The Last Omega

The Feast - Part II

You found yourself in the eye of the storm—no, perhaps more accurately, in the quiet before it. That deceptive hush that settles just before the chaos unfurls. A few fleeting seconds of calm. A breath. Just enough time to gather your thoughts, to steady your trembling limbs, to make sense of the weight pressing upon your chest.

And then it strikes you, with absolute clarity—your place in all of this. Your role. Your true purpose (better late than never).

From the very beginning, no one had treated you unkindly. Not the Ladies. Not the Priestess. Not even the Lords. They were never cruel, never forceful. A bit sadistic in their games yes, but they never hurt you truly. They regarded you with a kind of sacred reverence, as if you were a fragile bloom that must not be bruised by the world's rough edges. An object of care. Of significance.

The daughters, of course, teased you now and then—small acts of mischief born more of boredom than malice. Yet, even in their games, there were limits. You sensed it, like a silent agreement just beneath the surface. As if, deep down, they all knew - You were not like the other maids. You were not expendable.

Lady Dimitrescu had kept you near since the harvest. Wherever she went, your tasks followed. It was no coincidence. You were assigned to clean the very chambers she occupied. You felt her presence—watchful, commanding, possessive. She circled you like a lioness guarding a delicate treasure. You were, after all, the last omega. The final chance. The rarest seed in a withering garden.

You couldn't be risked. Not before the ceremony. Not before the implantation of the Cadou.

No one was better suited to protect you than the Lady herself. And she did.

But then came the shift—your first heat, looming on the horizon like a rising tide. You could sense it approaching, and so could she. Her restraint frayed, her composed exterior cracking. Her inner beast thrashed within her, clawing at its cage, desperate to claim you.

In the end, it all worked out. More or less.

But peace had its price.

Lady Dimitrescu had been forced to share you—first with her daughters, then with the rest of her female family, the supernatural court bound together by blood, power, and ancient need. They were alphas, all of them. Commanding. Dominant. Territorial. And you... you were their omega.

Now, the old rites had returned. The Baltanic ritual—forgotten by time, buried for centuries, dormant only because there had never been another like you. A suitable omega. A perfect vessel.

You were the first in generations.

The ritual wasn't about power or prestige. It was about preparation. For the future. For continuity. For breeding.

Yes, that was the word. Crude, biological, but true.

Breeding.

You had to be made ready—not just physically, but wholly. Your body had to adapt. To awaken. To survive what others hadn't. Every movement, every chant, every sacred gesture in the ritual was designed for one purpose - to make you ready to carry their legacy.

It wouldn't happen today—not entirely—but the process had begun.

And suddenly, everything shifted. The faces around you, the ornate symbols drawn in ash and blood, the scent of incense curling through the air—it all looked different now. No longer strange or frightening. No longer confusing.

It all made sense.

You were needed. Not as a servant. Not as a curiosity. But as something vital. Essential.

For them.

And for the village.

The others before you had failed. The previous omegas hadn't survived—not the bondings, not the ritual, not the transformation. One by one, they had been lost.