Chapter Text
The heavy tent flap suddenly whipped open. Ravok stepped out first, his face unreadable despite a thin trickle of blood running from his nose. His pace was calm, but the scent of battle still clung to him. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than Garron jumped up beside him.
“Chief !” the one-eyed man shouted. “What the —”
He stopped dead when he saw the blood on Ravok’s nose. His face went pale.
“Son of a bitch,” Garron spat. “Who the hell laid a hand on you ?”
Two more mercenaries stepped up behind him, both bristling with outrage — a stocky guy with a wild mustache and a tall, lanky woman with long blonde braids. Instinct kicked in ; they both drew their swords without thinking. Garron, knife in hand, locked eyes with Konrad as the Alpha stepped out of the tent. The Wolf King’s face was scratched up and swollen, though the bruising along his jaw was already beginning to fade beneath his skin. His gaze met the mercenaries’, calm and unflinching.
“Was he the one who hit you ?” Garron growled, aiming his blade toward the Alpha.
“Put that away, Garron,” Ravok said evenly, laying blood-smeared fingers on the knife. “It was just a scuffle. Nothing serious.”
That’s when the short, bear-built man bust forward, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Nothing serious ?! He made our chief bleed ! I say we knock his damn teeth out !”
“Oh hell yeah,” barked the tall woman. “He’s dead. I’m gonna skin that bastard.”
“Not while he’s still breathing,” The short stocky man snapped. “He’s mine.”
“You ?” she shot back. “Don’t make me laugh. I’ve got this.”
“Back off, string bean, I was here first !”
“And what’s a battle dwarf like you gonna do, bite his ankles ?”
Ravok let out a long, tired sigh, clearly done with their nonsense.
“Guo. Oya. Enough. There was no betrayal. Just... a friendly exchange.”
“Friendly ?” Garron squinted. “You’re bleeding, Chief.”
“I brought it on myself,” Ravok shrugged. “I’ve been through worse. So has he.”
At that moment, Jean and Erik came running up, weapons drawn as they caught the tension in the air.
“What’s going on here ?” Erik asked, eyes flicking from Konrad to Ravok and then to the three mercenaries on alert.
Jean let out a sharp breath, barely catching the gasp in his throat when he saw Konrad’s swollen jaw and wrinkled clothes. His shoulders tensed as he raised his sword, aiming it squarely at the Enigma’s men. Konrad didn’t need a mind link to read his advisor’s thoughts : What kind of mess have you landed us in now ?
A noisy crowd started gathering around them. Low, guttural growls rippled through the tension — like predators circling, sizing each other up. Jean and Erik stared down Garron and the two mercenaries at his side, Guo and Oya, eyes hard as blades.
“Everything’s fine,” Ravok said bluntly. “Just some old pack instincts flaring up.”
But Garron wasn’t letting it go. He took a heavy step toward Konrad, voice like a distant rumble.
“It’s not ‘fine’ when an outsider draws the Chief’s blood. Where we come from, that’s an offense. And we don’t let offenses slide.”
“He’s right,” Oya added, arms crossed. “You’re not really telling us we’re letting this go, are you ?”
“Damn straight,” the stocky man barked, his voice low and gravelly. “Blood gets paid back with blood.”
The chant started low, but quickly picked up steam. From the ranks of the Enigma, mercenaries began shouting in sync, fury barely hidden beneath the words :
“Blood for blood ! Blood for blood !”
Konrad stood his ground, eyes steady, unreadable.
“No strike was dishonorable,” the Alpha said, voice clear above the noise. “And as you can see, Ravok returned every hit. We’re even.”
A wave of angry roars rippled through the crowd. Some mercenaries were already shifting on their feet, restless, while others spat at the Wolf King’s boots. Erik bared his teeth and snarled, daring them to come closer if they wanted to find out how fast his blade could run them through. Jean, meanwhile, was scanning the scene with a calm expression that didn’t quite match the rising panic in his chest. They were outnumbered — badly. Just him, Konrad, Erik, the driver, and a handful of medics who’d never held a weapon. No way they’d win if this turned bloody. They would never have the upper hand. If they were going to get out of this, they’d have to play by the mercenaries’ rules — whatever the cost.
Ravok looked to Konrad and gave a slow nod.
“He’s telling the truth. We’re even... by your customs, Alpha.”
Konrad narrowed his eyes.
