The Coming of My Son Dowells

Emma’s POV

The wind was sharp that morning.

Not the usual whisper of the forest air, but a bitter gust that howled through the trees like it carried a warning. I had grown used to the cold, the ache of survival, the gnawing fear that every step could be my last. But today felt different.

Today, life was coming.

And with it, pain.

I doubled over near the stream, clutching my swollen belly as another contraction ripped through me like lightning. I cried out, raw and hoarse, startling the crows perched above.

My knees hit the damp moss as I whimpered into the earth, the weight of months of betrayal, loneliness, and exhaustion crashing over me.

He was coming—my son.

My Dowells.

One of the women from the rogue camp, Rani, had followed me. She was the only one who had truly spoken to me beyond orders or mockery.

Her eyes had always held a quiet sorrow, like she, too, had known abandonment. Maybe that was why she looked at me differently than the others. Like she saw something more than a shamed and pregnant Omega.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” she whispered, kneeling beside me.

“I didn’t want to burden anyone.” I said.

Rani didn’t answer. She helped me to my feet and guided me through the main rogue camp, and into a quieter clearing. There, hidden beneath the roots of an old tree, was a small, round hut of woven branches and animal skins. Smoke rose from its chimney, warm and inviting.

“Marla lives here,” Rani explained. “She was a healer once, in a noble pack before they exiled her.”

Before I could ask more, the door opened, and a small and wrinkled woman stepped out, her eyes ancient as if she had seen too many seasons pass.

Her hair was braided down her back, and around her neck, herbs and charms that smelled of earth and moonlight.

“Bring her in,” she said without ceremony. “It’s time.”

I couldn’t even walk by then. Rani carried most of my weight as Marla cleared a bed of furs inside the hut. The air smelled of dried flowers, oils, and something soothing I couldn’t place.

Time blurred after that.

Pain became the only language I knew and understand.

My body felt like it was tearing apart, each contraction a wave crashing over me. I screamed, I sobbed, and at times, I begged the moon goddess to take me instead.

But Marla never flinched. She was calm, even when I was not. She whispered spells and rubbed oils on my belly, her voice was like the hush of a lullaby.

And then—

He cried.

A single, broken cry that shattered the silence and brought tears to my eyes.

Marla held him up to the flickering firelight, his soft body slick and red, fists clenched tight, lungs announcing his arrival like a warrior. She wrapped him in a soft cloth and laid him in my arms.

My son.

Dowells.

He was so small, so perfect. A full head of dark hair, just like mine. But his nose—his nose was unmistakably like his.

Darrel’s.

I looked away, grief biting at my throat. I didn’t want his face to be there. Not now and not ever.

But I would not let that shadow haunt this child.

“This is your world now,” I whispered to Dowells, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And no one—no one—will ever make you feel unwanted.”

Rani smiled from the doorway, her arms crossed. Marla, for all her sternness, softened as she handed me a warm cloth and helped me clean myself.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Dowells,” I said.

Her brows rose, but she didn’t question it.

Maybe she knew the weight a name could carry.

Maybe she had her own scars.

Days later, I stayed with Marla.

She insisted. “You won’t last out there with a newborn, not until your strength returns.”

I hated feeling like a burden. I had survived on my own this long, and I had grown proud of that. But now, I wasn’t alone. Dowells needed more than survival—he needed safety, warmth, milk, healing.

And so did I.

Marla’s hut became our temporary haven. I slept on furs while my son lay in a woven basket beside me, wrapped in rabbit pelts.

His cries were soft, his breathing fragile, but his grip—oh, his grip was strong. He latched onto my finger like he never wanted to let go.

He had his father's eyes.

Every time I looked into them, I felt a mix of emotions—love, rage, shame, and something unspoken. But I never let it show. Dowells deserved a mother who would never let the past stain the future.

Marla taught me many things during those days—how to brew healing teas, how to read herbs, and how to listen to the forest. She told stories, some of which I believed, some I didn’t. But I listened to every one of them.

“Magic,” she said one night, as I rocked Dowells to sleep, “isn’t just in spells or curses. It’s in survival. In a mother’s will to protect. That’s the strongest magic of all.”

Her words stayed with me.

I had no pack, no status, no protection.

But I had love.

And that was enough for now.

Weeks passed.

Dowells grew stronger. His cries turned into gurgles, his limbs kicked with newfound purpose. Sometimes, when he slept, I’d trace his little features and wonder what kind of man he’d become.

Would he be kind?

Would he be fierce?

Would he ever forgive me if he learned the truth?

Because one day, he would ask.

He would want to know who his father was. Why we lived in exile. Why the name Dowells carried both pride and shame.

And what would I say?

“That man was my uncle.”

The truth burned in my chest every time I held him.

I hadn’t spoken it out loud since that night. Not to Rani. Not to Marla. Not even to myself.

But I knew I had to face it someday.

Even if it tore me apart.

Even if it meant my son would hate me.

But not yet.

For now, all he needed was my love, my arms around him and my promise.