Chapter Text
Sparks dance from the crackling wood. The smoke spirals through the opening in the thatched roof, obscuring the night sky. The heart of winter is still many moons away, but the temperature is already dropping in the mountains. A coldness encases Minho despite how close he is sitting to the fire– laying in the flames couldn’t thaw him. It’s fear chilling him to the core, the certainty of what’s to come as sure as the sun rises. Dried pine needles skitter across the hard-packed dirt, a familiar melody.
Around him, people murmur their fear, like his, is a tangible thing– a sour scent in the air, a startled skunk. Too many unwashed bodies stuck in a cramped place, reduced to animals in a pen. His stomach rolls, instincts begging that he find safety. He closes his eyes and focuses on the fire; the smell of burning wood and the prick of pine needles beneath him. He seeks anything to distract him from what's happening around him. He has to keep his head, focus on himself– on a plan. It will do him no good to panic, to pace; he needs to conserve his energy for what comes next.
A few people call out to passersby, calling for attention, like the right words will save them from their fate. There are words he wants to say, harsh, angry words, but his voice is an ice block weighing heavily in his chest. It’s for the best that he can’t speak up; unleashing his thoughts would only make things worse. No one cares what he has to say anymore.
In and out he breathes. In and out.
He wishes he could see the moon, be touched by its light. Tonight it’s just a sliver in the sky, but he knows the moon would see him. Mother Moon would hear his silent pleas. The moon: the original Luna, mother of wolves and all things that live in her light.
His mother taught him how to pray as a child. Up to the sky where the moon resides, his knees sinking into the earth, head tilted back to bask in the graceful light. She taught him how to surrender to something greater than himself. In empty clearings, careful not to be seen, she taught him how to thrive in the night under the delicate light.
Even though he’s presented, he wants to thank the moon for all the extra years she’s given him. All wolves present, he’s grateful that he presented later than most, suspended in childhood for a few extra years. Even Mother Moon can’t stop nature, the natural order of things.
Nature finally caught up to Minho. The undertone to his scent unfurling, exposing him– no longer a child, but an adult. A ripe omega ready to be plucked from the vine. He doesn’t resent the moon, nor nature. The mountains, the woods, the wolves that call this place home; his pack is what he resents. The musk of an alpha or the sweetness of an omega both were a death sentence to him. Coming of age on the peak of the Northern Mountain is a violent affair.
Nothing could have covered the change; he knew better than to try. A shudder runs through him, scrunching his eyes against the urge to glance around. He doesn’t want to see the curious gaze of the children milling about. He doesn’t want to witness the omegas beside him plead for mercy. He doesn’t want to look at the curled form not far from him. The low whining stopped while he wasn’t paying attention. The silence from the omega is just as frightening. She is asleep, he tells himself; she has tired herself out.
The tangy sweetness he can’t name clings to his skin, blending with the spruce that has followed him since birth. My Forest, his mother used to call him, gathering him into her arms to inhale his scent. It was often the closest she could get to being surrounded by the woods she loved. Long days and nights spent locked inside denied even the comfort of her wolf form. As a toddling child squirming in her arms, he hadn’t understood why she didn’t walk outside. Those spruce trees were their home; those woods she loved surrounded them on the mountain. If only she’d walk outside.
With age came the understanding that it wasn’t her choice to make. Shame overlays his memories. He’d been so ignorant as a child. A claimed omega has no agency; their alpha is their master.
It’s strange, yesterday he had a voice. Yesterday, his opinion mattered, people listened when he spoke. Yesterday, he could make decisions. Today, he sits naked on the hard-packed dirt of the presentation stall with the other newly presented omegas waiting for the Run. Waiting to be claimed so their new alpha master can give them meaning, a voice, and direction.
He’s the same person he was yesterday. He feels no different despite the slight change in his scent; his mind is the same. An added sweetness to his scent and suddenly he has nothing, is capable of nothing. All his possessions have been taken. The bow and arrows made with his own hands are gone. The knife his father gifted him after his first successful hunt has been taken away. The necklace his mother secretly crafted for him is now around someone else's neck. Even the clothes he wore have been stripped from him.
Property can’t own property. That’s all an omega is: a thing to be hunted down, claimed, and owned.
Bringing his knees to his chest, he holds himself tightly, holding himself together. Hiding his body, his rage behind his arms. Restlessness crawls along his skin. Idleness doesn’t suit him. Maybe if he had a book, but those don’t belong to him anymore. Books are hard to come by on the mountain; no alpha will ever let him read now. Most wolves on the mountain don’t even know how; it’s a useless skill in the wilderness.
