Page 54 of Primal

Siggy says there was no fighting it, that darkness swept her away almost instantly. The look I share with Seren tells me we’re thinking the same thing. A witch or charmer was there that night.

Siggy hugs her legs tighter to her chest, and I reach out, gently placing a hand on her back. She doesn’t flinch in surprise, which feels like progress.

“I don’t know how long we were out. Hours, maybe days. When I woke up, we were locked in the cages. In some kind of basement. A club.” Her voice cracks on the word, and her gaze finally flicks to mine, dull and haunted. “Not the kind with music and drinks.”

No one breathes. No one speaks. We understand exactly what kind of club she means. The kind where omegas don’t leave. An illegal, underground sex ring. A nightmare you think only exists in whispered horror stories. Except Siggy lived it. Carly too.

Siggy’s voice may have quieted, but the shame and anger that clings to her story lingers in the air long after she’s stopped talking. And even now, as I sit beside her, the weight of it presses against my ribs like I’ve absorbed some of her pain by proximity.

Maybe I have. Maybe that’s part of being a Nightingale. They don’t just carry their own pain. We are here to take some of the weight of it for a while.

“Do you know where this club was, Siggy?” Canaan questions. From where I sit, I can practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes—calculations already forming, scenarios being built, plans taking shape. The tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders square, it’s clear he’s already thinking about how to find this place, how to burn it to the ground piece by piece. It's comforting. And deeply, deeply intimidating.

Because this is what an Alpha is supposed to be. Unyielding in their defense of omegas. That primal drive to protect, to shield, it's built into their bones. Which is why it's so disturbing, so enraging, that some of them ignore that instinct completely. That they use that power not to protect, but to hurt. To exploit.

And it’s just becoming more common as the omega population continues to regress.

“South. I think it might have been close to northern Nevada, but I can’t be sure,” Siggy tells him.

Rhosyn shifts in her seat, looking nervous to speak the question that’s clearly on her mind. Probably on all our minds. “Honey, can you tell us how you were able to get out of there?”

For the first time since she began speaking, Siggy’s voice cracks, her big blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “It was another omega,” she rasps, barely getting the words out. “I don’t even know her name. But she’s the one who got us out.”

Siggy tells us about the omega who risked everything to get the pair of Fallamhain omegas out that nightmare. Her eyes turn into haunted orbs as she recounts the way the omega, who wasprobably a good ten years older than the girls, had appeared to have had the life syphoned out of her. Whatever will to live she’d once had was stolen by the monsters who kept her at their mercy for Goddess knows how long. Siggy thinks that emptiness, that absence of hope, was what gave her the courage to act. With nothing left to lose, the woman found a way to unlock their cages and open the back exit of the warehouse where they were being held—where the “club” operated.

“She opened the door and told us which direction to run,” Siggy says, her voice thin and trembling. “We could already hear the commotion below, they knew we were gone.” Her eyes glisten, glassy and distant, and I’m not sure she’s really seeing any of us anymore. “She didn’t say your name, Noa, but she told us about your sanctuary. Said if we made it to Ashvale, we’d be safe. ‘Just get there,’ she said. ‘Run like hell.’” Siggy swallows hard, her voice cracking. “Then she turned and went back inside, back toward them. We heard her scream.” Her breath shudders. “She sacrificed herself to give us time.”

Before Siggy continues her harrowing tale, Rhosyn and Canaan both shoot me a pointed look—the question clear in their expressions, a question they've likely been holding on to since Siggy walked into the kitchen last night.Why Ashvale? Why me?

In the briefest summary possible, Seren and I explain the basics of the Nightingale program. We keep it simple, leaving out critical details—especially about the witches' involvement—because even though we trust them, some secrets must remain ours alone. The less people who know about our security, the safer everyone stays.

Satisfied enough by our vague explanation for now, Rhosyn and Canaan ease back, and I gently encourage Siggy to continue.

“Carly started to fall behind,” Siggy whispers, the words shaky and frayed at the edges. “They were…harder on her. I think it’s because she never stopped fighting. Even aftereverything. Even after being held there, used like she was…she still fought them.”

My stomach rolls with nausea.

For two days, Siggy and Carly had run in their wolf forms. They hardly stopped, didn’t eat anything. Siggy keeps reiterating how they both weren’t willing to give up. They just wanted to live. They wanted to come home.

“We were close to a river when they caught up,” she goes on. “I thought if we made it to the water, we could use it to lose our scent. I got there first, and I was panicking, so exhausted I couldn’t see straight. I slipped.” Her voice cracks. “The cold shocked me into shifting back, and when I came up for air, she wasn’t with me. I looked back through the spray…and I saw her. She was still on the bank.”

Siggy blinks, tears cascading down her pale face.

“They grabbed her. And I couldn’t help. I couldn’t get back to her. The current was too strong, and I was too weak. It just…took me.”

Miles away from where she’d fallen into the river, Siggy woke up on a bank. Naked, freezing, and alone. That’s where the “mean ol’ crone,” as she called her, found her. According to Siggy, the witch wasn’t actually mean, just grouchy and sharp-tongued in a way that made you think twice before pushing your luck.

She lived alone in a one-room cabin and gave Siggy shelter for the night. A warm bed, food, clothes. She even knew about us. About the Nightingale program. That detail alone made my heart stutter, pride blooming sharp and sudden in my chest. Because it proved what Zora had told me—that my mom’s network was far-reaching. That somehow, through her efforts, word of our sanctuary had made it to witches in the remote outskirts of nowhere. She did that. She built this.

“The crone was going into the nearest town the next morning and offered to take me,” Siggy explains, quiet and full of guilt. “Said that was as far as she could get me. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave without Carly. But I knew there was nothing I could do for her. Not anymore.”

That kind of decision—leaving someone you love behind—it’s the kind of wound that carves deep. It'll take time for her to accept that she made the right choice. That surviving was the brave thing. The necessary thing.

“She had one of those ancient phones. You know, the ones without a touch screen,” Siggy adds, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips at this specific detail. “And the town was so remote the signal barely worked. But she told me to try the number anyway. I did. I heard you answer, Noa. I tried to talk but you couldn’t hear me. Then the call dropped.”

After that, she left. Alone. For days, she made her way here. She notes how it became harder and harder to stay in wolf form, like her body just didn’t have enough left to give. She walked on bare feet, stumbling through the forest a lot of the remaining way.

“I kept tripping,” she murmurs. “Branches, rocks…I think that’s how I broke my fingers.”

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