Page 14

CHAPTER 14

POV: Briar

Dawn breaks through the forest canopy in fractured beams, turning the mist into veils of gold that would be beautiful if they weren't illuminating a nightmare.

I stand frozen at the forest's edge, unable to look away from the grotesque display before me. Lord Klairs Thorn—the name whispered with fear by omegas at the haven—hangs suspended from branches woven together like a macabre cradle. His bronzed Summer Court skin has dulled to the color of tarnished metal, magic seeping away in death. His throat has been torn out with such violence that his head is barely attached, held only by a few strands of spine and sinew.

This is no quick kill. The arrangement is deliberate, artful in its savagery. The alpha's body has been positioned to create a territorial boundary marker, his arms extended outward like a gruesome signpost. His own blood—still glistening wet in the morning light—has been used to paint warning symbols on surrounding trees. Symbols I can't read but whose meaning is unmistakable: Mine. My territory. My prey. Trespass and die.

I press a hand over my mouth, fighting a wave of nausea. The smell is overwhelming—death and magic and something else, something cold and sharp like winter wind. The stench of violent death cuts through everything.

"Cadeyrn," I whisper, and even saying his name aloud sends an unwelcome shiver through my overheated body.

The Winter Prince has escalated his hunt. The first dead alpha I found was a message. This is a declaration of war.

I study the scene from a safe distance, noting details I wish I could ignore. Despite the brutality of the killing, there's a terrible precision to it. The branches don't just hold the body; they've been deliberately woven through flesh, the pattern complex and intentional. The blood symbols follow a progression around the clearing, each one building on the last to create a complete message. This isn't mindless rage. It's calculated intimidation, the work of a mind both ancient and coldly rational even in the grip of rut.

My stomach turns again, but something darker and more primal stirs beneath the horror—a shameful flicker of satisfaction that this Summer Court alpha, notorious for his cruelty to claimed omegas, has met such an end. That someone considered me—or at least the omega he believes me to be—worth such a violent defense.

What kind of person does that make me? What kind of monster am I becoming in this forest?

I back away from the clearing, unwilling to linger near such deliberate carnage. My heat symptoms flare again as I move, a persistent ache low in my belly and sweat breaking out across my skin despite the morning chill. The crimson moon may have set, the sky bright enough to chase its light away, but its influence remains, simmering within me, waiting for night to fall once more.

The path I'd planned to take leads directly through what is now clearly marked as the Winter Prince's exclusive territory. I need a new route, perhaps circling east toward the havens.

Only when I try to move in that direction, the forest itself seems to resist me. Thickets that appeared passable suddenly reveal themselves to be impenetrable walls of thorn. Vines snake across the ground, tangling around my ankles when I try to push through. Even the ground betrays me, turning soft and unstable under my feet, nearly swallowing my boots with each step.

"Fine," I mutter, turning north instead. “Have it your way.”

Here, the forest opens before me like a welcoming embrace. Branches lift away from my path. Undergrowth parts to reveal clear passages. Even the morning mist thins, allowing me to see farther ahead.

The realization sends ice through my veins: the forest is herding me. Like a shepherd guiding a lost sheep, or—more accurately—like a hunter driving prey toward a trap.

I stop, heart hammering against my ribs. "I see what you're doing," I say aloud to the trees. "I'm not going that way."

I try to turn east again, only to find my path blocked by a fallen tree that I could swear wasn't there moments ago. When I attempt to climb over it, the bark crumbles beneath my hands, sending me sprawling backward onto the forest floor.

Breathing hard, I try west instead. Three steps in that direction and a swarm of insects rises from nowhere, their aggressive buzzing forcing me back to the northward path.

"Dammit!" I snarl, kicking at a nearby trunk in frustration. The tree shivers in response, sending a shower of dew down upon my head. If trees could laugh, I'd swear this one was mocking me.

The forest wants me to go north. Toward Winter Court territories. Toward Cadeyrn.

