Page 26
Story: Run Little Omega
CHAPTER 26
POV: Briar
"Perfect," they whisper in unison, “the real fun begins.”
As their hands tighten around my arms, the cillae branded across my skin pulse violently. The temperature drops, ice crystals forming in the air. The brothers' breath clouds, but they only seem more excited—the fact that Cadeyrn is nearby appears to thrill them. At least, Cadeyrn must be nearby, if the air is freezing.
Then, unexpectedly, music shatters the tension.
Lira stands at the clearing's edge, her bone flute pressed to bloodied lips. The melody she plays isn't beautiful—it's jarring, discordant, notes grinding against each other, making my teeth vibrate and skin crawl.
The effect on the Raveling Brothers is immediate. They release me, hands flying to their ears as identical expressions of agony contort their perfect features.
"What is that sound?" Prynn snarls.
"Disruption magic," Blaim gasps. "She's severing our synchronicity?—"
I seize the opportunity without hesitation, grabbing Lira's arm as I dash past her toward the densest part of the forest. Behind us, the brother’s curses echo as they struggle against the disruption magic of her flute.
"Keep moving," I urge as we plunge through the undergrowth. Through the claiming bond, Cadeyrn's rage resonates beneath my skin—cold fury and possessive violence promising retribution for the brothers' transgression.
"The haven," Lira manages between labored breaths, tucking her flute into her belt as she runs. "Northeast. Two miles."
My lungs burn with each breath, legs trembling from exertion, but slowing down isn't an option. The bite marks scoring Lira's neck and shoulders weep fresh blood, visceral evidence of what she endured at the brothers' hands. The way they traded her between them, tearing her from one knot to another as though she was nothing but a vessel for their pleasure...
Focus, Briar. Survival first. Horror later.
The cillae across my skin flare with warning and promise. I sense Cadeyrn engaging the brothers—winter magic colliding with autumn power like opposing storm fronts. But whatever occurs in that clearing can't concern me now. Lira's safety takes precedence.
When the haven materializes through the dense trees, I nearly fall to my knees in relief. White-barked trunks form a perfect circle around a clearing bathed in sunlight. The protective barrier shimmers faintly, like heat rising from sun-warmed metal.
I guide Lira through the shimmering threshold, ancient magic washing over us like cool water. The sensation of pressure lifting drops me to my knees, and Lira collapses beside me, her thin frame wracked with silent sobs.
“You're safe here," I tell her, knowing it's only a temporary truth. The havens shield omegas for twelve hours at most—just enough to recover from claiming before the Hunt continues.
Inside the protected circle, several omegas have gathered. Flora stands out immediately, her platinum hair loose around her shoulders as she methodically sorts herbs. Her violet eyes lift at our arrival, widening at Lira's injuries.
"The Raveling Brothers," she states. Not a question.
I nod, helping Lira to a soft patch of moss near the small fire. "They were trading her between them. Passing her back and forth like she was..." My voice catches as the horror of what I witnessed crashes through me.
"I know their methods," Flora says quietly, reaching for a clay pot of salve. “I’ve already endured it twice. The synchronized claiming." Her hands remain gentle as she tends to Lira's wounds. “That face you’re wearing is new, though you have the same scent and bear the Winter Prince’s mark. Your name isn’t Willow, is it?”
“It’s Briar,” I admit guiltily, hating that I’ve deceived them. “I used a glamour spell to change my appearance so I could take her place.”
Flora simply says, “Fool,” and I can’t disagree with her.
Around the clearing, other omegas watch us with varied expressions—sympathy, resignation, and that terrible relief born from knowing someone else suffered worse than you did. I recognize several faces: Nessa, the farm girl, now with claiming marks visible above her collar; Ivy, who sits with knees drawn to her chest, gaze vacant; Wren, the middle-aged midwife, whose experience shows in her resigned expression.
And at the group's edge, nearly hidden in shadow, is Mira—the seventeen-year-old who seemed too fragile to survive even the first day. But here she is, alive at least.
