The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 256

The provisional council forms without me.

Not loudly. Not ceremonially. It assembles the way uneasy things do, through messages sent too late at night and meetings framed as temporary. No titles finalized. No mandates clarified. Just a cluster of familiar names and a shared insistence that this is only until things settle.

They do not.

I hear about it secondhand at first. Ben brings scraps of information back the way he always has, not gossip, just patterns. Who interrupts whom. Who keeps circling the same point without landing anywhere. Which voices are suddenly louder now that there is no single figure absorbing friction.

“They cannot agree on priorities,” he says one evening, leaning against the counter while I wash a pan that does not need washing. “Logistics versus enforcement. Mediation versus visibility. Everyone wants their problem addressed first.”

I rinse the pan and set it aside, even though my hands are still wet, water tracking across the counter in thin lines I do not bother to wipe away. “That was always going to happen.”

“They are defaulting to old habits,” he adds. “Subcommittees. Closed discussions. Decisions made before meetings so they can pretend consensus happened in the room.”

I dry my hands slowly, deliberately, using the towel longer than necessary, feeling the friction against my skin. “That is not consensus. That is choreography.”

He nods once. “You would know.”

I would.

I spent years watching that dance. Learning who led without admitting it. Learning which pauses meant resistance and which meant fear. Learning when to interrupt it and when to let it expose itself so no one could deny what they were seeing afterward. Choreography always looks stable until the music changes.

Morgan comes two days later, unannounced as usual. She does not sit. She paces the small space like the walls are pressing in on her, like motion is the only thing keeping her from saying something she cannot take back.

“They are flailing,” she says without preamble. “They want you back.”

“In what capacity,” I ask.

She grimaces. “Unofficially. Consultative. Behind the scenes.”

I let out a quiet breath, the kind that empties more than air. “So control without accountability.”

“Yes.”

“No,” I say.

Her jaw tightens. “Savannah, power does not like vacuums. Something will fill it.”

“You are making this harder,” she says.

“I am making it honest,” I reply.

She leaves frustrated. I do not stop her. If I did, I would be lying to both of us.

The border incident happens a week later.

Not fatal. That is what everyone leads with, like the absence of death is proof of competence. A patrol crosses a line that was never clearly redrawn because no one wanted to admit it had shifted. A response comes late because three people thought someone else was handling it. Tempers flare. Someone draws claws. Someone else panics.

No one dies.

Several people come close.

Close enough that it shows in their voices afterward. Close enough that fear lingers even after the situation cools.

The provisional council freezes.