The clearing lies open beneath the moon, bare and exposed, as if the forest itself has drawn back to watch.
Eva steps into it with measured caution, the grass crunching faintly beneath her boots. Frost clings to the ground in delicate patterns, silvered by moonlight, and the air bites sharply at her skin. She draws her cloak tighter around her shoulders, breathing in slowly, grounding herself the way she has learned to do over years of quiet endurance.
She has walked this path before — every omega has — yet tonight feels different. Heavier. Charged.
The pack has already gathered.
They form a loose ring around the ritual space, leaving a wide circle of packed earth bare at its center. Betas stand closest, shoulders squared, expressions carved from stone. Further back, omegas cluster together in subdued knots, whispering under their breath, eyes flicking toward Eva and then away again as if looking too long might invite trouble.
No one looks impressed.
No one looks pleased.
Change is not welcomed in Crescent Ridge. Power that does not fit neatly into the established order is not admired — it is feared. It is seen as disruption. Challenge.
Eva feels that tension like a second skin as she walks forward.
She keeps her chin level, her posture respectful. She does not rush, does not hesitate too openly. Years of training guide her movements — the careful balance of obedience without weakness, presence without presumption.
At the edge of the clearing, Mira stands with a small group of betas. Her arms are folded, her mouth curled in a thin line of disdain. As Eva passes, Mira leans slightly toward the woman beside her and murmurs, just loud enough for Eva to hear:
"I always knew she was wrong. A freak."
The word slips under Eva's ribs like a blade.
"She shouldn't even be allowed to exist with us," Mira adds softly.
Eva does not react.
She does not look at Mira, does not break stride, does not let the sting show on her face. Any display of emotion would only confirm what they already believe — that she is unstable, dangerous, unfit.
Instead, she steps into the center of the clearing and lowers her gaze.
The elders stand before her.
Elder Rowan is first to speak. His presence is calm, deliberate, his expression carefully neutral. His silver hair is braided back from his face, the moonlight catching in its strands. Beside him stands Elder Korrin, broader, darker, his eyes sharp and assessing. And slightly behind them — though no less commanding — is Elder Tasmin.
Tasmin does not smile.
Her gaze is fixed on Eva with an intensity that makes Eva's spine straighten instinctively. There is nothing warm in it, nothing soft — only calculation, curiosity, and something sharper still. Watchfulness.
Eva bows deeply.
"Elders," she says, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.
"Eva of Crescent Ridge," Rowan replies, his tone even. "You understand why you are here."
"Yes, Elder Rowan."
"To undergo the moon ritual," Korrin adds, "and to be assessed."
"I understand."
Tasmin steps forward then, circling Eva once, slow and deliberate. Her boots crunch softly against frost. Eva keeps her eyes lowered, her hands clasped before her, resisting the urge to fidget beneath the scrutiny.
"You have been… unsettled," Tasmin says at last.
Eva swallows. "I have experienced changes, Elder."
"Describe them."
"Heightened senses," Eva replies carefully. "Restlessness. Difficulty sleeping."
Tasmin hums softly, neither approving nor dismissive. "And your scent?"
Eva hesitates for half a heartbeat too long. "I… cannot say. I am not trained to assess such things."
A lie — or at least a partial one. She has felt it. The subtle shifts. The way the pack's suppression treatments no longer sit quite right in her system.
Rowan lifts a hand, halting further questioning. "That will be sufficient."
Tasmin's eyes linger on Eva for a long moment longer before she steps back into position.
"The ritual will begin," Rowan announces.
The elders take their places at three points around Eva, forming a triangle. The air seems to still, even the forest quieting as if holding its breath.
Eva kneels at the center of the circle.
The ground is cold beneath her palms, the frost biting through fabric into skin. She focuses on that sensation, anchors herself to it. The moon hangs directly overhead now, full and luminous, its light spilling into the clearing like liquid silver.
The chant begins.
Low. Rhythmic. Ancient.
The words are not meant to be understood — they are felt. They vibrate through Eva's bones, through the earth beneath her knees, through the air she breathes. The sound builds gradually, layer upon layer, the elders' voices weaving together into something almost tangible.
At first, Eva feels nothing more than she expects.
A faint warmth spreads through her chest, a familiar sensation from past rituals. Her heartbeat syncs to the chant. Her breathing steadies.
Then the warmth deepens.
It coils low in her abdomen, sharp and insistent, spreading outward in slow waves. Eva's fingers curl involuntarily against the ground. Her breath stutters.
She does not panic.
She has endured discomfort before. Pain. Suppression. The constant weight of being lesser.
But this is different.
This is not something pressing down on her.
It is something pressing outward.
The chant grows louder.
The warmth surges.
