Page 33
Story: Run Little Omega
CHAPTER 33
POV: Briar
The forest beyond the haven's boundaries turns hostile, as though the land itself recoils from what lies ahead. Massive blackthorns that provided sanctuary now observe our departure with silent condemnation, aware of what waits beyond their protection.
The Survivor navigates the underbrush with unnatural precision, her aging frame belying decades of experience evading court hunters. I follow close behind, the iron pendant growing heavier against my sternum with each step from safety.
"What exactly are we seeking?" I ask as we descend a steep slope where ancient trees surrender to stunted, sickly growth. The vegetation here looks corrupted—pale and twisted, as though something has poisoned it from the roots.
"Not seeking," the Survivor corrects without turning. "Witnessing."
Her cryptic answer fails to quell the dread coiling in my gut. I trace the silver-blue markings across my collarbone to where they vanish beneath my threadbare tunic. They throb in rhythm with my pulse, a constant reminder of my connection to a man whose signature authorized atrocities I'm only beginning to comprehend.
As we press forward, the air thickens—becoming dense with a sickly-sweet odor reminiscent of the time a deer contaminated Thornwick's water supply during summer drought. But something else taints this decay—something chemical and wrong that sears my throat with each breath.
"Cover your mouth and nose," the Survivor instructs, pulling cloth across her lower face. "The air here isn't safe for direct breathing."
I use my sleeve as makeshift protection, but the stench penetrates regardless—a miasma of rot and something my instincts identify as fundamentally unnatural.
"What is this place?" My voice muffles through the fabric.
"The Vale of Culling." The words land like stones between us, weighted with grim significance. "Where the courts dispose of what they've deemed unnecessary."
We crest a small ridge, and the valley beyond unfolds beneath us, bathed in afternoon's silver light. My mind struggles to process the sight—hundreds, perhaps thousands of small mounds arranged in rough rows stretching to the basin's far edge. Some are ancient, covered in sickly vegetation, while others appear freshly turned, the earth dark and disturbed.
Understanding crashes through me like physical impact. "These are graves."
The Survivor's eyes—now the color of oxidized blood—fix on mine. "Yes. Seven Hunt cycles of omegas deemed unworthy of continued breeding."
My legs tremble as I descend toward the first row of mounds. Each step feels like wading through nightmare, my body simultaneously desperate to flee and morbidly compelled forward.
The nearest graves are from the most recent Hunt, earth still dark and unsettled. Small markers of twisted wood stand at each head, bearing not names but numbers and court insignias carved into their surface.
"They didn't even record who they were," I whisper, rage crystallizing beneath horror.
"They were never people to the courts," the Survivor replies, voice flattened. "Only vessels."
I kneel beside one grave, noticing strange blue-black flowers emerging from the freshly turned soil. Their petals are translucent, revealing veins that pulse with faint luminescence, almost like a heartbeat. Unconsciously, I reach toward one.
"Don't touch those!" The Survivor's warning cuts sharp and urgent. "Death blooms. They grow only where fae blood has saturated tainted ground."
I withdraw instantly. "Fae blood? But these are omega graves."
"Look closer." She gestures at the mounds.
I force myself to study their dimensions. They're wrongly proportioned—too wide in the middle, too narrow at the ends, forming unnatural shapes that suddenly make horrific sense.
"They bury them still swollen with child," I whisper, bile rising.
"The pregnant ones, yes." The Survivor's voice holds calculated detachment, as if distancing herself from horrors witnessed too many times. "The courts consider failed omegas waste, though not entirely without use."
"But..." My mind strains against the implication. "If they were pregnant, what happens to the children?"
"Fae young develop rapidly after claiming. They survive for days, sometimes weeks, without the mother." Her words fall like execution blows. "Still growing in her cooling womb."
Understanding strikes with such force that I double over, retching into the poisoned soil. The death blooms. The pulsing light in their veins. The mounds bulging in the middle.
"They bury them alive," I choke out. "The infants. They bury them alive."
The Survivor neither confirms nor denies, but her silence answers completely. I struggle upright, rage and revulsion surging through me, ice spreading from my fingertips to crystallize the ground beneath.
"Why?" I manage through constricted throat. "Why not kill the infants cleanly if they're unwanted?"
"Because they retain value." The Survivor leads me toward a narrow stream cutting through the valley's center, its waters murky and faintly luminescent in the waning light. "Their prolonged death releases magical components the courts harvest."
I stare at the contaminated water, its surface slick with magical residue that shifts with unnatural movement. "What do you mean, 'harvest'?"
