Page 38
Story: Run Little Omega
CHAPTER 38
POV: Briar
The forest's protection cradles me like a mother's embrace. I drift between consciousness and darkness, my body fighting to heal itself from the Raveling Brothers' attack. The wound across my back burns with each shallow breath, blood seeping sluggishly into the moss beneath me. I should move. Should find better shelter. Should clean these wounds before infection sets in.
But exhaustion weighs on me like stone, pinning me to this hollow where the ancient oak's roots have shifted to create a natural cradle. The Wild Magic that erupted from me during the fight has left me hollow, drained in ways I never experienced after using the controlled abilities Cadeyrn taught me.
Cadeyrn. The claiming bond stretches between us, thin but intact. Through it, I sense his distant awareness, his concern mingled with resolve to respect my need for distance. Even now, after everything I've learned about him, the connection provides strange comfort—a reminder that I'm not completely alone in this deadly forest.
A sudden stillness jerks me from my half-conscious state. The birds have stopped singing. The insects have fallen silent. Even the perpetual rustling of silver leaves has ceased, as if the forest holds its breath in warning.
Something approaches. Multiple somethings.
I force myself upright, biting back a cry as the movement tears at the wounds across my back. Blood trickles down my spine, warm and wet against my skin. The fox that guided me here is long gone, but I swear I catch a glimpse of russet fur at the edge of my vision, there and gone like a fever dream.
Voices drift through the trees—not the hushed whispers of omegas seeking sanctuary, but the confident tones of alphas who hunt without fear of becoming prey themselves. I press deeper into my shelter, hoping the massive oak's roots and the Wild Magic that seems to flow through them will keep me hidden.
"The scent grows stronger," a voice announces, deep and commanding. "Blood and frost and something else. Something old."
My heart stutters as recognition dawns. That voice—I know it from the Gathering Circle, from whispered omega warnings, from Lira's terrified recounting. Lord Klairs Thorn of the Summer Court, whose bronzed skin bears ritualistic scars—one for each omega successfully bred across dozens of Hunts.
But he should be dead. Cadeyrn killed him during the first week—one of the nine alphas slaughtered for approaching what the Winter Prince considered his exclusive territory.
"Reanimation magic leaves traces," another voice responds, lighter but no less authoritative. "Her heightened senses will detect it if we approach directly. We should split the perimeter."
My fingers dig into the earth beneath me, ice crystallizing around them in jagged patterns. Reanimation magic. The Summer Court has brought Klairs back from death—an expensive, forbidden practice used only in the most extreme circumstances. Just to hunt me.
"Split as you wish," Klairs responds, his voice closer now. "But remember our agreement. She's to be claimed by representatives of all courts. The Wild Magic must be diluted, controlled."
Claimed by all courts? My stomach twists with horror at the implication. Multiple alphas, multiple claimings, multiple knots—not for pleasure as with the Raveling Brothers' twisted ritual, but for magical purpose. To suppress whatever's awakening in my blood.
"The Winter Prince will sense our approach," a third voice warns, this one carrying the distinctive melodic quality of Spring Court speech. "Their claiming bond may be stretched, but it remains intact."
"Let him come," Klairs responds with casual confidence. "Four courts united against one rogue prince? Even with his newfound power, he can't stand against our combined strength."
I need to move. Now. While they're still discussing strategy rather than actively hunting. But my body refuses to cooperate, limbs heavy with exhaustion, back burning with every attempted movement. The Wild Magic that flowed so freely during my fight with the Raveling Brothers feels distant now, inaccessible in my depleted state.
"Remember—no permanent damage," the Spring Court voice cautions. "Her womb must remain viable for breeding. The Council wants to study the offspring, determine which genetic combinations best dilute the Wild Magic without eliminating useful traits."
My blood turns to ice at these clinical words. Not people to them—not even the Raveling Brothers with their twisted ritual saw me as merely breeding stock. This is something colder, more calculated. Court politics at its most ruthless.
I press my palm against the oak's root, feeling its ancient energy pulse beneath my touch. "Help me," I whisper, unsure if my plea is directed at the tree, the forest, or some forgotten deity who might still walk these woods.
The root shifts subtly beneath my hand, a movement so slight I might have imagined it. But the sensation sends a surge of something warm through my veins—not quite strength, not quite magic, but a reminder that I'm not facing this alone.
"There," Klairs announces, his voice now alarmingly close. "Behind the great oak. Blood scent mingles with Wild Magic."
My heart pounds against my ribs as I realize they've found me. I press deeper into the hollow, hands raised defensively as ice gathers at my fingertips—a pitiful defense against what must be at least a dozen seasoned alphas.
They emerge from the forest like nightmares made flesh. Klairs Thorn leads, his imposing figure even more terrifying than I remember. His bronzed skin bears the ritual scars I've heard about, but now something else mars his perfect physique—a jagged wound across his throat that doesn't bleed, the edges blackened with the magical energy that reanimated him. His eyes hold no human emotion, just calculating hunger.
Behind him, a semi-circle of alphas forms—four from Summer Court with their bronze skin and flame-colored hair, three from Spring with their flower-petal complexions and deceptively gentle expressions, and two from Autumn with leaf-patterned skin that shifts subtly with each movement.
No Winter Court representatives. I'm not sure if that's comforting or concerning.
