The Omega's Rise to Power

Lena

“Look at her,” a voice sneers, thick with arrogance. “Still pretending she belongs here.”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. I don’t have to look up. I know that voice. Kade. It drips with the entitlement of an Alpha heir who has never been told no in his entire life. The clatter of his friends’ trays hitting my table is like a gunshot in the noisy mess hall. Three of them. Of course. He never travels without an audience.

“What’s the matter, Omega?” Kade asks, leaning down so his hot breath ghosts across my ear. “Lose your appetite?”

I keep my eyes locked on the cracked grain of the wooden table. I can feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me now. The usual lunchtime roar has faded to a low murmur. A show is starting, and I’m the main attraction.

“Leave her alone, Kade,” someone says from a few tables over. It’s Finn, his voice a low warning. A friend.

Kade laughs, a short, barking sound. “Stay out of this, archer. This is pack business.” He straightens up and circles the table, his heavy boots thudding against the stone floor. “See, the thing is, we all paid a lot to be here. Our families sponsor this academy. But you,” he stops right in front of me, “you’re a charity case. A stray they took in after your pathetic parents got themselves killed.”

The words hit like stones. My hands clench into fists under the table, my knuckles white. He’s talking about the border skirmish. The one everyone calls a heroic sacrifice when they’re making speeches but a foolish mistake in whispers. My parents, both respected warriors, gone in an instant. Leaving me to be passed around until Kade’s pack, the pack my parents served, grudgingly took responsibility for me. They sent me here to Bloodfang Battle Academy to keep up appearances.

“They were warriors,” I say, my voice barely audible.

“They were fools,” Kade counters, his voice loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “And now their whelp eats our food, sleeps under our roof, and takes up a spot a real wolf could use. You don’t belong in a battle academy. You belong in a kitchen.”

His friends snicker. A wave of heat floods my face. Shame. Hot, bitter, and suffocating. I want to scream. I want to launch myself across the table and claw his smug face. But I can’t. I’m an omega. He’s the future Alpha of the pack that holds my life in its hands. Any retaliation would be suicide.

So I do what I always do. I endure. I push my chair back, my movements stiff. “Excuse me.”

I try to walk past him, keeping my head down, my only goal the exit. He shifts his weight, and I feel his leg hook behind mine before I see it. My balance is gone. For a split second, I’m airborne, and then the world is a chaotic mess of falling, the sickening clatter of my tray hitting the floor, and the wet slap of lukewarm stew spreading across my shirt and the stone beneath me.

Laughter erupts. It’s a tidal wave of sound, washing over me, drowning me. I’m on my hands and knees, covered in slop, and they’re all laughing.

“Oh, how clumsy,” Kade says, his voice laced with false sympathy. “Maybe an omega’s feet aren’t made for walking. Just for staying put.”

I look up, just for a second. His face is triumphant, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he looks down on me. I see Elara and Sam rushing toward me, their faces a mixture of fury and concern. But I shake my head slightly, a tiny motion they’re the only ones close enough to see. Don’t. It will only make it worse for all of us.

I push myself up, my borrowed training uniform stained and reeking. I don’t wipe it off. I want to remember this feeling. The grit of the floor on my palms, the smell of stale stew, the sound of their laughter burning into my memory. Without a word, I turn and walk out of the mess hall, their jeers following me like a pack of hounds.

Later, hours after the academy has fallen silent, I slip out of my dorm room. The moon is a sliver in the sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across the grounds. My wrist aches from the fall, and a deep bruise is blooming on my hip, but the physical pain is nothing. It’s a dull echo of the rage that burns in my gut.

I make my way to the forgotten training ground behind the armory. No one comes here. The grass is overgrown, and the wooden dummies are splintered and rotting. It’s perfect.

From beneath a loose flagstone, I pull out my only real inheritance. Not a title, not a fortune, just a leather-bound journal. The cover is worn smooth, the pages filled with my father’s elegant, precise handwriting. It’s not a diary. It’s a combat manual. His life’s work.

I open it to a dog-eared page. ‘Form Seven: The Serpent’s Strike.’ The drawings show a smaller fighter using an opponent’s momentum to create an opening, a series of quick, precise strikes aimed at joints and nerves. It was designed for fighting bigger, stronger opponents. It was designed for someone like me.

I take a deep breath, the cool night air clearing my head. I let Kade’s taunts fade. I let the laughter die away. They don’t matter here. Here, I am not a charity case. I am not a victim.

My feet find their position in the damp grass. My hands rise, mimicking the faded ink drawings. The first movement is stiff, clumsy. The second is better. By the tenth, it starts to feel natural. My body twists and flows, my hands slicing through the empty air. I practice the footwork, the blocks, the counters. Sweat beads on my forehead, plastering strands of hair to my skin.

They think I am weak. They see an omega and expect me to break. They push and they prod, waiting for me to shatter into a million pieces. Let them. Let them see whatever they want to see. But out here, in the dark, where no one is watching, I am forging myself into something else. Not just a survivor. A weapon. And one day, they will not be laughing.