrows to that single impossible sight. The dying wolf. The helpless pup.
The raging storm. My fear is still there. A cold terror coiling in my gut. But something else rises to meet it. Something fierce and hot and undeniable. Compassion. That old magic. The wolf’s great head droops, its silver eyes fluttering closed for a moment. A low groan of agony escapes its throat. It knows it’s at the end.
It brought its charge here to the only light for miles as a last desperate act of hope. It brought the pup to me. And in that moment, the choice is no longer a choice. I will not be the one who turns away. I will not let them die. It’s okay, I whisper, my own voice, a rusty, unused thing in my mind. I’m here. I’ll help you. I don’t know if it understands. I don’t know if it’s the king.
I don’t know anything for certain except for the rain on my skin and the two lives trembling on the edge of oblivion in front of me. I take a step forward, then another. The poker feels heavy and stupid in my hand. A tool for violent. I let it fall. It clatters onto the wet stones of the path. The sound swallowed by the storm.
I am unarmed, vulnerable, offering nothing but my empty hands. The wolf’s eyes open again, tracking my approach. There is no aggression in them, just a bottomless weariness and a flicker of something else. Trust. Hope. I kneel in the mud beside it, my night dress soaking up the cold, wet earth. The sheer size of it is overwhelming.
Its fur smells of blood and rain and wild, clean ozone. First the pup. I reach out slowly, my hand trembling. I’m just going to take the baby. I project with my thoughts, focusing all my intent. I won’t hurt you. The wolf gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. My fingers brush the oil skin. It’s warm. I carefully, gently pull the bundle away from the wolf’s sheltering body. It’s heavier than I expect.
Inside, a tiny shifter pup, no more than a few weeks old, sleeps fitfully, its tiny face scrunched up. It smells of milk and innocence. My heart aches. Who would leave a baby to die in a storm? I clutch the bundle to my chest, its warmth, a small anchor in the chaos. Okay, my mind voice says directed at the great wolf.
Now you how how in the world am I supposed to move a creature this size? He can’t walk. That leg is shattered. He is weak from blood loss. I look at my cottage, the warm beckoning light in the doorway, my safe space. It’s 20 ft away. It might as well be a mile. You have to help me.
I think at him, pouring all my desperation into the thought. You have to try. He looks at me and I see a flicker of the same fierce intelligence I saw in the king’s eyes at the hall. He understands. Slowly, agonizingly, he begins to move. He uses his one good front leg and his powerful back legs to drag himself forward. Inch by painful inch. A deep, deep, guttural sound of torment is torn from his chest with every movement.
I stay with him, one hand holding the pup, the other hovering near his massive head, whispering silent words of encouragement. You can do it. Almost there. I’ve got you. It feels like an eternity. The rain, the mud, the pain. But we make it. He collapses onto the threshold of my cottage. Half in, half out. His breathing a ragged shallow pant.
Now for the hardest part, getting him inside. I placed the sleeping pup carefully in the armchair, wrapping it tightly in the quilt. Then I turned back to the wolf. I put my shoulder against his, my small body against his immense one, and I push.
He helps what little he can, and together we slide his enormous, inert body over the threshold and onto the rug before the hearth. The door swings shut behind us, closing out the storm. The sudden silence of the room is deafening, broken only by the crackle of the fire, the pup’s soft breathing, and the wolf’s ragged gasps. I stand there, dripping, shaking, covered in mud and blood, and stare at what I have done.
I have brought a monster into my home, a giant dying wolf, and a stranger’s baby. My sanity has finally completely snapped. But then I look at the gash in his side, the dark blood pooling on my grandfather’s rug, and the healer in me takes over. The part of me that grandfather trained. There is no time for fear. There is only time to work. First light.
I bring every candle I own, placing them around the hearth until the room is bathed in a warm, steady glow. Next, water. I fill my basin with warm water from the kettle, gathering clean cloths. I find my grandfather’s healing kit, a wooden box filled with jars of salves, dried herbs, and rolls of bandages. The familiar scent of antiseptic herbs calms my shaking hands.