“To set the record straight,” Ravok said, voice steady, “I say we settle this the old way. Our way, this time.”
“The blood rite ?” Garron asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “With that outsider Alpha ?”
“That guy’s not one of us,” growled Guo, the squat, bear-built mercenary. “Why the hell should he get our pack’s rites ?”
“This outsider Alpha,” Ravok echoed Garron’s words, “made a pact with me. He’s no member of our pack.”
Then he turned to Konrad, locking eyes with him — sharp, dark, and burning.
“But if you want to walk among us, you need to take the trial. The blood rite is a vow, a way to show you honor our laws, our traditions.”
Konrad frowned, trying to grasp the full meaning.
“What exactly does it involve ?”
Ravok drew in a deep breath, his voice dropping into something low and almost ceremonial.
“When conflict arises within the pack — when blood is spilled, or honor stained — we do not act on impulse. No one dies over a fit of temper.”
He looked around deliberately, making sure Konrad and his men understood the weight of what was being said.
“The one who caused the harm must answer for it. A punishment is delivered — through a blow, or a wound — proportional to the offense. But the victim alone decides where the strike lands, and how.”
He gave a few cold, matter-of-fact examples.
“A man who cheats on his partner might lose his manhood with one clean cut. A thief ? A finger, maybe a hand. A man who harms a child or someone weaker ? His throat is cut open.”
He paused. His gaze hardened.
“There’s always a meaning to the wound. It’s never random. It leaves a mark. A reminder of what was done.”
Then he turned to Konrad, steady and calm.
“By custom, an outsider would face death for even the slightest transgression. But on rare occasions, when someone is deemed worthy, we offer them a chance.”
The Wolf King nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. He recalled the old books he’d studied, ancient tomes filled with obscure traditions. Some of them had spoken of rites like this one, rituals soaked in blood, yes, but more than just punishment. They were theater. A spectacle. A way to bind the pack together. A release valve for them. A moment when everyone gathered to watch, to howl, to witness pain, to drink in the blood and scream at the violence. That’s what kept the balance. That’s what cooled the rage, turned fury into order. Brutal, yes — but it bound them together. Gave structure to the chaos.
Konrad clenched his jaw. He understood the stakes. This wasn’t just about pain. It was a test. A way to earn their respect.
“I am not forcing your hand,” Ravok said. “You are free to leave, should you wish.”
His eyes were like ice. His voice, a blade.
“But if you walk out… don’t come back. You don’t belong here if you can’t stand this test. You’ll be nothing to us.”
The weight of his words sank into Konrad like stones in his gut. This wasn’t a challenge — it was a reckoning. A final line between being part of their world, or being cast out.
It wasn’t reasonable. It wasn’t fair. But Konrad couldn’t walk away. Not as an Alpha. Not as a king. He drew a deep breath, fists clenched at his sides, and nodded.
“I accept,” he said, his voice clear and resolute.
Erik swore under his breath, jaw tight. “Goddamn it, Konrad. You’re knee-deep in shit now.”
Jean, clearly rattled, laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure ? Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into ?”
Konrad didn’t blink.
“This isn’t the first time someone’s greeted me with their fists,” he said calmly. “And it won’t be the last.”
Guo and Oya exchanged a look — half thrill, half barely contained glee lighting up their faces.
“Come on, let’s see what you’ve got, outsider !” Oya laughed, fingers playing with her blonde braids.
“Rite day’s my favorite,” Guo chuckled, cracking his knuckles like he was settling in for a show.
Garron, less amused, furrowed his brow. The decision had come fast — too fast, maybe. Ravok, however, allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile. This was the response he had hoped for from the Alpha.
“Good,” he said calmly, but with steel in his voice. “Bring me the black sap of Morndra.”
The crowd stirred. Nervous, scattered laughter broke out among the mercenaries. Garron squinted, puzzled.
“The Morndra ?” Erik echoed, confused but wary.
Jean, standing close to Konrad, met his eyes with a heavy, knowing glance. The Wolf King felt his chest tighten. The Morndra wasn’t just a plant. It was the stuff of old war stories — a dark weed said to grow only on cursed ground, like abandoned battlefields, where the soil had been soaked in blood and never healed.
Its sap, drawn from those battle-scarred fields, was a slow, merciless poison. It didn’t kill. It lingered. It stopped wounds from closing. It dulled the body’s power to mend. Even those with unnatural healing would find their strength slowed to a crawl.
