The Prime Alpha

DERAN

“Once there is life, there is hope,” people say, their tone confident, their eyes locked on yours like they’ve just delivered the final truth of the universe. And maybe they’re right. Maybe as long as we’re breathing, hope is always somewhere nearby.

But here’s the real question—does breathing automatically mean you’re alive?

Okay, indulge me.

Are you one of those people? The grateful ones. The ones who claim life is beautiful and pain is a teacher and everything happens for a reason. Don’t be shy. Speak your truth. This might not be a safe space, but don’t worry—we only judge quietly here.

“You will all write a five-hundred-word essay on gratitude and contentment,” Mrs. Choy had announced in my first year of high school. “You can be flexible with your work. There’s no failing this. This exercise is meant to be introspective, a guide to look inward. So good luck to all of you.”

I attended what people would call a rich kid’s school, and I’m sure Mrs. Choy assumed we had endless things to be grateful for.

I remember sitting in that half-empty classroom, my vision blurred with tears, pen trembling in my hand… and not a single word on the sheet in front of me.

If you had asked me at eleven—or any time before that—I would’ve told you I was grateful for life. I would’ve said it confidently too.

But now, this is important: there’s a short answer and a long answer for why I’m no longer grateful for life… or for anything, really.

Short answer?

Life got drained of its colours. Everything became black and white. Nothing to celebrate. Nothing to be thankful for.

Long answer?

Well… storytime.

When I was a kid, I felt lucky. Mum and Dad were goofballs who ate pancakes with their bare hands, cracking jokes and laughing like the world couldn’t touch them. I woke up excited every day because I had things to look forward to—my favourite shows, which Mum religiously watched with me even though they were meant for kids twelve and under.

And then there was Dad. Training. Practising. Listening to him teach me all the tricks of being what he called the ultimate predator.

“Both of your parents are Alphas,” kids my age would say, eyes glowing with envy, like I was royalty.

And they weren’t wrong.

There weren’t many Alphas. It was rare to see one at all—rarer to see two together, and even rarer to see two who were married. Over ninety-eight percent of werewolves were Betas. The rest were mostly Alphas. Alphas were feared, respected, envied… and hated, depending on who you asked.

But even as a child, I knew something else too:

Every werewolf, if given the choice, would pick the red eyes over the amber.

Every single one.

“I hope I’ll be an Alpha,” I cried to Mum a day before my tenth birthday, clinging to her arm with wet cheeks and a trembling voice. “I want to be like you and Dad.”

Mum scooped me into her arms and pressed her face close to mine.

“Deran,” she said softly, “whether you’re Beta or Alpha, you will always be like me and Dad. Always.”

Every werewolf changes into their wolf for the first time on their tenth birthday. That’s how you find out what you are. Beta or Alpha. Amber eyes or red eyes.

There’s usually a celebration too.

But almost every time, the kid’s eyes glow amber. Hence the overwhelming population of Betas.

“Any time now, little man,” Dad said, squeezing my shoulder as I stood there waiting, praying in my heart that I wasn’t a Beta.

Then the feelings began.

Heightened senses. Light feet. Itchy skin. A strange electricity under my bones.

It was happening.

Mum and Dad had invited a handful of family and friends. They cheered and clapped, mostly because little Deran had officially turned ten.

And then it happened.

They all froze.

They stared at me with wide eyes, the kind of stiff silence you don’t understand until you’re older. One of them even dropped their jaw.

Mum and Dad each held one of my arms, but neither of them smiled. Neither of them spoke.

That minute of silence felt like torture. It was like the air thickened and the walls leaned closer.

What was going on?

Then Mum whispered, turning to Dad, her voice trembling.

“There’s no way… is there? This cannot be happening.”

Dad nodded slowly.

Then he turned to me and forced a smile.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice oddly careful, “I fear it is. Our boy is special.”

Special?

There was nothing special about being a Beta. That’s what I thought, anyway, my heart pounding as if it wanted to jump out of my ribs.

What was I?