By the light of the moon, his mother had taught him how to make sense of the words on dirty pages. How those words strung together into wonderful stories. Hidden between a fallen tree and the rocky face of the mountain, she’d expanded the world beyond their pack borders. From flying dragons and cities that grew into the sky– he fell in love with books. He loved the game his mother created. She sent him on quests to find new books. He roamed the woods searching for the books she had hidden before she presented.
Tears sting his eyes; he hadn’t thought to hide his collection for his children to find.
Grief wells quickly for the loss of his mother, his childhood, and all the losses to come. He squeezes himself tighter to the point of pain. Physical hurt has always been easier to handle than the emotions that well up inside him. He wishes, pointlessly, that his mother could hold him instead.
A piercing giggle grabs his attention; a girl presses against the wooden bars of the cage. That’s all the presentation stall is– a cage for omegas to be displayed in until the run. A smile wobbles on the girl’s face. She can’t hide the fear in her eyes the same way she can fake a laugh. A boy stands beside her, doe-eyes wide and fingers trembling where they wrap around spruce. They’re trying to entice a good alpha. He wants to tell them that there is no such thing, but they probably already know.
Kindness is a mask worn by alphas to trick omegas into compliance. A tactic used by alphas that don’t like the hunt. Worse than cruel, they’re lazy too.
He wonders if his mother was scared. Did she hide in the center of the stall, or did she press herself against the wooden bars, hoping to attract kindness?
The fire pops, its glow wavering, dancing. Minho has no desire to become currency, an object to be used and exchanged at an alpha’s discretion. Stubbornly, he refuses to pretend otherwise. He will not expose his body and bat his eyes; he stays by the fire.
Be good. Be good. Be good.
Like a prayer, his mother used to chant the direction. Over and over she repeated the words as if saying them enough could save him. The scars that litter his back are proof he never learned. Never learned to behave and never learned to listen. Not for his omega mother, his alpha father, and never for the alpha that claims him.
He wasn’t raised to be docile prey. He’s a predator of the Northern mountain peak, and he will bare his teeth and act like it. He is beholden to no one but himself and the moon.
The first time his father hit him, he bared his teeth and growled. It shocked the man. “Keep that rage. It will serve you well.” There was something close to pride in his voice. Minho had vowed never to let his anger get the best of him again, wanting to be nothing like his father.
Be safe. My Forest, be safe.
She told him every day, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Be safe when he hunts. The mountain is a dangerous place with sharp rocks, steep cliffs, and uneven terrain. Nature was never her biggest fear. Everything is a competition, and some wolves have no qualms about maiming one of their own.
Be safe around the elders. The oldest alphas in their pack are cruel for the fun of it. It’s never wise to gain their attention. Minho’s had their attention since birth, never having to seek it out. Be safe; he wants to cry because there’s no safe place. The elders say the stall is safe, the run is safe, being claimed is safe– it’s all in an omega’s best interest. It’s all in his best interest. An alpha to care for them: tell them what to do, when to do it, how to do it. His whole life, every second, dictated by the alpha that claims him.
An alpha calls his name. Over and over until his name is nothing more than a growl followed by a curse. Minho never turns. He doesn’t need to; a pack as small as theirs, he knows every voice. The angry alpha is no exception. Sungjin presented three years ago, lording his status over the wolves their age. As pups, they would tussle in their wolf skins, playful and friendly. It didn’t take long for the relationship to spoil. Their parents and elders pit them against one another often. Growing up had been one competition after the next.
For once, Sungjin has come out on top, winning in genetics when he couldn’t beat Minho at anything else. As children, they learned to fight and to hunt. The training is rigorous and unforgiving—weakness isn’t tolerated by the elders. On the trail of prey, Sungjin would always be one step behind, a bit too slow, a tad impatient. And each time Minho brought down a bigger kill, won a fight, impressed the elders—he watched the bruises bloom on Sungjin’s skin. Because like Minho's father, Sungjin’s father was unforgiving.
“You won’t be able to ignore me for long, Minho. I’ll make you mine during the run. It’ll be fun teaching you your place.”
Holding himself steady, he pretends the words don’t reach him. Nails biting into his arms as he hugs himself too tightly, refusing to give Sungjin the satisfaction of a response. He pretends that he is warm and safe in his mother's arms, engulfed in honey and something floral (a flower he never learned the name of).
The words settle in his stomach, lighting a fire—a burning rage.
.-.-.-.-.
Sleep is as grueling as being awake. The moon illuminates the spruce trees in his dreams, leaves crunch beneath his bare feet, and his heartbeat thunders in his ears. Eyes track him through the trees and brush. The wet breath of an alpha closing in on his neck leaves him breathless in the daylight. He spends a lot of time staring up at the thatched roof.