A cut made with Morndra in the wound would fester, agonize, and never quite vanish. The scar it left behind was black — etched deep into the skin like a curse.
Ravok turned away briefly, then fixed Konrad with a cold, appraising look.
"I’ve been watching the way you heal," he said in a low, almost sly voice. "You recover unusually fast. That fight with the dragon, when you cracked your ribs… The very next day, you were back on horseback like nothing had happened."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
“And now, your jaw’s already starting to mend.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming.
“So tell me — where’s the challenge in that, if your wounds just vanish by dusk ?”
His tone remained almost casual, but in his gaze flickered something darker. Not just calculation. Anticipation. As if he were savoring the idea of the pain to come.
Without another word, the Enigma slowly drew his favorite dagger — the same one always resting at his hip. Sunlight glinted off the blade with a cold, silvery sheen. A mercenary approached, holding out a glass bowl filled with thick, black liquid. He gave a slight bow as he presented it.
“My lord,” he said respectfully, “the Morndra sap, as requested.”
Ravok didn’t glance at the man. He dipped the blade into the viscous liquid with deliberate care, coating the metal in a slick, ominous black — like a promise of pain.
Konrad swallowed hard, though he kept his expression composed. He concealed any hint of apprehension. No one could hear the quickening of his heartbeat, nor see the doubts running through his mind. Even his pheromones betrayed nothing.
“You can still back out,” Ravok said, almost mockingly. “There’s still time.”
Ignoring the taunt, Konrad asked, voice steady, “Where do you intend to deliver the punishment ?”
It was a tacit confirmation. He had no intention of backing down. Ravok stared at him for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. He took his time, as though weighing the weight of his decision. Then, feigning humor, he said :
“I’m tempted to silence that insolent tongue of yours. To remind that bold mouth of its place.”
His laugh turned bitter as he recalled Konrad’s earlier jab about his failure to handle an Omega. For far less, he would’ve cut out a man’s tongue without hesitation.
"But that sharp tongue, as impudent as it is, somehow suits you."
Ravok’s gaze hardened, all pretense of humor vanishing.
"It will be the palm of your left hand," he said finally.
Konrad flinched — barely. He was left-handed. Losing that hand, even partially, meant more than pain ; it meant losing his ability to write, to hold reins steady, to wield a saber… All vital gestures, tied to both survival and identity. It was a cruel, vicious, calculated choice.
“That’s the hand that struck me,” Ravok went on. “The hand of offense. The one that bloodied my nose.”
Jean’s eyes widened in alarm. He grabbed Konrad by the shoulders.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said urgently. “You don’t owe Ravok or his pack anything. Say no. Let’s walk away and forget this ever happened.”
Erik had backed off by then, fists clenched tight, jaw locked in fury. He was muttering curses under his breath, seething.
The Wolf King shot his advisor a disapproving glance.
“This is not such a heavy price,” he said with cool assurance. “He could have taken the whole hand, instead of merely slicing the palm.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jean muttered, voice hoarse. “Konrad... don’t make this worse. He’s baiting you. He wants to humiliate you.”
The Alpha met his gaze — not angry, but with that firm, controlled edge Jean had always hated to hear from him. The voice of a king, not a friend.
“That’s precisely why I must not retreat,” Konrad replied. “If I back down now, he won’t need to humiliate me. I’ll have done it myself. True disgrace lies in turning away at the final moment.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Jean exhaled sharply. “Is that all Alphas ever think about ? Honor ?”
Konrad’s voice dropped lower, heavier.
“This is about balance. If I want this alliance to hold — if I want my word to carry weight with his people — I have to show them I’m not weak. I have to prove I’m not a coward. An equal.”
“You’re being reckless…”
“This is the cost of maintaining power.”
In the background, Erik let out another stream of colorful curses.
Jean stepped back, exhaling a long, defeated breath. He no longer tried to stop his king.
“You and your damned noble speeches,” he muttered, defeated. “I’m done.”
Konrad stepped forward. Around them, the crowd had tightened, now packed and restless. Mercenaries, some leaning against tent flaps, others perched on crates or resting on their weapons, formed a wide circle that framed the scene like an arena. They were buzzing with anticipation, their eyes flicking between curiosity, excitement, and a kind of silent respect. Whispers passed between them — bets on how deep the cut would go, how the outsider would handle the pain.
