Page 4

CHAPTER 4

POV: Briar

Magic demands precision. It’s unforgiving, brutal even, when you fuck it up. One wrong word, one misplaced ingredient, and the spell collapses—or worse, twists into something else entirely.

Tonight, I can’t afford to make any mistakes.

Midnight approaches as I slip out of the forge's back entrance, a leather satchel clutched to my chest. Inside it is the torn grimoire page, a copper bowl polished to mirror brightness, seven white candles, a vial of preserving herbs, and the most crucial ingredients—Willow's blood and hair, collected over weeks of daily visits.

Each strand of platinum blonde hair carefully taken from her comb, each bloodied handkerchief pocketed when her father wasn't looking. Small thefts that felt like betrayals even as I did them. Necessary evils to prevent the worse fate waiting for her at the Gathering Circle.

The forest behind the forge gives me privacy, a small clearing where moonlight pools like silver water. It’s perfect for ritual magic that needs lunar energy. Tonight is the only night I can do this, just before the moon waxes crimson and the Wild Hunt begins.

My hands work steadily despite my shaking fingers. First, the circle of protection—not against magical threats but against nosy humans. The last thing I need is some drunk villager stumbling on a blacksmith's apprentice doing forbidden magic. Seven candles placed at key points, their flames oddly still in the night breeze.

Inside this circle, I arrange Willow's hair in a spiral around the copper bowl. Each pale strand seems to glow in the moonlight.

From my pocket, I take out the small vial with scraps of Willow's handkerchiefs, dark with dried blood. These go into the bowl, followed by seven drops of preserving herb mixture to rehydrate the blood. The mixture begins to swirl, giving off a faint metallic smell that mixes with the forest scents around me.

The grimoire page sits on a flat stone in front of me, its ancient writing shifting slightly as if the words are alive. Magic keeps its creator's intention going, sometimes long after they're gone.

I wonder briefly who made this spell—someone else trying to save someone they loved? Or something darker, like stealing a lover or even committing murder?

No time for that now. The moon reaches its highest point, flooding the clearing with pale light. I take out my smallest blade—a thin, sharp tool I usually use for detail work on silver. Tonight, it has a different purpose.

"Blood willingly given forms the strongest bonds," I whisper, quoting my mother as I press the blade to my fingertip. The sting is quick, almost welcome in its clarity. Seven drops fall into the bowl, rippling across the surface.

Now comes the crucial part—the spell words themselves. The stolen page contains words in the Old Tongue, a language no longer spoken here but preserved in rituals and songs. I've practiced the pronunciation for three days straight, my mouth struggling with the forgotten syllables, which descend from ancient Faerie languages we once shared with the fae.

I take a deep breath and begin to read.

The first words hang visible in the night air like smoke. Each syllable makes the hair on my arms stand up. The second phrase causes the blood mixture to bubble and release a pale vapor that smells like burning roses.

By the third line, the air around me thickens, pressure building like I'm suddenly underwater. The candle flames stretch toward the center of the circle, pulled by invisible forces.

The final words are hardest to say—my tongue feels swollen, my throat fighting against sounds it was never meant to make. But I force them out, one by one, each syllable precise despite how much it hurts. For Willow.

As the last word fades, the mixture in the bowl suddenly ignites. Not with normal fire, but with cold, white flame that burns without heat. The vapor thickens, forming a column that rises to eye level before curling toward me like it's alive.

The grimoire's instructions are clear: I must breathe in the vapor to complete the transformation.

I hesitate for just a heartbeat before leaning forward and breathing deeply.

The effect hits me instantly and it's excruciating. The vapor enters my lungs like liquid metal, spreading outward through my veins until every part of me burns with cold fire. My bones seem to shift beneath my skin, not breaking but somehow rearranging themselves in ways bones should never move.

I bite down hard on a leather strip I'd prepared for this, muffling the scream that tears from my throat. The pain gets worse, a pulling sensation like my very self is being extracted through my skin and replaced with something else. My vision splits and doubles, the trees around me swimming as tears fill my eyes.

