Page 89 of Ruled By The Alpha

“Don’t drink it all,” he mutters, attaching it to his waist. “It’s cooler now. Let’s go.”

He swings the calf onto his shoulder and we walk east.

Chapter 4

Shadows fall across the earth, growing ever-longer as the sun sinks closer to the land. Soon it will be dark, and we have yet to reach our people’s camp.

We stop at a slight dip between trees.

“Shall we build a fire?” I ask him. The bright light and hot flames will help keep the wildlife away, but the smoke curling into the sky will alert others to our whereabouts. If our tribe see it, they will come to find us. But we are lost, and we do not know if others lurk nearby.

Hensta leans on his spear. “What do you think, Nafia?”

“The night will be cold. I think we should build the fire. We are far from the ruins here.”

He gazes to the west and nods.

I am better at building a fire than Hensta, and he leaves me to look for blackberries to pick. He does not wander far—I can hear him moving through the bushes—because he worries about the animals and other dangers that may be lurking nearby.

But I can look after myself. I'm no longer a child. I don’t need a watcher. And though I may be an omega, I know how to fight. It was one of the first things my father taught us.

"You may be omegas, but you are not prey. You will choose your mates."

It is not a rule all the tribes follow. I have heard the older women talk of alphas who will force an omega to mate. Of other tribes who will steal omegas.

It is one of the reasons we roam these lands far from the dangerous ruins, far from the other tribes. It is a harder life.There are fewer riches to scavenge from the ground out here. But it is a fairer one.

I fetch kindling from the undergrowth and sweep a space clean on the ground with my hands. They say the ancients could conjure flames with a flick of their fingers, that great fires burned day and night, that there was never any darkness at all.

I will have to coax fire with painstaking care and attention.

When I’m content, I take the dried moss and flint I keep at my waist and lie low on the ground, striking my flint until it sparks and the moss catches. Cradling the small flame with my hands, I blow, encouraging it to grow. Once the moss has taken, I add the kindling, and then finally the larger sticks, and soon the fire is roaring in the dusk.

I sit back with satisfaction and warm my cold fingers.

Hensta returns with a handful of berries. “They are not quite ripe,” he tells me as he drops some into my waiting hands, “but they will keep us going.”

In the ruins, there were once huge stores of food locked away in the hard, shiny material we use for our arrows and our knives. But the stores have dwindled, and more tribes are leaving to wander the lands like we do, scavenging and hunting for their meals.

I hold the fleshy berry up to the firelight and see its reddish colour, yet to turn the dark black that signals it is ready for eating. I throw one into my mouth anyway, cringing slightly at the tart taste, but enjoying the buzz of sugar that follows on my tongue. Together we sit on opposite sides of the fire, eating.

Often I am thankful for Hensta's quiet nature—too many men do nothing but talk—but tonight the silence is eerie. It is never quiet in the camp of our people. There is always a baby crying, a child mumbling, a couple lying together, even in the dead of night when all should be still.

I could fill the silence with talk of my own, but I am consumed with my anxieties, and I can’t trust my tongue. I don’t want him to know that I am, perhaps, just a little frightened; I have never slept out in the night without the protection of my father and the others. And I am scared that we are lost and may never find our people again.

It has happened before. Many times, in fact. Over the years, we have lost those who were too slow and left behind in the midst of a wild animal attack, or even a hunt. Some, perhaps, were taken.

I wipe my sticky fingers on the hide around my waist and torso, then poke at the fire, ensuring it will not burn out.

“You sleep first,” Hensta tells me.

One of us must stay awake to keep watch over the kill, and each other. I could argue, insist that I take first watch, but I am tired, and I know if I sit here alone with the darkness growing heavier and the noises of the night animals growing louder, my fears will overtake me.

So instead I nod and lie by the fire, staring into the flames and letting their dancing light lull me into sleep.

I wake suddenly some hours later, sitting bolt upright and alert, my hand tight around my spear. The fire has sunk low, and from the shadows I hear a snarl and a grunt.

I peer across to Hensta and my heart plummets to my stomach. He stands, clutching his spear, and before him snarls a great cat. Its ears lie flat against its head, its mouth wide open, baring its dagger-sharp fangs.

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