"More have arrived since I was last here," I observe, sinking onto a flat stone. The weight of our collective suffering settles around my shoulders like a mantle too heavy to bear.
Flora's hands pause. "And more have been lost." Her violet eyes hold a new sorrow as she looks up. "Rose disappeared—the Collector took her. And Marrow was culled when her Winter Court alpha discovered she was too old to bear viable offspring."
I nod grimly. The brutal mathematics of the Hunt are unavoidable—each day reducing our numbers, separating "valuable" breeding stock from those judged expendable.
Across the clearing, two omegas lie curled on their sides, faces contorted as blood seeps through makeshift cloths pressed between their thighs. The miscarriages—another harsh reality of the Hunt's biology. They'd been claimed by lesser alphas, then reclaimed by stronger ones whose seed triggered a rejection of the first embryos.
I think of Cadeyrn, his possessive rage at the thought of another alpha touching me, and wonder if it's not just territoriality but biology. He ensures no lesser alpha's offspring can take root where he's planted his claim.
As daylight wanes, more omegas seek the shelter of a haven—all claimed, all carrying at least one alpha's seed, many bearing wounds that go far further than claiming bites. Wren and Flora work tirelessly, applying healing salves and offering comfort where they can.
Marta arrives just before sunset, her hair matted with blood that isn't her own. "The Winter Prince fights Lord Ember Farren," she announces, dropping beside the fire. "Formal combat this time, not an ambush like the others."
My attention snaps to her words. "Where?"
"The ridge overlooking the black valley," she replies, accepting water from Wren. "Territorial dispute. Ember accused him of violating Hunt protocols with his exclusive claim."
The claiming bond flares suddenly, cillae glowing through my torn clothing. I sense a shift in Cadeyrn's emotional state—burning rage cooling into something more calculated. Whatever happened with the Raveling Brothers is over, and he's moved to a new confrontation, just as she said.
"I need to go," I say, rising.
Flora looks up sharply. "The haven's protection lasts twelve hours. You still have time."
"He’s out there fighting because of me," I reply, gathering my meager supplies. "I need to understand what's happening."
No one tries to stop me. They understand, perhaps better than I do, the claiming bond's pull—how separation becomes physically painful. Even those who despise their captors eventually seek them out, drawn by biology more powerful than pride or self-preservation.
I tell myself that's not what drives me. I'm not seeking Cadeyrn from some omega need to be near my alpha. I'm gathering intelligence, understanding the larger game.
Even in my own thoughts, the lie rings hollow.
As I prepare to cross the haven's barrier, Lira catches my hand. Her dark eyes, still haunted but clearer now, meet mine. "Thank you," she whispers, pressing something small and hard into my palm. "For not abandoning me to them."
I look down to find a small knife carved entirely from bone, its handle etched with unfamiliar symbols. "It belonged to my mother," Lira explains. "Made from the thigh bone of a fae who tried to claim her outside the Hunt. It can pierce their magic if you strike true."
Moved by her gift, I secure the bone knife in my belt before stepping through the shimmering barrier into unprotected forest.
The sun hangs low, painting silver leaves with crimson light reminiscent of fresh blood. I move silently through the undergrowth, following the claiming bond's pull that draws me toward the ridge Marta mentioned.
Battle sounds reach me before visuals—the distinctive crack of ice forming, flames rushing through air, and beneath it all, guttural snarls of alphas in territorial combat. I drop low, approaching the ridge's edge cautiously.
The scene below steals my breath.
A perfect circle has been cleared in the valley, half covered in glittering ice, half smoldering with barely contained fire. Surrounding this makeshift arena, trees have been bent into natural barriers, their trunks and branches woven together to create containing walls.
At the center stand two figures—one familiar, one not.
Cadeyrn's transformation continues to shock me. His body, once lean and aristocratic, has expanded with muscle straining against his minimal clothing. Frost covers his skin in elaborate patterns matching those on my own flesh, pulsing with blue-white light that follows his heartbeat. His eyes—once detached and ice-blue—now burn with predatory focus.