Is the forest allied with him somehow? Is that why it's been helping me evade other alphas while simultaneously guiding me toward him? The thought is so absurd I almost laugh, but after days in the Bloodmoon Forest, I've learned not to dismiss even the strangest possibilities.

With little choice, I follow the path of least resistance, moving northward while looking for any opportunity to veer from my forest-imposed course. The terrain rises gradually, the blackthorn trees giving way to taller, older growth with pale bark that flakes away like curls of parchment. The air carries a hint of coolness that offers momentary relief to my fevered skin.

I walk for hours, conserving water and the last of The Survivor's herbs. My symptoms have settled into a constant, manageable burn—uncomfortable but not incapacitating. The silver bracelet continues to tingle against my wrist, the cillae now completely covering my left arm from fingertips to shoulder. Whatever magic the Winter Prince worked through it, it's spreading with every passing hour.

Near midday, a flash of white through the trees catches my attention—movement too rapid and erratic to be animal. I drop instantly into a crouch, hiding behind a broad trunk as I scan the underbrush.

The flash appears again, accompanied this time by the sound of panicked breathing. Someone is crashing through the forest with no attempt at stealth, driven by blind fear.

An omega. From the glimpse of dark curls, I recognize her immediately—Mira, the youngest tribute at seventeen. I'd met her at the Gathering Circle and again during our last night of freedom in the tent. She was just a child, really, flower petals woven into her hair by siblings too young to understand what the ceremony meant.

"Mira!" I call out, keeping my voice low but clear enough to carry.

She staggers to a halt, whirling toward my voice with terror in her eyes. Recognition dawns slowly, her panic receding slightly as she spots me through the trees.

"Willow?" she gasps, using the name I've been wearing since the Hunt began.

I emerge from my hiding place, hands raised to show I'm no threat, though we both know the real threats in this forest are male and fae. My scent—heightened by exertion—makes her eyes widen as she approaches. She must smell my heat; omega senses sharpen dramatically during the Hunt.

"You're in heat," she says, keeping a cautious distance. Smart girl.

"Managing it," I reply with a grimace. "What happened? Why are you running so carelessly?"

Her white tribute dress hangs in tatters from her thin frame. Scratches mark her arms and face where branches have whipped against her skin during her headlong flight.

"The Huntsman," she whispers, the name alone enough to renew her trembling. "He almost caught me. He was so close I could smell him. Like flowers, but wrong somehow. Sweet but... rotting."

I know of The Huntsman from stories and from conversations at the haven—a Spring Court alpha who lures omegas with false gentleness before revealing his true brutality. That he's hunting in this part of the forest, so close to Winter territory, speaks to his boldness—or desperation.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, scanning her for serious injuries.

She shakes her head. "Just scared. So scared. I've been running for hours."

"You can't keep crashing through the forest like that. You're leaving a trail a blind alpha could follow." I glance around, assessing our surroundings. My plan to lead as many omegas as possible to safety feels suddenly more urgent with Mira's terrified face before me. "We need to hide you, now. Then figure out how to get you to a haven."

The nearest haven, according to the Survivor’s map, lies southeast, perhaps three hours' journey at a careful pace. It's marked by stones arranged in a circle—I'd memorized all the haven markers so I don’t even have to take the map out to find them.

A hollow log lies nearby, partially concealed by ferns and large enough to shelter her small frame. I guide her toward it, helping her crawl inside. Being this close to another person, even another omega, makes my skin hypersensitive, fever-hot.

"Stay absolutely still," I instruct, covering the entrance with fallen branches and leaves. "I'm going to create a false trail leading away from here."

She grabs my hand, eyes huge with fear. "Don't leave me," she pleads.

"I'll be right back," I promise, gently extracting myself from her grip. "Count to one hundred. Slowly."

I move quickly, creating an obvious trail heading east—broken branches, disturbed leaf litter, even a scrap torn from my own sleeve caught on a thorn bush. The deception complete, I return to find Mira counting in a whisper, her voice trembling on "seventy-eight, seventy-nine..."