Through it all, one thought keeps me going: Willow. I'm enduring this for Willow.

And because it’s far past time for someone to stand up to the fae.

The transformation peaks in a moment of such intense pain that I nearly pass out. I collapse to all fours, gasping around the leather strip, sweat or tears dripping to the forest floor. Just when I'm sure I've made a terrible mistake, that the spell will tear me apart instead of transforming me, the pain suddenly disappears.

The silence afterward feels complete. Even the night insects have gone quiet, as if shocked by what they've seen. I stay still, taking stock: the feel of dirt under my palms, the cool night air on my skin, the strange lightness in my limbs.

Something's different. My body feels wrong—no, not wrong. Different. My balance has shifted slightly. My hair, when it falls around my face, shimmers silver-white in the moonlight instead of copper.

It worked. It actually fucking worked.

With shaking hands, I reach for a bucket of water I'd placed nearby. The surface ripples as I lean over it, then stills to show my reflection.

Willow's face stares back at me.

Her delicate features have replaced my stronger ones—the high cheekbones, the slightly pointed chin, the wide green eyes that always remind me of new leaves. Her platinum blonde hair falls in a straight sheen where my copper curls should be. Even the translucent quality of her skin is perfectly copied, the blue veins visible at her temples and wrists.

The glamour is flawless. Disturbingly so.

I touch my face, expecting to feel Willow's soft skin. Instead, my fingers meet my own familiar features, though my eyes insist they're touching Willow's. I flex my arm, watching as the image of Willow's slender limb moves, yet feeling my own blacksmith's muscles underneath.

The spell affects only what people see—a perfect illusion that has changed only the surface. My strength is the same, thank the gods. Everything about me is unchanged except for what people see when they look at me.

This is exactly what I'd hoped for. While I’ll look like Willow, I'll bring my own physical advantages to the Hunt under her demure and submissive face.

I stand carefully, testing how the glamour holds when I move. The illusion stays perfect, Willow's reflection copying my actions without even a flicker. I try a series of self-defense exercises—lunges, quick turns, a right hook Fergus taught me—and find I can move normally.

A chilling thought strikes me despite the summer night: what if the glamour affects my scent too? If it covers up the scent of my approaching heat, the fae alphas of the Hunt might ignore me completely. The entire plan would fail.

But the grimoire page was clear—the spell only affects what people see. My omega scent will grow stronger as the crimson moon waxes, drawing the Hunt to me as intended. The spell only needs to last long enough to prevent the fae from realizing what I’ve done and potentially sending Willow out in my place.

I begin gathering my supplies, putting out candles and packing away the copper bowl, now empty and cool to touch. The hair circle has vanished, used up by the spell. The grimoire page lies curled and blackened at the edge of the clearing, its purpose fulfilled.

A twig snaps behind me.

I freeze, my hand automatically reaching for the knife at my belt.

"Willow?" a man's voice calls in confusion.

Thaddeus Ambrose stands at the edge of the trees, his stooped figure outlined by moonlight. The apothecary's eyes are wide as he takes in the scene—the candle stubs, the ritual tools, his daughter apparently doing magic in the middle of the night.

My mind races. I hadn't planned for this. Thaddeus rarely leaves his cottage after dark, especially with Willow needing constant care. It’s just my terrible luck that he’s here.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks, stepping closer. His eyes scan the clearing, and my pulse races. "You should be resting."

I open my mouth, then realize my mistake—my voice will give me away instantly. I lower my eyes and bring a hand to my throat, copying Willow's shy gesture when her voice fails from weakness.

"Are you ill?" Concern replaces suspicion as Thaddeus rushes forward. "Did you strain your voice again?"

I nod, keeping my face turned away. My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he must hear it. One wrong move, one slip in the act, and everything falls apart.

"What made you come out here?" He gathers my ritual supplies, hopefully mistaking them for simple medicinal ingredients. "Was it another nightmare about the ceremony?"

Another nod.