I approach the wolf cautiously. He lies still, his silver eyes watching my every move. There is no threat in them, only a profound exhaustion. This is going to hurt, I think, my silent voice soft. I’m sorry. I dip a cloth in the warm water and begin to clean the wound. It’s worse than I thought.
a deep vicious tear as if from the claws of some massive beast. The edges are ragged. It will need stitches. He flinches when I touch him, a tremor running through his huge body, but he makes no move to stop me. He just watches my face, his gaze unwavering. I work methodically, my focus narrowing. Clean the wound. Assess the damage. Stop the bleeding. I pack the gash with powdered yrow to stench the flow of blood.
My fingers working quickly, deafly. My grandfather would have been proud. The leg is another matter. It’s a clean break, but the bone is shattered. I can’t set this. Not properly. All I can do is immobilize it. I find two flat pieces of firewood and tear strips from a clean sheet for bindings. As I work, I talk to him.
Not with my voice, but with my mind. I tell him what I’m doing. I tell him he’s strong, that he will be okay. I tell him about the pup sleeping safely by the fire. I don’t know if he can understand my thoughts, but it feels right. It fills the silence, creating a thread of connection between us.
When I am finally done, he is bandaged and splinted. The bleeding has slowed to a sluggish ooze. I have done all I can. The rest is up to him. I sink back on my heels, exhausted. My body aches with a chill that has nothing to do with my wet clothes. It’s shock. The wolf lets out a long slow breath. His silver eyes close. I think he is sleeping, but then one eye opens again, pinning me with that intense gaze.
He lifts his massive head just an inch and nudges my hand with his cold nose. A thank you. A wave of emotion so potent it makes me dizzy washes over me. Fear, relief, and a strange, terrifying tenderness. I reach out, my hand hesitating for a moment, and then I rested on his great head, my fingers sinking into the thick fur behind his ears. It’s coarse and damp, but beneath it, his skin is burning with fever.
He leans into my touch, a low rumble vibrating in his chest. Not a growl, something else, a purr. And just like that, the last of my fear dissolves, washed away by the impossible intimacy of the moment. He is not a monster. He is a king in a wolf’s skin, and I have just saved his life. Days bleed into a strange new routine.
My world, once small and silent and empty, is now filled with the presence of these two beings. The massive dark wolf who sleeps by my hearth, and the tiny pup who sleeps in a makeshift cradle of blankets and pillows beside him. The storm has passed, leaving behind a world washed clean and glistening. But I do not leave the cottage. I cannot. My duty is here.
I am a nurse, a mother, a guardian. I name the pup Caspian. It is a strong name, a good name. He is a placid baby, mostly sleeping and eating. I feed him goats milk from a bottle I fashion from a scrap of leather and a small glass vial. He drinks greedily, his tiny fists waving in the air.
When he is awake, his bright intelligent eyes follow me around the small room. He is a shifter pup. That much is clear. His scent is wolf and something else, something uniquely his own. and the wolf. I have no name for him. In my mind, he is simply him, the king. His healing is slow but steady, too steady, impossibly so. Each morning I change his dressings.
The gash on his flank, which should be festering, or at the very least taking weeks to close, is knitting itself together with a speed that defies nature. The skin is pink and new. The swelling in his broken leg has gone down. It’s the magic in his blood. The potent vital force of an alpha prime. He is awake more now.
He watches me always. His silver eyes are a constant presence. They follow me as I stir the fire, as I feed Caspian, as I read my grandfather’s old books by candlelight. It’s not an unnerving gaze. It’s protective, possessive. It makes my skin tingle. The silence of my cottage is different now.
It used to be an empty silence, a void. Now it is a shared silence full of unspoken communication. A flick of his ear when I stand up. A soft whine when Caspian begins to fuss. A low rumble in his chest when I sit beside him. My hand resting on his fur. And I talk to him, not with my mind anymore, with my voice. At first, it’s just a whisper, a rusty, cracked sound that feels alien in my own throat. You’re looking better today.
The words are quiet, tentative. I say them to the wolf, my back to the rest of the room as I change his bandage. He doesn’t react, but I feel a change in the air, a stillness, an attentiveness. So, I try again the next day. Caspian finished a whole bottle. He’s going to be big and strong. My voice is a little clearer.
A little stronger. It’s easy to talk to him. He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t pity me. He just listens. His silence is a comfort, a safe space for my own broken one to heal. So I start to tell him things, things I have never told anyone. I tell him about my parents, about the day the river took them, about the silence that fell over me like a shroud and never lifted.