"Good job," I say, crouching to peer into her hiding place. "Now we wait until we're sure it's safe, then we'll move toward the haven."

We fall silent, listening to the forest around us. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, my muscles cramping from staying in the same position for so long. My heat symptoms make staying still a special kind of torture—my body alternately flushing hot and then shivering, the need to move, to seek relief becoming almost overwhelming.

Mira's breathing has steadied, though her eyes remain wide and watchful through the gaps in the branches covering her sanctuary. She watches me with growing concern as I shift uncomfortably, trying to ease the constant ache that pulses through my core.

"Your heat looks bad," she whispers. "Worse than the others I've seen."

"First time," I reply through gritted teeth. "Been suppressing it for years."

Her eyes widen further. "Years? How?—"

I shake my head, unwilling to explain about Fergus's help, the iron tokens, the herbs. That would reveal too much about my true identity.

I'm just beginning to think we might be safe when the air changes, carrying a new scent—musk and amber and something metallic that raises the hair on my arms. An alpha. Close.

Not The Huntsman with his sickly-sweet aroma, but someone equally dangerous. I breathe shallowly through my mouth, trying to identify the threat without taking in too much of the scent. Recognition hits me like a physical blow.

The Collector. A Summer Court alpha known for keeping trophies from claimed omegas—hair, personal tokens, even small bones arranged in disturbing shrines. I heard whispers about him from other omegas at the haven, saw the fear in their eyes when his name was mentioned.

He's approaching from the west, his movements methodical and unhurried. He knows there's prey nearby and feels no need to rush. The calm confidence in his pace is more terrifying than any frantic pursuit.

Mira has sensed him too. Her eyes meet mine, panic rising once more. I press a finger to my lips, then point southeast, toward the haven. She needs to run, now, while his attention is somewhere else.

I lean close to her hiding place, my lips nearly touching the branches as I whisper: "When I say go, head straight for the lightning-struck oak we passed. Beyond it, follow the stream southeast. The haven is marked by stones arranged in a circle. Don't stop for anything."

She nods, trembling but determined.

"I'll draw him away," I continue. "No matter what you hear, don't look back."

The alpha's scent grows stronger, his footsteps audible now as he stalks through the underbrush. I need to move, to become the more tempting target.

My plan from the beginning was to draw alphas away from weaker omegas, to use my strength and knowledge to give others a chance at reaching havens safely. But now, with my heat intensifying by the hour, the risk has grown exponentially. My scent alone will draw The Collector like a beacon, making me the perfect distraction—and the perfect target.

A wave of dizzying heat washes through me, making my vision blur momentarily. Not now. Please, not now. I force myself to focus, to push through the symptoms that threaten to overwhelm my rational mind.

"Go," I whisper, and Mira slips from her hiding place, crouching low as she scurries toward the path I've given her.

In the same moment, I stand and deliberately snap a branch beneath my boot, then take off running in the opposite direction. The sound works—I hear The Collector change course, his pursuit now fixed on me rather than Mira.

I run recklessly, making enough noise to hold his attention. I use every trick Fergus taught me to keep distance between us. My heat symptoms flare with the exertion, a fresh wave of warmth flooding through me as my pulse quickens. The silver bracelet seems to respond to my elevated heart rate, cillae pulsing with blue light that seeps through the fabric of my sleeve.

The Collector's pursuit is relentless and controlled. He doesn't rush, doesn't expend unnecessary energy. His confidence is that of a predator who knows his prey has limited options. He's right, in a way—the forest continues to restrict my movement, blocking certain paths while leaving others wide open.

I find myself being herded again, this time northwest. Away from where Mira fled, which serves my immediate purpose, but also deeper into territory I'm increasingly certain belongs to the Winter Prince.

A ravine appears ahead, its steep sides slick with moss. At its bottom, a stream rushes over smooth stones, the water clear and cold even from this distance.

I skid to a halt at the edge, then glance back to see The Collector emerging from the trees behind me. In the daylight, I get my first clear look at him—imposingly large, skin perpetually sun-bronzed, amber eyes containing flecks of actual gold. Elaborate tattoos cover his massive arms, pictographs that I realize with horror must catalog each successful claiming.