Facing him stands a fae who could only be Lord Ember Farren of the Autumn Court. Slender where Cadeyrn is broad, hair the exact shade of burning coals, eyes shifting between gold and amber as the light changes. In rut, his skin has developed a kind of magical glow, brightening with each surge of battle magic.
Unlike Cadeyrn's previous executions, this time he’s fighting more cleanly. They circle each other with deliberate steps, movements full of ancient dominance.
"You’re violating the Hunt's fundamental purpose," Ember's voice carries clearly. "Exclusive claiming undermines the entire breeding program."
"Perhaps the breeding program requires undermining," Cadeyrn responds, his voice permanently altered by days of primal sounds. "Seven centuries of 'careful selection' has produced weaker offspring with each generation. The courts are dying, Ember."
This statement visibly shocks the Autumn Court alpha. "Blasphemy," he hisses, flames gathering at his fingertips. "Court magic represents the pinnacle of fae development."
"Court magic is a prison," Cadeyrn counters, ice crystallizing around his own hands. "It has separated us from our true nature, from the Wild Magic that once flowed freely through all fae bloodlines."
Their powers collide at the circle's center—fire meeting ice in an explosion of steam and light. I shield my eyes, feeling conflicting magics ripple even at this distance.
When my vision clears, Ember kneels, blood trailing from a cut above his eye. Cadeyrn stands over him, frost spreading from his bare feet to encircle the fallen alpha without touching him.
“The Summer Court has allied with the Spring," Ember gasps, clearly recognizing he's outmatched. "They move against you now, gathering forces at the forest’s edge."
"And Autumn Court?" Cadeyrn asks, ice forming around his fist.
"Divided. Some fear what your transformation represents. Others..." Ember's gaze rises to meet Cadeyrn's directly. "Others recognize the truth in your words. Court magic diminishes with each generation. If another path exists..."
"It does." Cadeyrn's voice holds absolute certainty. "I've felt it awakening since claiming her. The Wild Magic responds to our bond, to something in her blood that calls to mine."
For the first time, I realize they discuss me—whatever dormant heritage flows in my veins that triggered Cadeyrn's unprecedented rut.
Ember comprehends the implications faster than I do. "A descendant of the original Wild Hunt," he breathes, awe replacing fear. "After all this time..."
"The courts have spent centuries breeding it out of our bloodlines," Cadeyrn says, voice dropping. "Controlling rut, suppressing instinct, calculating matches based on court aesthetics rather than magical compatibility."
"And now it reawakens." Ember's face fills with excitement. "Through your claiming bond with this omega. That means that if another claims her?—“
His words die unfinished. With movements too swift for my eyes to track, Cadeyrn strikes—an ice blade materializing in his hand and driving through Ember's heart. Unlike previous kills, this one comes swift, merciful, almost respectful.
"You deserved to know why you die," Cadeyrn murmurs as he lowers Ember's body to the ground. "And to understand that you will not be allowed to touch her, no matter how tempting it is.”
I watch, transfixed, as Cadeyrn arranges the body in a peaceful position, then uses his magic to preserve it. Ice flowers bloom around the corpse, a kind of beauty that will outlast the Hunt itself.
When he’s done, Cadeyrn turns toward my hiding place. Though I'm certain he can't see me from this distance, he speaks directly to me.
"I know you're watching," he calls, voice carrying effortlessly across the space. "I feel you through our bond."
I remain motionless, heart pounding against my ribs.
"I won't come for you now," he continues. "There are preparations necessary before moonrise. But tonight, when the crimson moon reaches zenith, I will find you." The promise in his tone sends unbidden heat down my spine. "And we will continue what we've begun."
With that, he disappears into the forest, leaving me alone with Ember Farren's cooling body and the realization that Cadeyrn isn't merely a rutting alpha.
He’s waging a war for our survival against court alliances I barely comprehend. Whatever is developing between us—whatever Wild Magic awakens through our claiming—carries implications beyond the Hunt itself.
And tonight, when the crimson moon rises, we'll confront each other again.
Part of me dreads it.
Most of me burns for it.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
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- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26 (Reading here)
- Page 27
- Page 28
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