I tell him about my grandfather, his kindness, his wisdom, the gaping hole he left in my life. I tell him about the pack, the loneliness, the cruelty of being overlooked, the humiliation of the ceremony. They look at me and all they see is a flaw. I whisper one evening, my fingers stroking the soft fur behind his ears. The fire light plays over his dark coat. They see what’s missing, a voice.
They don’t see me. His silver eyes are fixed on my face, and in their depths I see an understanding so profound it makes my breath catch. He knows what it is to be judged for what you are, not who you are. He nudges my hand, a silent command for more. So I keep talking.
My voice grows stronger each day, shedding its rust, becoming my own again. I am finding my voice in the quiet stillness of this room with only a wolf and a baby for an audience. One afternoon, while I am sitting on the floor, leaning against his warm, solid body and reading aloud from one of my grandfather’s herbals, Caspian begins to cry, a fullthroated, demanding whale. I sigh, marking my page.
Feeding time again, little one. I move to get up, but a low growl stops me. I freeze. It’s the first aggressive sound he has made since he arrived. I look at him. He is not looking at me. He is looking at the door. His ears are flat against his head, a black line of fur raised along his spine.
His lips are pulled back from his teeth in a silent, terrifying snarl. And then I hear it. Voices outside and footsteps approaching my cottage. I don’t see why we have to check on the mute freak. A rough male voice says it’s close. Too close. She’s probably just fine, curled up in her hvel. Darius. The name hits me like a physical blow. He was my intended once.
A match arranged by our parents when we were children. A cruel, arrogant bea who delighted in tormenting me. When my voice disappeared, he broke the arrangement publicly, humiliatingly, calling me damaged goods. The Alpha King has been missing for 5 days. Darius, another voice says, more reasonable. Attakus, one of the senior pack guards.
His trail went cold somewhere in this sector. We have to check every dwelling. Orders are orders. Panic cold and sharp seizes me. They can’t come in here. They can’t see him. They will see a wolf, a dangerous predator, and they will kill him. They won’t ask questions. They won’t see a king. They will see a threat.
And what will they think of me? Harboring a wolf with a strange pup. They will call me a traitor, a beast lover. They will drag me out and my life, this small, quiet life I have built, will be over. The wolf, the king, lets out another low, rumbling growl, a promise of violence. “No,” I whisper, my voice urgent.
I place both my hands on his massive head, forcing him to look at me. “No, you have to be quiet. You have to hide, please.” His silver eyes are burning with a furious protective fire. He does not want to hide. He wants to meet the threat head on to tear it apart. Please, I beg, my voice cracking. For me, for Caspian. I don’t know if it’s my words or the mention of the pup, but something in his gaze softens.
The growl subsides, though the tension in his body remains. A heavy fist bangs on my door, making the whole cottage shake. Saraphina, open up. Pack guard. Darius’s voice is impatient, full of his own self-importance. My heart is a frantic drum. What do I do? What do I do? The king solves the problem with a surge of strength that surprises me. He pushes himself up.
His injured leg buckles, but he holds his weight, limping silently, quickly into the small, shadowed al cove where I store my firewood. It’s not a perfect hiding place, but in the dim light of the cottage, he might just blend into the shadows. I scoop up Caspian, who has quieted, his wide eyes watching everything.
I hold him close, hiding him in the folds of my shawl. Another bang on the door. I know you’re in there, freak. Open up or I’m kicking it in. I take a deep, shuddering breath. I smooth my dress. I walk to the door. I open it just a crack, my body blocking the view inside. Darius and Attekus stand on my porch.
Attakus looks apologetic. Darius just looks annoyed. His eyes rake over me, a familiar sneer on his face. Took you long enough. He snaps. We need to search your cottage. Why? The word is quiet but clear. It feels strange to use my voice with him. He blinks, surprised to hear it. King’s business,” he says dismissively. “None of your concern.
Now stand aside,” he tries to push past me, but I stand my ground. “You are not welcome in my home,” I say, my voice gaining a strength I didn’t know it had. Darius laughs, a short, ugly sound. “This isn’t your home. It’s pack property. And you are pack property. Now move, Darius, Attekus says, his voice a low warning. That’s enough.
