Page 12

CHAPTER 12

POV: Briar

Morning light filters through silver leaves, casting dappled patterns across my face and rousing me from uneasy dreams filled with ice and frost and hungry blue eyes.

The forest feels quiet and expectant today. I stretch carefully in my makeshift shelter, wincing as my muscles protest after another night spent in cramped conditions.

"Good morning to you too, body," I mutter, rubbing at a particularly stubborn knot in my shoulder.

The frost patterns have spread overnight, stretching up my forearms towards my elbow. My heat symptoms have intensified as well, and that's putting it mildly. A persistent ache throbs low in my abdomen, and my skin feels like it's been replaced with something two sizes too small and far too sensitive. Every brush of fabric against my breasts sends mortifying shivers through my body. The gathering wetness between my thighs is becoming harder to ignore, as is the empty feeling that nothing in my rational mind wants filled.

"Perfect," I grumble, swallowing another of Marta's herbs. They taste like pond scum but take just enough edge off that I can think beyond the next breath. I'm rationing them carefully—who knows how long I'll need to make them last.

I'm gathering my meager supplies when I notice it—a thin column of smoke rising above the trees about half a mile away. Not the billowing darkness of a forest fire, but the controlled plume of a chimney.

Someone lives within the Bloodmoon Forest. During the Hunt.

I weigh my options. A permanent dwelling could mean safety, information, supplies—or it could be a trap. After a moment of deliberation, curiosity wins. I can always observe from a distance before approaching whoever or whatever it is.

I follow game trails and natural gaps between trees, staying alert for any sign of pursuing alphas. The forest continues its strange behavior, branches shifting subtly to screen my passage, undergrowth parting to reveal clearer paths. Whatever consciousness dwells within these ancient trees, it's still guiding me for reasons I don't fully understand.

The smoke leads me to a sight so unexpected I pause, momentarily forgetting my careful stealth. A small cottage nestles between the massive roots of an ancient oak, its structure seeming to grow organically from the tree itself. Bark and wooden walls merge seamlessly, making it difficult to tell where the tree ends and the cottage begins. There are even flowers growing from the roof and roots wrapping around the doorframe.

An elderly woman sits outside on a smoothly polished stump, working with small tools and materials spread across her lap, some kind of braiding or beadwork. Her silver-streaked dark hair falls in a complex braid, and when she turns slightly, I catch the glint of metal—iron pins hidden within her hair, visible only from certain angles.

She doesn't look up, but her hands pause in her lap. "You might as well come out. I've been aware of you since you entered my clearing."

I step from the tree line, scanning the clearing for any threats. "Who are you?"

"Someone who survived what you're going through now." When she finally raises her head to look at me, I see she's much older than I would've guessed, her eyes aged and her face weathered. Her skin bears the unmistakable marks of fae claiming—her throat and wrists are scarred with the distinct puncture wounds of alpha teeth, silvery and healed with what must be years of age.

She gestures to another stump across from her. "Sit. You look dead on your feet, and that's not a state that will end well for an omega in the Hunt."

I hesitate before accepting the invitation. Up close, I notice other details of what she's been through—a slight tremor in her left hand, a burn scar peeking from beneath her sleeve, the way she tilts her head to better hear from her right side.

"You're the one they call The Survivor," I realize aloud.

Stories whispered in the villages have mentioned her—the only living omega known to have endured not just the Hunt, pregnancy, and birth, but to have escaped afterwards. Survivors, like Marta and Sera, are rare. Those who make it usually suffer their fate: being tossed back in again, or worse, becoming the permanent plaything of an alpha's court.

"Some call me that." She shrugs, continuing her work. I now see she's fashioning small tokens from twists of vine, iron filings, and what appears to be dried herbs. "Others have less flattering names."

"You live here? In the bloodmoon forest?"

"Where better to hide from fae than in the place they consider too dangerous for us to survive?" A wry smile touches her lips. "They never look in their own backyard."

My body chooses this moment to remind me what I am. A wave of heat floods through me, making my vision blur and forcing a small gasp from my throat. I dig my nails into my palms, using the sharp pain to focus.

The Survivor notices. Of course she does. "Your heat's advancing quickly," she observes matter-of-factly. "First time?"

I nod, embarrassed despite myself. "I've kept it suppressed. Iron tokens, herbs."

"Ah. That explains it. Your body's making up for lost time." She sets aside her work. "Come inside. I have something that might help, and these woods have too many ears."

The cottage interior is a single room filled with hanging herbs, shelves of stoppered bottles, and bundles of materials I can't identify. A small hearth occupies one wall, a steaming pot suspended above carefully banked coals. The scent of unfamiliar spices permeates the air, not unpleasant but strange.

"Sit," she commands, gesturing to a bench beside a rough-hewn table. "You need relief more than conversation right now."

She ladles liquid from the pot into a clay cup, the steam rising in spirals. "Drink. It will ease your heat symptoms temporarily."

I sniff cautiously. The tea smells of earth and roots and something metallic. "What is it?"