"Look at her," one Spring alpha murmurs, genuine fascination in his voice. "The transformation is further along than reported."
I don't know what he means until I catch sight of my reflection in a nearby puddle. Silver threads have completely overtaken one side of my copper hair. The markings that once proclaimed me as Cadeyrn's claim have evolved into something else—intricate spirals that pulse with their own light rather than reflecting his possession. Most shocking of all, my ears have developed a subtle but unmistakable point at their tips.
I'm becoming something neither human nor traditional fae. Something the courts apparently fear enough to unite against.
"The Winter Prince's exclusive claiming has accelerated the process," Klairs observes, his voice unnaturally flat—a side effect of reanimation magic. "We must act quickly."
He steps toward me, and instinct takes over. Ice explodes from my fingertips, shards launching toward him with deadly intent. My attack lacks the focused power I wielded against the Raveling Brothers, but it's enough to make him stagger back, several shards embedded in his chest.
But he doesn't bleed. Doesn't even flinch. The reanimation magic sustaining him simply works around the wounds, black energy sealing the punctures as quickly as they form.
"Impressive," he notes dispassionately. "But ultimately futile."
The other alphas advance now, forming a tighter ring around my shelter. I lash out again, ice forming in desperate, jagged formations that wound two Spring Court alphas but barely slow their approach. My magic feels thin, depleted, like drawing water from an almost-dry well.
"Don't damage her," Klairs commands as a Summer alpha raises his hand, flames gathering around his fingers. "The Council wants her intact for breeding."
Breeding. The word ignites something in me beyond fear or rage—a fundamental rejection of being reduced to my biological function. Of being claimed not for desire or even rutting impulse, but for calculated genetic outcomes.
"I am not yours to breed," I snarl, pushing to my feet despite the screaming pain across my back. Blood runs freely down my spine now, soaking what remains of my tattered clothing. "I belong to no court and no alpha."
My defiance draws various reactions—amusement from the Summer alphas, clinical interest from Spring, and something like respect from Autumn. Only Klairs remains expressionless, the reanimation magic having stripped away the capacity for emotional response.
"Your belonging is not required," he states flatly. "Only your body and the magic in your blood."
He reaches for me, bronzed fingers extended toward my throat, and I brace for capture, for whatever horrors these court alphas have planned.
But his hand never reaches me.
The forest floor erupts with sudden, violent life. Roots thick as a man's arm burst from the earth beneath the alphas' feet, wrapping around legs, waists, throats with surprising speed. The oak behind me groans, its branches bending downward as if to shield me from view.
Wild Magic—not mine, not consciously summoned, but answering some deeper need. The forest itself intervenes, ancient awareness responding to the threat against what it recognizes as kin.
Chaos erupts as the alphas fight the sentient roots. Flame and thorn and petal magic flares against the wooden bonds, but for each root severed, three more emerge from the churning earth. Even Klairs struggles, his reanimated strength meeting equal force in the ancient oak's defense.
"Run," a voice whispers through rustling leaves above me. Not human, not fae, but something older than both. "We will hold them, but not for long."
I don't question this miracle. With strength born of desperate need, I stagger from my shelter, each step sending fresh waves of agony across my wounded back. Blood leaves a clear trail behind me, but I can't worry about that now. The forest continues its unlikely assault, giving me precious moments to put distance between myself and the court alphas.
I crash through undergrowth, following no path but instinct and the subtle guidance of branches that seem to bend away from my approach, clearing an escape route no alpha could track. Behind me, shouts and the crack of breaking wood suggest the forest's defense is faltering, the combined might of nine court alphas overwhelming even ancient magic.
My vision blurs as blood loss and exhaustion take their toll. The silver threads in my hair catch the filtered sunlight, creating strange patterns across my path that seem to form and reform into guiding arrows. Or perhaps that's just my fading consciousness creating patterns from chaos.
I don't know how long I run, how far I travel before my legs finally give out. I collapse at the edge of a clearing unlike any I've seen before in the Bloodmoon Forest. Perfectly circular, filled with flowers that shouldn't bloom in this season, surrounded by white-barked trees that form a natural boundary between this sacred space and the darker woods beyond.
Some primal instinct whispers that I've found safety—temporarily at least. That no alpha, not even Cadeyrn with his Winter Court power, could enter this grove without invitation. My blood seeps into the earth beneath me, and the flowers nearest my fallen form turn toward me like sentinels acknowledging a returning queen.
The claiming bond pulses once, strongly, as if Cadeyrn senses my momentary safety despite our distance. Through it, I catch the barest impression of his thoughts—concern, yes, but also a strange resolve, as if he's reached some decision that reshapes his understanding of everything.
"Rest now, Wild One," that same not-quite-voice whispers through rustling leaves. "They cannot follow where you now lie."
I want to ask questions—about this grove, about the forest's intervention, about what I'm becoming that courts would unite to control through breeding. But consciousness slips from me like water through cupped hands, darkness claiming my senses as my body surrenders to healing sleep.
My last coherent thought is a strange certainty that I'm being watched—not by pursuing alphas but by something ancient and patient, something that has waited centuries for Wild Magic to reawaken in human veins.
Something that recognizes what I'm becoming even when I don't understand it myself.
The darkness takes me completely then, but it doesn't feel like surrender.
It feels like preparation.
Table of Contents
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- Page 38 (Reading here)
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