She’s hiding something, Darius insists, his eyes narrowing, trying to peer past me into the dim interior. I can smell it. Wolf and something else. Sweet. What are you hiding in there? Saraphina got astray your [ __ ] A blind white hot rage surges through me. It’s so powerful it steals my breath. Before I can even think, from the shadows behind me comes a sound that is not of this world.
It’s a growl that starts low, a vibration in the very floorboards, and rises into a deafening, terrifying roar of pure, undiluted fury. It is the sound of a king’s wrath, the sound of death promised. Darius freezes, the color draining from his face. His arrogance evaporates, replaced by a primal, instinctive terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear.
Attakus, more experienced, immediately draws his weapon, a short, heavy silver blade. His face is grim. What was that? The king limps out of the shadows. He is a terrifying sight, a giant black wolf radiating an aura of power that is almost visible.
His leg is still spinted, but he stands tall, his body a shield between me and the man at the door. His lips are peeled back, revealing teeth like daggers. His silver eyes are not just angry, they are lethal. Great mother of the moon. Adakus breathes, his knuckles white on his sword. Darius just makes a small whimpering sound. He is utterly paralyzed by fear. It’s all right, I say quickly, stepping forward, placing a hand on the king’s shoulder. His fur is bristling with rage. They’re leaving.
I turn my gaze on Darius, and for the first time in my life, I don’t feel small or weak in his presence. I feel powerful. Get off my land,” I say, my voice cold and clear as ice. Darius doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns and flees, scrambling down the path like the coward he is. Attekus hesitates. He looks from the wolf to me to the direction Darius fled.
His face is a mixture of confusion, awe, and dawning realization. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, assess the scene. The splint on the wolf’s leg, my hand on its fur, the protective way it stands over me. He is putting the pieces together, the missing king, the strange wolf found in the middle of nowhere. He slowly, respectfully, sheaths his blade.
My apologies, my lady, he says, his voice low. He bows his head. Not to me, the Omega, but to the being I am protecting. We will not disturb you again. And then he turns and walks away. His stride purposeful. He is not fleeing. He is going to report what he has seen. The king watches him go, the growl still rumbling deep in his chest.
Only when Attekus has disappeared into the trees does he relax, the tension leaving his body in a great shuddering sigh. He turns his great head and looks at me. His silver eyes are soft now, full of concern. He nudges my hand, then glances down at Caspian, who is still tucked safely in my arms. Are you all right? I’m all right.
I whisper, my voice trembling now that the danger has passed. I am more than all right. Something shifted in me during that confrontation. The timid, frightened girl who ran from the great hall is gone. In her place is someone else. Someone who can stand up to a bully. Someone who can command a king.
I look at the magnificent creature before me. This powerful being who put himself in danger to protect me. And a feeling warm and terrifying and wonderful blooms in my chest. It’s more than gratitude, more than compassion. It feels like coming home. The encounter with the pack guards changes everything.
The fragile piece of our sanctuary is broken. I know Attekus will not stay silent. He is loyal to the king and he will report what he saw. They will come not with threats this time, but with reverence. They will come to reclaim their alpha. A strange sadness settles over me. Our time is running out. This small secret world we have built is about to be invaded. The king seems to sense my melancholy.
He is more attentive than ever, staying close by my side, his warm, solid presence a constant comfort. He will often rest his great head on my lap as I sit by the fire. His silver eyes watching me with an expression of such profound tenderness it makes my heart ache. Our bond deepens in these last quiet hours.
It is a connection forged in silence and shared vulnerability more real and profound than any match made in a noisy hall. I cherish every moment. The weight of his head on my knee. The soft sound of Caspian’s breathing. The way the firelight dances on the king’s dark fur. I try to memorize it all. The sense, the sounds, the feeling of safety.
Two days later, they arrive. It is not a pack guard, but an old woman, Morena, the pack’s chief healer and a member of the king’s council. I recognize her from ceremonies, her face a mask of wisdom and authority. She comes alone, walking up the path to my cottage with a steady, unhurried gate. The king is resting by the fire.