The air around her thickens, charged, humming faintly like a held note stretched too long. Eva's senses sharpen abruptly — she hears the crackle of frost beneath distant boots, smells pine sap and damp earth and something else, something sharper, sweeter, unfamiliar.
Her heart begins to race.
Then —
The chant falters.
One voice slips out of rhythm. Another hesitates.
The pressure in the clearing swells suddenly, heavy and suffocating, as if the air itself has gained weight. Eva gasps, lifting her head despite herself, confusion flickering across her features.
The elders freeze.
Rowan's jaw tightens.
Korrin's hands clench at his sides.
Tasmin's eyes widen a fraction before narrowing sharply.
The chant stops.
Abruptly. Completely.
Silence crashes down over the clearing, thick and oppressive. Eva's ears ring with it. The warmth inside her pulses once — twice — and then settles, coiling tight and dormant beneath her ribs.
Murmurs ripple through the pack.
Not awe.
Not admiration.
Unease.
Suspicion.
Betas shift restlessly, hands tightening on weapons. Omegas glance at one another, fear flickering across their faces. No one steps forward. No one speaks aloud.
Eva remains kneeling, her pulse roaring in her ears.
"What…?" she begins, then stops herself.
Rowan steps forward quickly, his voice calm, controlled. "The ritual is concluded."
His tone allows no argument.
Korrin gestures sharply, and the betas begin ushering the pack away from the clearing. Conversations break out in hushed, uneasy tones. Mira's gaze burns into Eva as she passes, her lips twisting into a grim smile.
"See?" she murmurs to no one in particular. "I told you."
Eva does not respond.
She rises slowly at Rowan's instruction, legs trembling faintly beneath her. The aftertaste of whatever just occurred lingers in her body — a humming awareness she cannot quite name.
"Come," Rowan says gently. "We will ensure you are well."
They lead her away from the clearing, toward a small hut nestled at the forest's edge. It smells of dried herbs and smoke, familiar and comforting. A lantern glows softly inside, casting warm light against wooden walls.
Eva steps in hesitantly.
Korrin closes the door behind them.
Rowan moves to a small table and lifts a vial filled with dark liquid. He turns back to her, expression composed.
"This is a stabilizing tonic," he explains. "It is customary after a ritual of such magnitude."
Eva's eyes flick to the vial.
Something about it unsettles her.
She has taken tonics before — suppressants, calmatives, treatments meant to keep omegas docile and manageable. This one smells different. Sharper. Older.
"Will it…" She hesitates, then forces herself to continue. "Will it interfere with me?"
Rowan's gaze softens. "It will protect you."
Eva looks to Tasmin instinctively.
Tasmin meets her gaze directly — piercing, unblinking. There is no reassurance there. Only study. Measurement. As if she is memorizing every detail of Eva's reaction.
Eva's fingers curl into the fabric of her cloak.
She does not want to take it.
But refusal is not an option.
She accepts the vial with a slight bow. "Thank you, Elder."
The liquid is bitter, burning slightly as it slides down her throat. Warmth blooms almost immediately, spreading through her chest and limbs, smoothing the sharp edges of whatever tension still lingers inside her.
Relief washes over her — unwelcome, confusing relief.
"Rest tonight," Rowan instructs. "We will speak again soon."
They escort her back to her quarters in silence. Eva's limbs feel heavy now, her thoughts slow and fogged. She bows once more before stepping inside.
The door closes softly behind her.
Only then do the elders allow themselves to speak freely.
They walk away from Eva's quarters together, their pace slow, measured.
Tasmin breaks the silence first.
"This is a mistake," she says flatly.
Rowan exhales. "Lower your voice."
"There is no one here to hear," she snaps. "You felt it. Do not pretend you didn't."
Korrin's expression is grim. "I felt the pressure."
"The ritual was not meant to be halted," Tasmin continues. "And yet it nearly overwhelmed us. That does not happen with omegas."
Rowan stops walking, turning to face her. "We handled it."
"For now," Tasmin counters. "You cannot suppress destiny indefinitely. Whatever is stirring in her — it will surface."
"We can manage it," Korrin insists. "If we stay vigilant."
Tasmin's gaze sharpens. "And if the Alpha learns of this?"
Rowan's expression hardens. "He must not."
Silence stretches between them.
"At least not yet," Rowan adds quietly. "We will contain this within ourselves."
Tasmin studies them both for a long moment, then exhales slowly. "Very well. But understand this — delay is not denial. Fate has teeth."
They resume walking.
Back in her quarters, Eva sinks onto her cot, exhaustion pulling her down. The world feels distant now, softened at the edges. The questions that had plagued her for days drift away, replaced by a strange, unfamiliar calm.
For the first time in days, sleep claims her easily.
Peaceful.
Unknowing...