He knows the mountain like the back of his hand, preferring the liveliness of nature to the hushed whispers of the pack settlement. The path his dreams take him is new and frightening, but fills him with a bubbling hope. “You will never be lost, My Forest. The moon will always guide you home.”
Here he can always smell the stench of blood, no matter the season. No matter how good his mother behaved, it was never enough. Maybe that’s why Minho never bothered trying.
Each night he lets the moon guide him in his dreams, familiar woods turning foreign. Wolves at his heels.
There are stories, whispers, and rumors about what lies beyond their borders: where the mountain gives way to flat land. Horrors beyond imagination, the elders say. Monsters and witches and wolves who’ve lost their ability to shift, shunned by the moon. All that exists on this mountain are lies– he hopes the stories are lies too.
The run takes place every sixth full moon. It’s a rowdy affair, a chance for unmated alphas to prove themselves. It's the only time that all the wolves of the mountain come together. There are several packs that make their home on the northern mountain: the Red Wolves of the River, the Gray Wolves of the Woods, and the Hunters of the Peak. Though they all defer to the elders of the peak– to the alpha of the peak, Park Yeonjin.
Everyone is in attendance, even claimed omegas. They kneel pretty at their alpha’s feet, trophies from previous runs. Wolves that Minho has never seen shifted stand around on two legs, enjoying the festivities. The banging of hide drums echoes through the forest in a danceable rhythm as Minho salivates at the smell of roasted deer.
Unclaimed omegas in the presentation stall are fed once a day. The moon is full; the liveliness around him drains him further. He is tired, weary from lack of food and choppy sleep. The run was never designed to be a fair fight– it’s the illusion of choice. A mockery of fate.
The drums peter out, silence looms as Yeonjin steps forward. “Come forward,” he beckons.
Minho steps into the line with the five other omegas against the bars as the ceremony begins. He doesn’t look at the waiting alphas eager for the chase, nor does he scan the crowd, not wanting to find his father's face.
Herbs and crushed flowers tumble from the gnarled fingers of Elder Suh into clay cups of tea.
The drums start up again like a heartbeat as the tray of prepared drinks is presented to Alpha Park.
The omegas around him stare at their feet as they are handed their tea. A chorus of fake appreciation as they take their poison.
“Thank you, Alpha.”
Soulless and dead already.
“Thank you, Alpha.”
His heart beats in his throat to the beat of the drums.
“Thank you, Alpha.”
The moon is glowing brightly.
“Thank you, Alpha.”
Alpha Park steps before him, offering a cup of tea. Minho takes it with both hands; warmth sinks into his palms.
“Thank you, Alpha.” The words are stones dropping heavily from his mouth, hollow and cold when they hit the air. From beneath his lashes, he makes eye contact with his old, wrinkled, and scared alpha. The man sneers as Minho downs the bitter liquid quickly to avoid the taste: wolfsbane and calendula. A poison to induce their heats.
The effects are quick; warmth starts in his stomach as soon as the tea is swallowed, spreading with each breath. He’s seen the effects before; some omegas become delirious, wandering more than running, their cries filling the night as they beg for the heat to stop.
Tilting his head back, he prays to the moon to be kind to him. Help me. Help me, please.
"Remember to stay within the safety of our borders and give your future alpha a good chase.” Alpha Park smiles, eyes filled with mirth. The crowd laughs. Tonight isn’t a chase– it’s a hunt.
The door is opened and they bolt past the spectators and eager alphas into the dark wood. Rocks and sticks dig into his bare feet but he pays the pain no mind; he can't afford to. Mangled feet are nothing compared to the pain that will come. He curses the new tang in his scent, that sweetness a trail easily followed through the spruce trees that he once blended into so well.
The edge of their territory is far; the time between their release and the alphas beginning the hunt is short. Heat spreads with every beat of his heart, pumping through his veins, turning his blood to lava. Thoughts turn sluggish and his feet lag a beat behind his will. Low-hanging branches snag at his skin, gouging flesh because he’s too slow to dodge them.
Feet slapping the earth like palms against elk skin drums, he doesn’t bother trying to pace himself. He doesn’t try to hide or zig-zag his way across the territory; there's no time to waste. He takes the straightest, fastest route, hoping he’ll be quick enough. Bones cracking, he sheds his human skin, shifting until he’s on four legs. Surrendering to instinct, to the moon, letting the light and his wolf guide him.
Howls echo through the forest, sending a bolt of fear through him.
The hunt has begun.
Mama, look how fast I am!
But are you faster than the elk?