"This water carries magic released by dying fae young to collection points downstream. The courts use these components in various rituals, potions, enchantments. Particularly potent ingredients unattainable any other way."
Horror builds like physical pressure behind my ribs. "Where does this stream flow?"
"It joins the Thornwick River approximately five miles south." Her words fall like a final condemnation.
The realization staggers me. "The wasting sickness... it comes from this? From drinking water contaminated by..." The truth is too monstrous to articulate.
"Magic released by dying fae infants poisons humans with latent sensitivity." The Survivor's voice softens slightly. "Your mother. Your friend Willow. Anyone with even trace fae heritage or magical potential sickens first."
My mother's face materializes in memory—her slow, agonizing decline when I was twelve, her body consuming itself from within. And Willow, my gentle friend who even now lies in her Thornwick bed, skin turning translucent, life ebbing daily.
All from water tainted by murdered fae children—children whose deaths were authorized by the same man who has claimed me repeatedly, whose seed might even now be taking root inside me.
I examine my hands, ice forming between my fingers. The silver-blue markings no longer appear beautiful but monstrous—binding me to centuries of calculated atrocity, to a man who signed death warrants for countless infants without hesitation.
"Why show me this now?" My voice sounds foreign, hollow.
"Because you must decide who you are," the Survivor says. "And who he is to you. Is he the alpha whose touch awakens magic in your blood? Or the prince who authorized countless murders of omegas and their children? Can he be both? Can you bond with someone capable of such deliberate cruelty?"
My hand moves unconsciously to my abdomen. We've coupled repeatedly throughout my heat, his body locking with mine each time, filling me with his seed. If I conceive, would our child meet court standards? Or would Cadeyrn sign the order for our execution if the infant displayed unpredictable magic?
"He doesn't know," I say, though even to my ears it sounds desperate. "He can't understand the full extent of this."
The Survivor's expression softens marginally. "He has signed those orders for seven centuries, girl. Whether he witnessed the executions personally or not, he authorized them. Every mound in the Winter Court section bears his signature on its death warrant."
I move forward as if pulled by invisible force, following the corrupted stream to where graves bear the Winter Court insignia—the stylized snowflake etched into Cadeyrn's formal regalia. These mounds are oldest, most numerous, stretching back further than any other court's section.
A cold fury builds within me, ice forming on my fingertips as my awakening magic responds to emotion. Frost crystals spread across the tainted stream's surface wherever my hand passes, imprisoning the unnatural oils in grotesque patterns.
"This ends," I whisper, my breath materializing as visible frost despite the warm afternoon. "Whatever the cost, this ends now."
"What will you do?" The Survivor watches intently.
I survey once more the field of unmarked graves, the poisoned stream carrying death to my village, the evidence of centuries of methodical murder linking directly to the man who has claimed me as his.
Ice spirals up my forearms, no longer following the elegant patterns of our claiming bond but forming sharp, angular edges like weaponry. The pendant against my chest grows cold, responding to my fury rather than shielding me from surrounding corruption.
"I'll make him witness what he's done," I state, voice steady despite the storm raging within. "Then force his choice—between his precious court traditions and what our bond could become."
We retrace our path in silence, my mind cataloging every horror, cementing every detail into memory that no claiming bond can erase. By the time we reach the central haven, my rage has transformed into something cold and lethal, like the ice now forming beneath each footfall.
The Survivor pauses at the haven's boundary. "Remember, he may not have wielded the blade, but his signature authorized every cut."
I nod, the markings on my skin pulsing with contained fury. "I won't forget."
I enter the haven alone and wait at its center, surrounded by white stones concealing the hidden archive. Ice spreads with each breath, coating the ground in angular formations that mirror the jagged patterns now covering my skin rather than the flowing spirals of our claiming bond.
When Cadeyrn returns, game slung across his shoulder, he halts abruptly. His expression shifts from satisfaction to confusion to wariness as he registers the ice, the rage, the accusation in my stance.
"Briar?" He sets down his kill and approaches cautiously. "What's happened?"
I meet his gaze directly, letting him see the full force of my fury, letting him feel through our bond the horror and betrayal coursing through me.
"Tell me about the cullings, Prince Cadeyrn," I demand, frost emanating from my body in waves that make the air between us shimmer. "Tell me about the infants buried alive in the Vale."
All color drains from his face, and for the first time since I've known him, the Winter Prince looks afraid—not of me, but of the truth I've unearthed. Of the choice now confronting him.
And perhaps, most of all, of the judgment in my eyes where once had grown fragile trust.
Table of Contents
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