He lifts his head as she approaches, but there is no growl. He recognizes her. I open the door before she can knock. Morwa’s eyes, as sharp and intelligent as Attacus’, take in the scene in a single glance. The massive wolf by the fire, his legs splinted, the pup sleeping in his cradle, and me standing between them, a silent guardian. A slow smile spreads across her wrinkled face.
“So,” she says, her voice a low, melodious hum. “This is where he’s been.” She steps inside, her gaze soft as she looks at the king. We have been so worried, my king. The king gives a soft huff of air, a weary acknowledgement. Morwa turns her attention to me. Her eyes are kind, but searching.
Attacus told us a wild tale of a silent omega who commanded a beast of legend with a touch. It seems he was not exaggerating. I blush, looking down at my hands. I am just Saraphina. I did what anyone would have done. No, Morwena says gently as if reading my thoughts. Not anyone. Most would have run or tried to kill him. You You healed him.
She steps closer, her eyes falling on the healing gash on his flank, the neat bandage, the clean splint. She nods in approval. Your grandfather taught you well. He was a good man. He would be very proud. Tears prick my eyes at the mention of him. The king needs to come back with me. Morwa continues, her tone gentle but firm. His body is mending thanks to you, but he needs proper care.
And his pack needs him. His enemies, they grow bold in his absence. I know she is right. Of course she is right. He is a king. His place is not here in my tiny cottage. But a selfish, desperate part of me wants to scream no. Wants to bar the door and keep him here forever. my protector, my confidant, my friend. I look at him and he looks at me.
His silver eyes are full of a deep wrenching sadness. He doesn’t want to go, but he must. We both know it. How will he get there? I ask, my voice barely a whisper. He cannot walk that far. We have a litter waiting at the edge of the woods. Morwa says strong betas who will carry him home. The finality of it settles in my heart like a stone.
This is it. It’s over. I kneel beside him, my hand finding its familiar place on his head. You have to go, I whisper for his ears alone. Your pack needs you. He lets out a low, mournful whine, nudging my hand insistently. He does not want to leave me. I’ll be okay, I lie, and I’ll take care of Caspian.
At the mention of the pup, his gaze softens. He trusts me. He has to trust me. With a groan, he begins to push himself up. It is a struggle. He is still weak. I help him. My small frame supporting his weight as he finds his feet. He leans on me as we walk to the door. A slow, painful procession. Each step is a goodbye. At the threshold, he stops.
He turns to look at me one last time. His silver eyes are filled with a universe of unspoken words. Promises, longing, regret. Then he does something that shatters my heart. He leans down and licks my cheek. A rough, warm, wet swipe of his tongue, a wolf’s kiss, a farewell, and then he turns and limps out into the sunlight toward the litter and the healers and the life that is waiting for him.
I watch him go until he is swallowed by the trees, my hand pressed to my cheek where his touch still tingles. The cottage feels vast and empty without him. The silence is no longer a comfort. It is a crushing void. I have my voice back, but I have lost the one person I truly wanted to speak to. The days that follow are a blur of hollow emptiness.
The cottage is too quiet, too large. His presence which had filled every corner is gone, leaving behind an ache in the very air. I go through the motions. I feed Caspian. I tend my garden. I read my books. But the joy is gone. The world has lost its color. I find myself talking to Caspian constantly, my voice filling the silence.
But it’s not the same. He is just a baby. He cannot understand the complexities of my grief. My grief? Is that what this is? It feels too big for that word. It feels like I have lost a part of myself. Rumors trickle down from the main pack settlement. The king has returned. He is healing. His enemies, a rival pack from the northern mountains who were responsible for his ambush, have been dealt with swiftly and brutally.
The pack is safe. The king is on his throne, and I am here, forgotten. I tell myself, it is for the best. What future could there have been? He is a king. I am a silent omega with a scandalous past, harboring a wolf in her cottage. Our worlds were never meant to overlap for long. It was a fleeting moment of magic in an otherwise gray life.
I should be grateful for it, but I am not grateful. I am heartbroken. One week after he left, I am startled by a knock on the door. My heart leaps with a foolish, impossible hope. But it is not him. It is Attacus, the pack guard. He stands on my porch, his face grim, holding a small official looking scroll. My lady, he says, his voice formal.