"Nothing that will harm you. Quite the opposite." When I still hesitate, she sighs. "If I wished you ill, I could have simply directed the nearest alpha to your location. The Hunt isn't kind to lone omegas, glamoured or otherwise."

She has a point. I sip the tea and feel immediate relief spreading through my overheated body, the persistent ache in my abdomen subsiding to a manageable level. The dampness between my thighs doesn't disappear, but becomes less distracting.

"Thank you," I breathe, cradling the cup like it holds liquid gold. "That's... that's much better."

She nods, preparing a cup for herself. "Temporary solution only. But it allows for clear thinking, which you'll need."

"You know what I am," I say, not bothering to elaborate. She clearly sees through my glamour, though I don't understand how.

"A deceiver," she says simply. "Wearing another's face to save her from sacrifice. Bold. Foolish, perhaps, but bold."

"It was necessary," I reply, refusing to apologize. "My friend is dying already. She wouldn't have survived the Hunt."

"So you take her place." She studies me over the rim of her cup. "Does she know what you've done?"

"No." The guilt of that deception weighs heavily inside me. Maybe I should've told Willow—but no doubt she would've stopped me if I had. "There wasn't time to explain."

The Survivor makes a noncommittal sound. "The Hunt isn't what you think it is," she says after a moment. "What any of the village omegas think it is. It wasn't always a breeding program for the courts."

"What was it, then?" I ask, curios despite myself.

"An ancient ritual honoring the balance between pursuit and evasion, power and surrender." Her voice takes on a rhythmic quality, as if reciting something memorized long ago. "The first Hunt was a willing sacrifice—omegas who chose to run, alphas who chose to pursue. Both transformed by the experience, both honored for their role."

I try to reconcile this with the brutal reality I've witnessed. "That's not what happens now."

"No." Bitterness edges her voice. "The courts corrupted it centuries ago, turning the sacred balance into a political competition. The alphas hunt not to honor ancient magic but to strengthen bloodlines, to produce heirs with specific traits."

"How do you know all this?" I ask, surprised by her knowledge of fae politics.

"I've lived in both worlds." She sips her tea, eyes momentarily distant with memory. "Claimed twice, bore children to two different courts. Escaped when they thought me too old to matter anymore."

She studies me with a shrewd gaze, attention lingering on the frost patterns visible beneath my sleeve. "Your bracelet's responding unusually. I've never seen that pattern before, though I’ve seen others like it.”

I glance down at the silver band, at the ice blue lines and whorls spreading from it. "Is that bad?"

"Different doesn't always mean bad." She reaches across and touches the icy whorls on my wrist with weathered fingers. "Though it does mean you've caught someone's particular attention. The Winter Court, I'd wager, given the frost."

The certainty in her voice unnerves me. "How can you tell?"

"Court magic leaves distinct signatures. Winter Court alphas mark with frost, Summer with heat, Autumn with patterns like fallen leaves, Spring with new growth." She withdraws her hand. “They’re called cillae, though most have forgotten the old word outside the fae courts.”

“Cillae.” I taste it in my mouth and shiver. “I didn’t know magic could mark someone like that. I’m… not an expert. This is my first magic spell, and I'm not sure how well I did it.”

She studies me. “The glamour you've cast—it's good work, but such spells always have limitations. You should know that certain fae can see through them."

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cillae. "Which fae?"

"Those with ancient bloodlines. Those with particular interest in the one being disguised." Her gaze is knowing, uncomfortably perceptive. "Has the Winter Prince crossed your path yet?"

The memory of ice-blue eyes watching me at the Gathering Circle sends an unwanted shiver through me—not entirely from fear. "How did you know about him?"

"The forest talks. And Prince Cadeyrn hunting alone, breaking centuries of tradition? That's the kind of news that travels fast, even to those who live apart from court politics."

Another wave of heat rolls through me at the mention of his name, more intense than before. The Survivor's tea is already wearing off, my body's desires reasserting themselves with vengeance. My skin flushes, nipples tightening painfully against the rough fabric of my shift. Between my thighs, the gathering moisture makes sitting still increasingly uncomfortable.

The Survivor notices my discomfort with the matter-of-fact awareness of someone who's experienced it herself. "Your body betrays you," she says, not unkindly. "It's the way of things during the Hunt. The crimson moon enhances the existing heat."

"I hate it," I mutter, shifting on the bench. "I'm not just some... some animal driven by instinct."

"No," she agrees. "But you can't separate yourself from your body, or your biology. Accepting what's happening to you isn't the same as surrendering to it."

She rises, moving to a small chest tucked beneath a shelf. She takes out a worn piece of hide, unfolding it carefully on the table between us. A map, hand-drawn in inks of various colors, showing the Bloodmoon Forest in greater detail than I thought possible.

"Secret paths," she explains, tracing lines that seem to shimmer in the cottage's dim light. "Routes that traditional tracking magic cannot penetrate. The courts don't know them—or if they ever did, they've forgotten by now."