Soft chatter spread across the living room. People leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at my face—like old people trying to read an ATM screen.

“How is this possible?” someone murmured. “Eyes revealing before changing? What in the world…”

Dad handed me a mirror.

I snatched it like my life depended on it.

And there it was.

Red.

My eyes were glowing red.

I leapt like I’d just won the lottery.

Something I had dreamt about forever had finally come true.

I was an Alpha.

Or… was I?

“Mum! I’m like you and Dad!” I cried, jumping high, my feet barely touching the ground before I threw myself into their arms. “I’m so happy! I… I don’t… I’m so happy, Mum!”

But Mum wasn’t looking at me.

She was staring at Dad.

And Dad… Dad looked like he was holding back a storm.

What was wrong?

Even as a kid, I knew it was rare. But rare didn’t mean bad, did it? I was like them. I was what I wanted to be.

So why did everyone look like they’d just seen a ghost?

They watched in silence, far too invested, far too tense.

My childish mind assumed they were just shocked because our whole family were Alphas.

Then Dad crouched in front of me and ruffled my hair the way he always did. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re not like us, Deran,” he said, voice low. “You’re something more. Something more special. Far more special.”

That was the day I found out I was a Prime Alpha.

Yeah.

You heard it right.

No one had ever mentioned it before—and for good reason. The last Prime Alpha supposedly lived three centuries ago.

Regular werewolves only reveal their wolf eyes after changing.

Only a Prime Alpha’s eyes can reveal before the change.

Mum and Dad tried to keep the news within the group of people present that night. They wanted to protect me from things my mind was too young to understand.

Because if Alphas were hated by Rogues—Betas who refused to follow community rules—to the point of ambushes and murders…

Then imagine what Rogues would do to a Prime Alpha.

A creature of myth.

A werewolf whose powers were only spoken about, never seen.

Sadly, two weeks later, despite all the promises made that night, the news spread like wildfire in summer.

And that was both the beginning…

and the end…

of my life.

“We’ll return in a few days, a week at most,” Mum said, hugging me tightly as Dad loaded the last bag into the taxi. “I promise we’ll be back before you know it. Mummy doesn’t lie, does she? Hmm?”

They were travelling overseas to check out a property. Somewhere we could settle. Somewhere we could live without looking over our shoulders.

Somewhere safe.

We were all exhausted from the attention I brought to the family.

I didn’t mind them leaving, honestly. It meant I’d stay with Uncle Seth.

And Uncle Seth was cool.

Uncle Seth was also very rich.

Just over two hours after they left, Uncle Seth came flying down one of the curved staircases in his mansion, a phone pressed to his ear.

And then he screamed.

Not a shout. Not a gasp.

A scream.

The kind that doesn’t sound human.

The kind that makes your blood turn cold.

I remember it vividly—disturbingly vividly. That sound of agony. That sudden shift in the air. Like despair itself had entered the house and made itself comfortable.

Uncle Seth hit the floor before the phone did.

“No… no… this isn’t true,” he kept saying, as if repeating it could force reality to correct itself. “This isn’t true. It can’t be true.”

My heart sank even before I understood.

He had just been told my parents and my five-month-old sister had been involved in an accident on their way to the airport.

They were blown to bits.

So yeah.

That’s the long answer.

NICKY

“Yes, thank you.” I let go of the luggage and stepped aside, allowing the taxi driver to wrestle it into the booth.

“You’re a tough one, young lady,” he grunted, breathing hard by the time he finally shoved the last box into place. He glanced at me again—one of those long, scanning looks men give when they can’t wrap their minds around what they’re seeing.

Like he was genuinely wondering how a frail-looking girl like me had carried three heavy boxes with ease.

He chuckled.

“These days, with all this girl-boss thing,” he said, wiping sweat off his forehead, “it has entered you people for real.”

I forced a laugh and inhaled deeply, as if I could will myself into calm. The cool morning breeze tossed my hair around my face. The driver kept talking—something about his daughter being just as strong as me—and honestly, I let his voice blur into the background.

I could’ve done without the