He refuses to meet my eyes. A message from the king’s council. He hands me the scroll. My fingers tremble as I unroll it. It is a formal decree. It states that for my service to the crown in aiding an injured pack member, I have been granted a permanent title to my cottage and a small stipend enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life. It is a reward, a thank you, a dismissal, and there is a final line.
The child known as Caspian is a ward of the crown. He will be collected within the week to be raised in the royal nursery. The scroll falls from my numb fingers. Number: No, they can’t take Caspian. He is all I have left. He is a part of that magical time. A living, breathing reminder that it was real. He is my boy.
A cold fury sharper and more potent than any I have ever felt rises in me. This is not the king’s doing. He would never do this. He loves Caspian. He trusted me with him. This is the council cleaning up loose ends, erasing the inconvenient omega from the king’s story. They are paying me for my silence, for my disappearance. No, I say, my voice low and shaking with rage.
Attakus flinches. My lady, I’m just the messenger. Tell the council,” I say, my voice rising, gaining a dangerous edge. That Caspian stays with me, and if they want him, they will have to come through me. I have faced down Darius. I have nursed a king back to health. I am not the same girl they can push aside and forget.
Attakus looks at me and for the first time, a flicker of admiration, of respect shows in his eyes. I will deliver your message, my lady, he says, and this time the title sounds genuine. He bows and leaves. I slam the door, my body trembling with adrenaline and fear. I have just defied the king’s council. I have declared war. What have I done? I pick up Caspian, holding him tight against my chest.
He gurgles happily, his tiny hand grabbing a lock of my hair. He is so innocent, so unaware of the storm that is about to break over our heads. I won’t let them take you. I whisper into his soft hair. I promise. I know they will come. They will not be so easily deterred.
And when they do, I will not have a giant wolf to protect me. I will be alone. The next two days are a torment of waiting. Every gust of wind, every snap of a twig sends my heart into a frantic rhythm. I barely sleep. I barely eat. I just watch and wait. On the third day, as dusk is painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange, I hear them.
Not the heavy tread of a single guard, but the measured deliberate footsteps of several people. I bar the door. I grab the heavy iron poker, the same one I dropped in the mud that first night. It feels useless in my hand. I stand in the center of my small home, Caspian, sleeping peacefully in his cradle. And I wait for my world to end. They don’t knock. There is a splintering crash as the door is kicked in, ripped from its hinges as if by a giant’s hand. And he is there.
Not the council, not the guards, him, the king. But he is not a wolf. He is a man. He stands in the ruined doorway, a silhouette against the dying light. He is taller than I imagined, broader. His silver eyes, the same ones I know so well, are burning with a furious, desperate light. His black hair is wild.
His face is etched with lines of pain and exhaustion. He wears simple black leather, not royal robes, but his power, his alpha presence, is an overwhelming force that fills the room, that sucks the very air from my lungs. Behind him, I can see the members of his council. Morwa the healer, her face grim.
Other stern-faced alphas I don’t recognize. He takes a step inside, his gaze locking on me. Saraphina, he says. My name. My name on his lips. His voice is a low, rough growl full of pain and a longing so profound it echoes in the empty spaces of my own heart. I stare at him, my mind reeling. The wolf, the man, they are one. It was him.
It was always him. All the unspoken conversations, all the shared moments of vulnerability, they rush back to me. I wasn’t talking to a wolf. I was bearing my soul to my king. The humiliation, the intimacy of it makes me feel faint. He sees the poker in my hand, the terror in my eyes. His face softens, the anger replaced by a deep, wrenching agony.
They told me you were dead, he rasps, his voice breaking. They said a rogue wolf attacked you in the woods. that they found your body. My mind spins. Lies. All of it. They told me the pup was an orphan found near your cottage. He continues, his voice thick with self-loathing. They told me they had rewarded your family for your for your sacrifice.
He takes another step. I didn’t know, Saraphina. I swear on my life, I didn’t know. I’ve been half mad with grief. I thought I had lost you before I ever truly had you. The council, they didn’t just try to separate us. They tried to erase me. They lied to him. They told him I was dead. The poker clatters from my nerveless fingers.