I study the map intently, memorizing key features. A ring of white stones that offers temporary sanctuary. A cave system beneath a waterfall. A clearing where the trees form a perfect circle.

"Why help me?" I ask as she refolds the map.

"Because kindness is rare during the Hunt, and so are survivors. Because I don't want to be the only one who escapes. Because the trees have been whispering to me about you." She presses the map into my hands. "Take this. Use it well."

Before I can respond, she moves to a shelf of small bottles, selecting one after careful consideration. The vial she finally chooses contains liquid that shifts between silver and blue.

"Take this as well," she says, pressing it into my palm. "Not to prevent claiming—that's something almost none of us can avoid—but to ensure you survive what follows, should claiming occur."

The glass feels cool against my overheated skin. "What is it?"

"Protection," she answers simply. "When the time comes—after your first claiming—drink it all. It will help shield your body from the worst effects of the knot and the bite."

I tuck the vial into my innermost pocket, against my frantically beating heart. "Thank you."

A shadow passes over her face. "Don't thank me yet. The Hunt becomes more dangerous with each passing day. Alphas grow more desperate, their ruts intensify, the forest itself responds to the building magic."

Another wave of heat hits me, this one strong enough to make me gasp. Vivid images flood my mind—being held down, claimed, filled. My body clenches around emptiness, desperate for relief I refuse to acknowledge wanting. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, using the pain to ground myself in the present.

"Gods," I whisper, mortified by my body's response.

"It will get worse before it gets better," the Survivor says with the calm certainty of experience. "The herbs help, but only temporarily. Eventually you'll need to make difficult choices."

"I don't plan to be claimed at all," I insist, though my body screams otherwise.

Her lips curve in a knowing smile. "Plans have a way of changing during the Hunt."

She stands, signaling our conversation has reached its end. "Rest here until dawn. The forest grows more dangerous by the hour, and night travel is suicide this deep into the Hunt."

I want to protest, to continue asking the dozens of questions swirling in my mind, but exhaustion suddenly washes over me. Whether from the tea or the release of tension after days of hypervigilance, my body demands rest.

The Survivor gestures to a small pallet in the corner. "Sleep. I'll wake you when it's safe to continue."

Dreams come in waves of heat and need. I'm running through endless forest, pursued by something I can't see but desperately want to. My body burns from within, skin hypersensitive to every brush of the forest’s leaves against me. The silver bracelet pulses on my skin, cillae spreading towards my shoulders like delicate lace.

In the dream, I stop running. Turn. Wait.

A figure emerges from shadow, tall and powerful and beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. Ice-blue eyes meet mine, hungry and possessive. Prince Cadeyrn approaches slowly, each step deliberate, giving me time to run if I choose.

I don't. Can't. Won't.

His hand, when it touches my face, is surprisingly warm. "Little deceiver," he whispers, voice like velvet over stone. "Stop running from what you want."

I wake with a gasp, body trembling on the edge of an orgasm that never comes. Dampness coats my thighs, and every nerve ending screams for touch, for completion, for something to fill the aching emptiness within. I curl into myself, mortified by my body's betrayal and the lingering desire for a fae alpha I shouldn't want.

Sunrise paints the cottage in shades of blood and gold. The Survivor moves silently around the small space, packing items into a worn leather pouch.

"You dreamed," she observes without looking at me. Not a question.

"Yes." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, rough with need and embarrassment.

"It happens during heat. The body speaks when the mind sleeps." She hands me the pouch. "Herbs, bandages, firestarter. A few meals of bread and cheese. Basics for survival."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it deeply despite my lingering wariness. "For everything."

She nods once, then moves toward the door. "The Hunt changes after the first week. Be vigilant."

I follow her outside, where early morning sunlight casts golden beams between the trees. My body has cooled somewhat after the dream, leaving me functional if still uncomfortably aware of every sensation. She points to a faint path barely visible in the misty morning glow.

"Follow that until you reach an oak tree struck by lightning. North from there to the caves." Her weathered hand touches my arm briefly. "Trust your instincts, even when they frighten you. They've kept our kind alive through generations of Hunts."

With those words, she turns back toward her cottage. The structure seems to absorb her as she passes through its doorway, tree and dwelling becoming one continuous entity in the gathering darkness.

I face the path she indicated, squaring my shoulders against the weight of biology and circumstance. The vial of shifting silver-blue liquid rests against my heart, tucked safely inside my innermost pocket. The map showing secret ways through the forest is secured in my boot.

Knowledge is its own form of power, even against beings as ancient and magical as the fae. I may be hunted, but I am not helpless.

The forest whispers around me as I take the first steps on my northern path, silver leaves rustling conversations just beyond human understanding. Overhead, the crimson moon is now visible even in the morning sky, bathing the world in light the color of fresh blood.

Seven days down. Fourteen more to survive.

Though judging by the way my body responds to even the thought of ice-blue eyes and winter frost, survival might not be my only concern anymore.