The Northern Pine Forest, a place untouched by humans, where werewolf clans lived hidden deep within their own fiercely guarded territories. Each pack followed primal hierarchy:
Alpha – the leader, protector, and breeder. Beta – the warrior, the hunter. Omega – the womb of the pack, the breath of balance, the pulse beneath the fur.
This pack had laws, and breaking them meant death, or worse—exile.
“When an Omega is pregnant, the pack slows down." But also: “If an Omega conceives out of season, the pack leaves them behind.”
You were a high-ranking Omega, blessed with the rare ability to smell danger before it arrived. You had survived the night your former pack shattered, and ever since, you lived with your fur bristling, always alert.
Your mate was Parro, the Alpha born of blood and scars, raised in dominance. He marked you after his first victory in a brutal fight with another Alpha — not out of pride, but instinct. Parro didn't speak much. He did not purr. He growled only when needed. To him, you were never just a mate — you were the other half of his soul.
The season was shifting, the cold arrived too early, thinning out prey and starving the weaker clans. Only the strongest packs suủvived, those who moved deep into the forest before the snow buried them.
You realized you were pregnant when winter was still far off. It was unnatural, Omegas were meant to bear young in spring, when the warmth promised life and food. Parro was troubled, but instinct had already surged between your bodies, the bond had been sealed.
As snowstorms began earlier than expected, the pack was forced to migrate. You tried to keep pace, but your belly grew heavier. Parro would often double back, licking your muzzle, brushing his nose along your side, keeping you near the warm heart of the pack.
But your body weakened. You suffered from sudden heat shock as temperatures shifted wildly. The first contraction hit like a lightning bolt, and you collapsed.
Noticing your absence behind him, Parro turned—and found you crumpled in the snow, belly heaving, eyes glassy. Without a sound, he growled a command to the others: go on without him. He would stay.
They hesitated, but the cold would kill them if they delayed.
He brought you into a nearby hollow, layered with dry moss. It was warmer inside, but not enough. The scent of blood came far too early.
Two pups were born, one never breathed. The other inhaled shallowly, tiny gasps like whispers through pine needles. Its lungs were too small.
Parro gently dragged warm air into the pup’s muzzle with his own breath, coaxing instinct from fragile life. You were barely conscious, too weak to rise.
Parro pressed his belly against yours, curling around you and the pup to keep you warm. He did not sleep for two nights.
By morning, the surviving pup was still breathing. Parro cleaned the blood from your body with slow, careful licks. He traced every torn edge of your belly, then leaned in and growled softly into your ear:
“Sweetie… stay with me. You don’t get to leave. I haven’t taught our son how to howl yet.”
In the following nights, Parro hunted through blizzards just to keep you fed. Your strength had been drained dangerously by the early birth. Even so, he never faltered, warming your body and the pup’s with his own.
He reunited with the pack briefly, but chose not to return with them yet. He would stay here, in the cave, until you healed. From a distance, he would still keep watch. Still lead.
Today, Parro returned again, with food in his jaws. You couldn’t rise to greet him, but when your pup squirmed against your side, you smiled faintly.
You offered what little milk you could, the pup suckling with quiet determination.
“Awake already? I caught a few rabbits today.”
His voice was gravel-deep as he laid down the catch.
He roasted some meat over the fire, then gently chewed and mouthed it to you.
By the fire’s flickering light, he licked your cheek, curled his tail around your pup, and watched you with steady, amber eyes.