Why? I whisper, the single word holding all my confusion and pain. It is Morwenna who answers her voice heavy with regret. He would not choose a mate. For 10 years he has refused. The pack needs a Luna. A future. We thought. We saw how he looked at you at the ceremony. We knew. He knew. His soul recognized yours.
So you tried to kill him? I ask, my voice shaking with a dawning horror. No, she says a ghast. The ambush was our enemies. We just used the opportunity. We thought if you were gone, he would finally move on. Choose another. We were wrong. We almost destroyed him. You tried to take Caspian. I accuse, my voice hardening. He is the son of the alpha who betrayed me. Lzander says, his voice flat and dead.
The one who led me into that ambush. I saved the pup from the wreckage. He is innocent, but my counsel, they saw him as a threat, a reminder. They wanted him gone. It all clicks into place. The lies, the manipulation, the cruelty, all in the name of the pack, in the name of power. I only found out the truth an hour ago.
Lzander says, his silver eyes pleading with me. Attakus came to me. He defied the council. He told me everything. He told me you were alive. That you were fighting for Caspian. He takes another step, his hands outstretched. He’s close now. So close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Smell his scent of pine and ozone and something that is uniquely achingly him. I came as soon as I knew. He whispers.
Saraphina, my Saraphina. He is breaking my heart all over again. But this time he is putting it back together. But the fear, the lifetime of being hurt and dismissed, it’s still there. You’re the king, I say, my voice small. I’m I’m the silent Omega. No, he says fiercely, his voice a vow. You are the woman who saved my life. You are the woman who healed my soul.
You are the woman who faced down my enemies with nothing but her own courage. You are my mate, my faded, my Luna. The words hang in the air between us. Luna, his queen. It’s too much. It’s a fairy tale, and I don’t believe in fairy tales. They won’t accept me, I whisper, shaking my head. The pack. They will accept who I tell them to accept, he growls, his alpha power flaring, making the council members behind him flinch.
And they will worship you because you are my other half. The heart of this pack, the heart of me. He is standing before me now, close enough to touch. His silver eyes are raw with vulnerability, with a desperate, hoping love. “I lay in this room, trapped in my wolf form, listening to you,” he says, his voice dropping to an intimate husky whisper.
I heard every secret, every fear, every moment of your beautiful broken heart. And I fell in love with you. Not the king with an omega, but the man, with the woman, the soul with its match. Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and silent. I was so alone. I managed to choke out.
Never again, he promises, his voice thick with emotion. I will never let you be alone again. Caspian chooses that moment to wake up. He lets out a small, happy gurgle from his cradle. The sound breaks the spell. Lzander’s gaze softens and he looks over at the pup. A real beautiful smile touches his lips for the first time. He looks back at me, his eyes full of a shared future.
Him, me, and the boy we both saved. Our son. Saraphina, he says, his voice gentle. He lifts a hand, his fingers hesitating just before they touch my cheek, asking permission. I close the distance. I lean into his touch. His skin is warm, his calloused fingers impossibly gentle against my face.
He cradles my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheekbone, wiping away a tear. Say my name. he whispers. A plea. I look into his silver eyes, the eyes of the wolf, the eyes of the king, the eyes of my mate, and I feel the last of my fear, the last of my doubt wash away. Lysander, I say. My voice is clear, strong, full of a love so powerful it feels like it could remake the world.
His face crumples in relief and joy. And then he lowers his head and he kisses me. It is not a gentle kiss. It is a desperate hungry claiming. It is years of loneliness and longing poured into one searing moment. It is the taste of pine and storms and safety. It is the feeling of two halves of a soul finally, finally clicking into place.
It is a king claiming his queen. A man claiming his love. And in the ruins of my doorway with my found family around me, I kiss him back and I am home. 6 months later, the air in the great hall is thick with the scent of pine, blooming moon petal flowers, and a joyous collective celebration.
It clings to my skin, a film of warmth and belonging I never want to wash away. I stand not in the shadows this time, but in the center of the hall at Lzander’s side. His hand is warm and steady in mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a familiar, reassuring rhythm. This is a ceremony. My ceremony, my investature as Luna of the Black Moon Pack. I wear robes of silver and white, the fabric soft against my skin.
The Luna sigil, a crescent moon cradling a single star, is embroidered over my heart. It feels right. It feels like mine. The hall is a swirl of noise and color, but it is not overwhelming. It is beautiful. The pack, my pack, has gathered to witness our union.