Guo and Oya stood near Garron, speaking in low tones, their eyes gleaming with a mix of awe and excitement. The tension hung over the gathering like a storm about to break — heavy, electric.
Ravok approached with slow, deliberate steps, the dagger still in his right hand. The blade, coated in the black sap of Morndra, had turned a thick, oily color, as if the poison itself were alive and breathing.
He extended his hand, unhurried. His eyes met Konrad’s, and he paused briefly. His voice, low and rough, carried an unusual gentleness that clashed with the brutality of the rite.
“Are you certain this is what you want?”
Konrad gave a single nod, his eyes steady, face unreadable.
“Do it.”
Silence followed.
Then the Enigma took hold of Konrad’s left hand with clinical precision, not a word or glance wasted. His grip was firm, controlled, like a surgeon preparing an incision.
Konrad didn’t resist. His wolf within stirred uneasily, confused and afraid, not understanding why it wasn’t allowed to defend against the threat.
He opened his hand in Ravok’s grasp, palm turned upward, exposed, vulnerable. He felt the Enigma’s fingers clamp around his wrist, locking it in place like a vice. This was it.
Trigger Warning : Graphic gore ahead. Please proceed with caution.
The dagger descended slowly, guided with cold intent. Ravok didn’t strike right away — he positioned the tip at the base of the thumb, where the flesh was thicker. He angled it with care — slightly diagonal, avoiding major tendons but deep enough to let the sap seep in.
Then, he cut.
The blade pierced Konrad’s palm. Blood burst forth, hot and thick, splattering across Ravok’s hand. The steel sank deeper until it met resistance — a bundle of muscle — then slid just beside it, expertly avoiding permanent damage. Every motion was calculated to the millimeter.
Konrad’s body jerked on instinct. Pain tore through him like a lightning bolt, racing up his arm. The palm was a nest of nerves, and each one screamed as the venomous edge slid through flesh. But he did not scream.
His jaw clenched. He ground his teeth so hard his gums turned white. His breath caught for an instant, replaced by a frozen silence, while his gaze remained locked straight ahead, frozen in a mask of forced impassiveness. His eyes welled up — but no tears fell. He could not let anything show. He could not yield. He would not give them the satisfaction.
Around them, the crowd had tightened. It was made up exclusively of mercenaries, warriors, butchers — men and women who had seen too much, lived through too much, and now sought only one thing : the blood and suffering of others. They did not flinch. They did not look away. Some smiled. Others chuckled, whispering to one another, placing bets on when the outsider Alpha would scream.
But Konrad gave them nothing.
The blade completed its path to the edge of the palm, slicing a bright red line across the flesh. The black sap of Morndra began its work instantly, mixing with the blood — a new kind of pain bloomed, deeper and more insidious, pulsing through the wound like barbed thorns driving inward. A slow, venomous burn, steady and unrelenting.
Ravok withdrew the dagger with deliberate slowness, a dark trickle sliding down the blade. He released the hand, now stained red and black. Some of the skin had peeled back, raw and exposed, and a sharp metallic scent rose from the wound.
Konrad was still on his feet. His facial muscles twitched against his will, and his hand trembled slightly, spasmodic, but he refused to cry out. He let the pain wash through him, silent and stoic. Not a word. Not a sound.
Erik and Jean rushed to his side, both pale and shaking, urging him to sit down, to press on the wound.
A murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd. Some hissed, annoyed. Others laughed nervously. They had been waiting for a scream, a groan, a moan — anything. But this silence robbed them of their show and ruined their wagers. They began to disperse, muttering, unimpressed.
But Ravok was smiling. Not a warm smile. A brief, satisfied, almost predatory grin. Something flickered in his black eyes, hard to name. It wasn’t contempt, nor superiority. Konrad thought he glimpsed a spark of respect. And coming from Ravok, that bordered on reverence.
Then, without a word, Ravok knelt down.
The Enigma took the wounded hand again, this time gently, almost carefully. He turned it slightly, examining he blackened gash with a surgeon’s eye.
A startled murmur swept through the crowd. No one had expected him to touch Konrad again, let alone with such care.
“It’s bleeding well,” Ravok said quietly, studying the depth of the wound. “But not enough to lose the hand.”
His fingers, cold and rough, bloodstained, lingered at the base of the thumb.
“I missed a motor nerve by a few millimeters. You’ll have no lasting damage.”