The memory echoes in his mind as he pushes himself faster, as fast as the elk. Disappointment had filled him as a child because he wanted his mother to praise him. Each day he ran after the elk, willing his little legs to move faster and faster, wanting to please his mother and hear her words of praise. Chasing after the elk until catching the animal was easy, running alongside them just to feel the rustle of their fur against his.
A scream pierces the night. A victory howl follows; prey caught and claimed. It’s not elk running through these woods tonight.
He tries to find the moon between the trees, but clouds have covered it. Storms form quickly this high up in the mountains, and the scent of rain thickens the air. A soft mist of rain slicks the leaves beneath his paws.
Another scream; his stomach turns. He pushes himself, past the stitch in his side, past the burn in his legs. Faster– his lungs ache as they expand and collapse rapidly, pushed beyond their capacity. Better his lungs explode, better to never take another breath than to be claimed.
A blur of fur between trees in his peripheral vision has him hurtling down a slope instead of taking the path. Wet earth slides with him, matting his fur.
Mama! Mama, I’m faster than the elk!
But are you faster than the rabbits?
The little balls of fluff twist and weave and duck beneath the underbrush. Tricky little things, elusive and quick. It’s easier to ambush them than it is to chase them, but his mother hadn’t asked him if he could outsmart the rabbit. She wanted him to outrun them. He’d never been prouder than when he’d brought her back a solid white rabbit, its pelt as pretty as freshly fallen snow.
Branches snap behind him, a bulky form blundering through the forest; fast but lacking agility. Turning sharply, Minho ducks low, using his slighter frame to move through the thicket of brush, bushes, and brambles that the hulking alpha won’t be able to follow easily. Chunks of fur dance from thorns in his wake. Under fallen trees, he dashes, head heavy from fever but still as tricky as the rabbit.
I’m faster than the rabbits, Mama!
But are you faster than the hawk in the sky?
A second wolf blindsides him from the right, running into his side and sending them both tumbling down another slope. A simple mistake, thinking there would only be one. A foolish hope. Sharp teeth send white-hot pain searing along his hide as they sink into his flesh in an attempt to catch him. Landing on his feet, he doesn’t stop running, clawing into the ground to propel himself forward, heedless of the way his skin tears as he yanks free.
The alpha doesn’t slow either, nipping at his heels; dillweed and smoke. A chuffing sound like a laugh, it’s all a fun little game.
There is so much mountain left to descend.
Teeth sink into his heel, making him stumble. Paws scramble for traction in the wet leaves, and the moon is blocked from his sight. Please, please! Breathless, he pushes forward, desperate to find momentum. The alpha is on top of him, forcing him to the ground; he thrashes but it’s useless. He’s in the mouth of his nightmare: scruffed.
Anger surges through him, brighter than the heat. He’s angry at himself, at the alpha on his back, and at the feet that appear in front of him.
“Shift, Minho. I want to see your face when I claim you.”
With a growl he tested the weight above him. Sungjin’s stupid sidekick, Jungwoo, digs his claws into Minho’s side, tearing skin. Trapped, he gives in, bones grinding as he shifts under the weight. He needs his hands anyway.
“So you do know how to listen,” Sungjin goads, squatting to be closer. “We’re going to have so much fun, but it’s only fair that Jungwoo gets to have you first since he caught you. You’ll be sweet for him, won’t you?”
Gathering what little saliva he has in his parched mouth, he spits into Sungjin’s face. Hands skittering across the dirt for anything useful, fingers close around a rock. As Sungjin pulls back, wiping his face, Minho quickly strikes Jungwoo in the temple. Then, he slips out from under Sungjin's momentarily loose grip.
Sungjin and Jungwoo are both taller than he is, bulkier, but Minho is quicker.
Teeth and claws rend his flesh as he dashes forward. He wonders if this is how the elk feels. Sleeping away, a growl follows him, the hunt beginning again. Two legs and too far from the border. He finds himself on the edge of an outcrop, the river raging below.
“Enough!” Sungjin calls, blocking the way back into the woods. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Minho.”
The water roars louder than any wolf. He doesn’t know if he is faster than the hawk in the sky– he never had the wings to find out.
Falling is a lot like flying, isn’t it?
“I belong to the moon.”
The water seizes his lungs, cold like needles of ice. It’s a shocking contrast to the heat in his veins.
Run, my Forest, run!
He tries to tread water, legs pumping like they would on land, but he sinks. Falling might be like flying, but running is nothing like swimming. The current takes him, tossing him around like dirty clothes. The moon is gone. Rain falls from the sky like his mother’s tears. He imagines Mother Moon crying for him behind the clouds. The river swallows him.