Their faces are upturned, full of respect and awe and a genuine hard one affection. I am no longer Saraphina, the silent Omega. I am Luna Saraphina, their queen. Lysander leans down, his lips brushing my ear. Are you all right? he murmurs, his voice for me alone. I turn and smile at him, a real easy smile that reaches my eyes. I am perfect and I am.
The past 6 months have been a whirlwind of healing, not just for me, but for the entire pack. Lander, with me at his side, has purged the deceit from his counsel. Morena, the old healer, remains. her loyalty proven. Attakus is now the head of our royal guard. His integrity rewarded. The others who lied, who tried to erase me, were stripped of their titles and exiled.
A harsh punishment, but a necessary one. It sent a clear message. The age of lies was over. The age of the new Luna had begun. My biggest challenge was the pack itself. They were wary at first, a mute omega plucked from obscurity, suddenly their queen. It was a story too strange to be believed.
But Lysander never wavered. He presented me not as a weakness he had chosen, but as the strength he had found. He told them the story, all of it, how I had saved him. How I had protected Caspian. how my compassion was the magic that had healed their king and saved their future. And slowly they began to see. They saw the way he looked at me. They saw the strength in my quiet confidence.
They saw the love I had for Caspian, our adopted son, who is now a happy, chubby toddler who charms everyone he meets. My silence, once a brand of shame, has become a symbol of my strength. They say I do not need to speak loudly because my actions, my love, my very presence speaks volumes. I find that I speak when I want to.
Now my voice is my own to give or to withhold as I choose. It is no longer a cage but a tool. As the ceremony reaches its peak, Lzander leads me to the twin thrones on the deis. Before we sit, he turns to face the crowd. Today we formalize what our hearts, our souls, and the great moon have known for months. He declares, his voice ringing with power and love.
We welcome our Luna, my Luna, your Luna, Saraphina. A roar of approval shakes the rafters. howls of joy and allegiance. It is a wave of sound, of acceptance, of love, and it washes over me, healing the last of my old wounds. As we sit, my eyes scan the crowd, and I see him. Darius. He stands near the back, no longer the arrogant beta, but a humbled, lowerranked pack member.
He is staring at me, his face a mixture of shock, regret, and something that looks like fear. He sees the woman he mocked and discarded, now a queen, beloved and powerful. He sees the king, his king, looking at me with an adoration so fierce it is a physical force. He quickly bows his head, unable to meet my gaze. I feel nothing.
No triumph, no anger, just a distant, detached pity. He is a part of a past that no longer has any power over me. He is a ghost and I am alive. Later, after the formalities, Lander and I escape to the quiet solitude of the balcony overlooking the forest. The moons are bright, casting a silver glow over the world. Caspian is asleep in his rooms, watched over by a trusted nanny.
For a few moments, it is just us. Lzander wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. We look out at the dark, silent trees. My forest, the place where I was once a lonely girl and where I found a dying king. “Do you ever miss it?” he asked softly. The quiet, your little cottage.
I think for a moment, I think of the silence, the solitude, the safety of those four walls. Sometimes, I admit, I miss the piece. But it was the piece of a cage, a comfortable one, but still a cage. I turn in his arms, wrapping my own around his neck. I look up into his handsome, beloved face. I was safe, I tell him, my voice soft but sure. But I wasn’t living.
You and Caspian, you taught me how to live. He smiles, a slow, beautiful smile that is just for me. And you, my love, he whispers, his forehead resting against mine. You taught me how to be saved. My life was once a story of being unwanted. The silent omega no one chose. The girl left behind.
I spent so long believing that my weakness, my flaw was my silence, my inability to be what others expected me to be. But they were all wrong. My perceived weakness was my greatest strength. My quiet nature allowed me to listen when others only talked. My history of being overlooked gave me the compassion to see those who were suffering.
My refusal to be cruel, even when the world had been cruel to me, was the one thing, the only thing that could reach a king’s broken heart. I was not chosen at a ceremony. I was found in the dark. And I was not claimed by a king. I was recognized by my soulmate. And here in his arms, under the light of the moon, I am no longer silent. I am heard. I am seen. I am loved. I am home.