End of graphic content. Thank you for reading carefully.
He stood briefly, scanning the crowd, then called toward Garron, who stood at the edge of the circle :
“Bring me rhizome balm, and a pinch of Morndra charcoal powder. No more than that.”
Another ripple of astonishment ran through the mercenaries, though more subdued this time. Morndra charcoal mixed with ginger-root balm acted as an antidote. Mixing Morndra charcoal with ginger rhizome balm acted as an antidote. Yet Morndra sap was meant to harm. Using an antidote after administering such a rare toxin was counterintuitive, illogical. It made no sense. And yet Ravok did it, offering no explanation, no justification.
Konrad, still on his knees, watched in confusion. Was there a message behind the gesture ? Why had the Enigma chosen this poison only to administer its antidote afterward ? Why had the cut been measured to the millimeter to avoid any permanent damage ? Every detail had been deliberate. Planned.
His inner wolf couldn’t help but take a certain pleasure in Ravok’s skill and precision.
It was confused now, unsure whether Ravok was an enemy or an ally. Whether he meant harm, or good.
Ravok knelt again beside him. His voice was low, barely audible — meant for the Alpha alone.
“Your strength of will is admirable. Maiming you would be a waste.”
Then, in an even lower breath, with that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth :
“And… I’ve always had a soft spot for those who can take it without begging.”
Konrad, stunned, didn’t even have time to react before Ravok applied the mixture of powder and balm directly onto the wound. The Alpha clenched his teeth, his hand radiating with an indescribable pain — though after a few seconds, it began to subside.
The crowd was frozen. Never in the history of blood rites had the punisher treated the punished. This unprecedented act left everyone speechless.
At Konrad’s side stood Erik and Jean, visibly shaken, followed by a few royal medics. Ravok shot them a cold glance as he wrapped a clean cloth around the Alpha’s hand.
"Clean the wound with clear water, no rubbing," Ravok ordered in a clipped tone. "Apply the antidote mixture I’m giving you to limit the effects of the sap. Change the bandages regularly, but let the wound breathe. Otherwise, it could get infected."
The healers nodded promptly, bowing their heads, not daring to meet Ravok’s gaze. Even Erik and Jean looked away, leaning on Konrad for support.
Then, Ravok stood up and wiped his bloodied fingers on a cloth that was handed to him.
At the same time, Erik and Jean helped Konrad to rise, supporting his weight despite the dull pain still shooting through his palm. Konrad showed nothing, gritting his teeth, his features tense but impassive.
Nearby, the pack’s medics quickly gathered their personal belongings, the medicines, and the vial containing the Morndra charcoal, fully aware of the importance of this substance for their king’s survival.
Ravok turned to his men and spoke in a strong, clear voice that instantly commanded silence.
“From now on, Konrad and I are even. No blood debt ties us anymore.”
He paused, scanning the crowd with a look that brooked no argument.
“Konrad is now an ally, a friend. He has the right to enter our lands and must be treated with the same respect I receive. He’s the only man from his kingdom granted this status.”
A low murmur ran through the mercenaries. Some still held suspicion in their eyes — years of habit don’t fade that easily. Yet, everyone deeply respected Ravok, and they knew his word was law. Gradually, the mood shifted. Acceptance began to spread through the ranks.
The mercenaries slowly parted to make way for Konrad and his men, forming a clearing. But this time, the cold, distant looks usually reserved for strangers were gone.
Some stood with arms crossed, silently studying Konrad, a raised eyebrow or a smirk playing at their lips. The contempt was gone. In its place : curiosity, respect. Maybe even a hint of admiration.
Garron, towering and muscular, gave him a subtle nod, almost respectful. Guo, still grumpy, looked away, ashamed of having judged him so quickly. And though some clenched their jaws as the foreign Alpha passed by, they all lowered their eyes or stayed silent. Ravok’s order had been clear. Konrad had proven he deserved his place.
Jean cast worried glances at his friend, watching every step, steadying him by the shoulders, while Erik said nothing but stayed close, ready to jump in at the first sign of trouble. The medics brought up the rear, alert for any sign of weakness in their king.
Konrad moved forward with a set jaw, his left hand wrapped carefully in blood-stained cloth. Every step sent a pulse of pain through his palm, but he held firm — hard gaze, straight back.