There's no time to count how many omegas he's taken. His nostrils flare as he scents the air, a smile spreading across his face as he registers my heat.

"Little flower," he says, his voice surprisingly melodious for someone so physically intimidating. "You've led me on quite the chase."

I back up until my heels touch the ravine's edge, stones crumbling beneath my boots to fall into the rushing water below. With a sense of betrayal, I realize that the forest has led me to a literal dead end, trapped between The Collector and a dangerous drop.

"Your scent is... unusual," he continues, taking a step closer. "Different from what I expected when I observed you at the Gathering Circle. More complex. More... valuable."

Damned my impossibly strong heat. I press my advantage, faking confidence. "Valuable enough that the Winter Prince has already claimed this territory—and me with it. Look around you. See the warnings."

The Collector pauses, his gaze flickering to the trees where, yes, blood symbols mark boundaries I hadn't noticed in my flight. We've crossed into Cadeyrn's explicitly marked hunting ground.

"The Winter Prince has never entered rut," he says, though uncertainty has crept into his voice. "His interest in the Hunt is academic onlyl."

"Things change," I reply, taking a calculated risk. "He's hunting alone this cycle. Breaking tradition. Haven't you wondered why?"

The Collector's expression darkens. "Winter Court politics don't concern me. What concerns me is completing my collection." His gaze fixes on my hair, visible beneath the hood of my cloak. "Platinum strands from a claimed omega will make a fine addition."

He steps forward again, and I realize I've fucked up. The warnings won't deter him—his obsession is far too strong. I have seconds, not minutes, before he's going to be on me.

My heat symptoms choose this moment to surge again, a wave of dizzying need that nearly brings me to my knees. My inner thighs are damp with evidence of my body's treacherous response to alpha proximity, the omega in me recognizing a potential mate despite my mind's vehement rejection. The scent must be overwhelming to him now, drawing him forward like a shark scenting blood.

The ravine behind me is steep but not impossible. The water below might break my fall enough that I can swim away. And if the alternative is dying with The Collector’s knot inside me…

Without any hesitation, I turn and leap, plunging toward the rushing stream below.

Cold water shocks my overheated system as I crash into the stream, going completely under before struggling back to the surface. The current is strong, violently sweeping me downstream. I hear The Collector shout in frustration, but I'm already being carried around a bend in the ravine, out of his sight.

I fight to keep my head above water, gasping for breath as the stream carries me further into Winter Court territory. The cold should be uncomfortable, even dangerous given my drenched state, but the silver bracelet pulses with warmth that spreads through my entire left side, protecting me somehow.

Eventually, the stream widens and slows enough for me to drag myself onto a pebbly bank. I collapse there, my clothes plastered to my skin. The cold water has temporarily dampened my heat symptoms, a small mercy.

As my breathing steadies, I take stock of my surroundings. The ravine has opened into a small valley, the trees taller here, their silver leaves larger and more lustrous. The air carries a distinct chill despite the summer season, a hint of the Winter Court's influence.

I've helped Mira toward safety, escaped The Collector, and survived another day of the Hunt. In the same action, I've been driven deeper into the Winter Prince's territory, exactly where the forest seems determined I should go.

Is this part of some greater pattern? Am I being manipulated by forces beyond my understanding, guided toward a connection I've been fighting to avoid?

One thing is becoming increasingly clear: in the Bloodmoon Forest, during the crimson moon's reign, there's no such thing as coincidence. Every path, every encounter, every escape feels orchestrated by something larger than human or fae design.

I push myself to my feet, wringing water from my clothes and hair. Damn fate, and damn forest magic. I still have choices. I still have strength. I still have thirteen days to survive before the Hunt is over.

And if my path crosses with the Winter Prince's, then I'll face him on my terms—not as prey driven into a trap.

The cillae pulse once along my arm, as if in response to my determination. Challenge accepted.