Epsilon [Werewolf]

Chapter 19 ✔️

"Thetas aren't supposed to sit with Omegas. You know that, right?"

Training had finished about an hour ago. Well, for everyone else, at least. Me? I was still stuck with the insufferable Beta. I'd noticed the birds' melodies becoming more sparse and lilted as the sun's rays dwindled behind the trees. I'd noticed how fewer people were milling the grounds, packing away their things filtering back into the court. The court had been quiet ever since the attacks. Everything was quiet -- the dining hall didn't have that cheerful buzz anymore, and the halls were almost always silent. It had been a week since the attacks, but I knew it was a wound that could take years to heal. 

I glanced towards Zion. His shoulder-length hair gleamed like fire in the sunlight, almost like a reflection of his stern temperament. His perfect brows were furrowed, a disapproving frown on his face as he regarded me. I could tell he was affected dearly by the events that had taken place -- we all were. And he seemed hell-bent on taking it out on me.  "There's a reason the ranks are separated at the Feasting. What you did was just... plain stupid!"

Strangely enough, my lack of progress hadn't appeared once in conversation -- not even once. Instead, he had been focusing on other aspects of me, such as me sitting at the wrong table. Though, by the disapproving glares and long-winded sighs that sent rods of pain through me every time, I supposed he didn't need to say anything -- I knew what he was thinking.

I shrugged, though with my arms extended before me, the action proved difficult. Zion had ordered me to do these strange stretches, claiming this would improve my 'flexibility' for when I Turned. If  I Turned, that is.

I glared at him. The guilt of those people's deaths had yet to leave my shoulders, but he didn't seem to understand that. He didn't seem to understand anything about me. 

"Well," I began through gritted teeth. "I was welcome at the Omega table, and I wasn't welcome at the Theta table. I don't know about you, but I think the correct choice is obvious."

Zion shook his head, emerald eyes hard. "It doesn't matter how they treat you; you suck up the temperament and remain with your ranks." He shook his head again. "It's part of the code, for goodness sake. God, Epsilon, it's almost as if you don't want to fit in! You;re not helping yourself by doing that!"

"I don't fit in," I shot back, more aggressive than I intended. Zion shot me a warning look but I continued, "The majority don't accept me, so what's the point in trying?"

It was true. I was supposed to be their saving grace, a gift of the fates, and yet they insisted on treating me like dirt. Then again, why wouldn't they? I had done nothing yet to prove myself, aside from cowering in the corner of a bunker.

Zion pinched his nose, his sigh disapproving. "Respect is earnt, Epsilon, not given. It seems you find that notion difficult to understand, though."

I ignored him, stretching my arms further out. It seemed Zion was losing his patience, though, for he sauntered towards me and pushed my arms down. "That's enough stretching, Epsilon. This isn't a yoga class. Now I want you to Turn. Now."

My stomach melted into a puddle of dread. I knew how the lesson would go from here; I would fail to Turn, making Zion only angrier and more demanding, leaving me feeling only more guilty and stressed. He would lash me with words, slamming me with insult after insult and, eventually, I would crack. 

Zion narrowed his eyes. "Turn, Epsilon. We don't have all day."

I shook my head. "I can't turn, Zion--"

"Lord Zion," he corrected. I suppressed a sigh.

"Alright, Lord Zion. I can't turn. I don't know how. You and I both know how this will go."