As they neared the edge of the camp, at the last row of tents, voices rose in the distance, accompanied by hurried footsteps. A man appeared from a far-off tent, wearing a heavy cloak, his hands stained with dried blood. He looked like he was bursting with good news. Konrad narrowed his eyes. A healer. Or more likely, a midwife.
“Lord Ravok !” he called out, breathless, his eyes shining with emotion. “She’s born. She’s the first one of the season. The little one cried out just a few minutes ago. She’s breathing strong, lively, a healthy baby girl ! And the mother... the mother is doing well. She’s alive. The father is keeping watch by their side.”
A rumble of happy cheers spread through the camp like a wave of relief and genuine joy. The mercenaries, initially stunned, erupted in unison. Some raised their fists, others laughed or slapped each other on the back. A young man broke into a run toward the new parents’ tent. Already, plans were being made for a celebratory drink, music instruments were being fetched, and a portion of the dried game was being carved up.
Even the toughest among them wore softened expressions. Because a birth — a successful birth — in such a harsh, barren world was almost a miracle.
Ravok showed nothing more than a brief nod.
“Offer the parents our congratulations,” he said. “And grant them the rest they deserve.”
Konrad had heard everything. He cast one last look back toward the heart of the camp, toward the tent where the news had come from. A baby girl, healthy and strong, and a mother who had survived childbirth. In a world where fertility was a constant battle, where every pregnancy was a gamble, and infant mortality ran high, it was a rare and precious victory.
It felt strange to see the mercenaries’ weathered, hard, often blank faces suddenly come alive with genuine joy, breaking into real smiles. It was odd to watch them running through the camp, singing with good spirits, while others busied themselves lighting fires to prepare a feast.
For a moment, it was like a different pack. Less brutal, less wild. Less savage. They had made room for something else: pride, hope, the desire to believe there was still something worth building, worth protecting.
“Konrad !” Jean called from the front of the wagon. “Get in, I’ll take care of your horse.”
Konrad turned his gaze away from the tents alive with cheers. There was a strange warmth hanging in the air, almost out of place after so much tension.
He nodded and climbed into the wagon, his hand still sticky with pain and venom.
The road stretched ahead. Under the wheels, the mud swallowed the last traces of the ordeal as they moved farther from Ravok’s camp.
The calm was only temporary. The real storm, Konrad knew, had yet to come.
*****
Ten of thousands of years ago, humanity nearly vanished, struck by a wave of mass infertility. Births became so rare that extinction loomed. In a desperate attempt to survive, some human groups turned to the primordial wolves — ancient, powerful creatures still not fully understood.
From this unlikely union came the first wolf-blooded humans : humanoid beings who retained pack instincts and a heightened sensitivity to pheromones. Their unique biology became the key to humanity’s survival.
Over the centuries, that genetic legacy began to fade. Today, around 80% of humans are what we call Betas. Their wolf blood is faint, almost dormant. They don’t experience ruts or heats, they barely respond to pheromones, and most have no trace of the instincts once passed down. Some still struggle with fertility — but nothing compared to the brink of extinction their ancestors once faced.
Yet every so often, a child is born carrying active recessive genes from those ancient bloodlines — traits that only manifest if inherited from both parents. These children are born either Alpha or Omega.
Alphas make up roughly 10% of the population. Most are male, as the Alpha gene is carried on the Y chromosome, though rare mutations can bring it out in females. They’re known for their physical strength, heightened pheromone sensitivity, and a deep, almost primal connection to their instincts. Three to four times a year, they enter rut : a period of intense, almost feral fertility. In most societies, Alphas hold positions of power, leadership, or combat.
Omegas, also around 10% of the population, are most often female. The Omega gene is typically carried on the X chromosome. They’re typically smaller in stature but more agile, adaptable. Twice a year, Omegas experience heat : short windows of heightened fertility. Male Omegas, though rarer, are born with a functioning uterus. However, due to their anatomy, natural childbirth is rare and usually requires a complex and risky surgical procedure. Many Omegas work as healers, herbalists, smiths, teachers, or merchants.
Alphas and Omegas share what’s known as an “inner wolf”, a deep, animal-like awareness that lives within them. It’s hard to explain, but they feel it. It’s a remnant of their lineage from the primordial wolves, a connection the Betas have long since lost.
And so, the rhythm of birth still follows those ancient biological patterns. That evening, deep in Ravok’s camp, a newborn’s first cry rang out — and with it came the official start of birthing season.