Thaddeus sighs, his expression softening as he puts an arm around my shoulders. "You shouldn't be gathering herbs alone, especially at night. Your strength is precious now. We need to save it for the journey."

The irony is almost too much. I let him guide me from the clearing, making my steps hesitant to match Willow's typical walk. We move in silence through the sleeping village, his arm supporting me gently. The guilt of deceiving him fights with my determination to save his daughter.

Halfway to the Ambrose cottage, I risk a whisper, making my voice high and soft like Willow's gentle tones. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep."

"Nerves are natural," he responds, patting my hand. "Your mother was the same before her wedding day—restless, wandering. Some transitions need their own rituals of preparation."

Comparing the Hunt to a wedding hits me like a physical blow. As if Willow were just a bride looking forward to her wedding night rather than a sacrifice being delivered to slaughter. The border villages have created such pretty words for what happens in the Bloodmoon Forest, softening the brutal reality of rape, torture, and death with ceremonial language.

We reach the Ambrose cottage, its windows dark except for a single candle burning in Willow's room. Thaddeus pauses at the door, studying my face with unexpected intensity.

"You look different tonight," he says slowly. "Something about your eyes..."

My pulse quickens. Has the glamour failed already? I bow my head, avoiding his gaze. "Just tired, Father."

The familiar address seems to satisfy him. He nods, opening the door and ushering me inside. "Go rest. It’ll be morning before you know it, and we have preparations to finish before the journey."

I move toward Willow's room, panic rising as I realize the corner I've backed myself into. If I enter, I'll find the real Willow asleep in her bed. Even Thaddeus will see through me.

"Actually," I whisper, turning back, "I think I'll make some tea first. To help me sleep."

Thaddeus nods absently, already moving toward his own room. "Don't stay up too late. Your strength?—"

"—is precious now. I know." I finish his often-repeated phrase with a smile that feels strange on my borrowed face.

When his door closes, I exhale silently, counting heartbeats until I'm sure he won't come out again. Then, moving with the stealth I've practiced for weeks in preparation for this moment, I slip back out the front door and into the darkness.

The village sleeps around me, unaware of my plans. Tomorrow is the final day before the Wild Hunt begins, when Willow will travel to the Gathering Circle—a journey that will now be mine instead. I have to return to the forge and prepare for what comes next: taking Willow's place before anyone realizes the switch.

The glamour tingles against my skin as I navigate familiar paths through the night. My reflection in puddles and windows startles me each time—Willow's face staring back at me. The spell tightens with each minute that passes, settling into my flesh like a second skin.

Twenty-one days, the grimoire promised. The exact duration of the Hunt. The exact length of an omega's heat cycle during the crimson moon. Another of those coincidences that feels too neat to be accidental, as though the spell were made specifically for my purpose.

Back at the forge, I slip inside quietly, careful not to wake Fergus. The iron tokens I've stolen from his hidden cache rest beneath my sleeping mat, along with the forest maps and small weapons I've been secretly making for weeks. By dawn, I’ll have them hidden on me, ready for the trip to the Gathering Circle.

I catch my reflection in the polished shield hanging on the workshop wall—Willow's face staring back with an expression she would never wear, determination hardening features meant for gentleness. The contrast feels almost wrong, like watching a saint pick up a war hammer.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to her image, knowing the real Willow sleeps unaware across the village. "But I won’t just watch you die without a fight."

The reflection, of course, doesn’t answer. It’s a perfect deception: my best friend’s gentleness covering my strength and anger. The fae alphas of the Hunt expect terrified omegas fleeing in blind panic. They've never pursued prey that fights back.

Tomorrow, when the selection party leaves for the Gathering Circle, I’ll walk in Willow's place, wearing her face but bringing my own fury to the Bloodmoon Forest. The glamour is just the beginning—the first move in a game I intend to change forever.

I only hope I'm ready. Because once I step into the stone circle and accept the silver tracking bracelet that binds all Hunt participants, there will be no turning back.

The Hunt will come for the omega who smells of forge fire and iron beneath a dying girl's face.

And unlike the omegas who came before me, I plan to hunt back.