Page 5

CHAPTER 5

POV: Briar

Dawn breaks over Thornwick in layers—first the hushed blue-gray that softens the buildings, then the pale gold that lights up the morning mist rising from the river. A beautiful day for a terrible purpose.

I sit at Willow's dressing table while Thaddeus fusses around me, his hands shaking as he arranges the ceremonial white cloak on my shoulders. The damn thing feels heavier than it should be, weighted down with all its symbolism. My reflection shows Willow's face, pale and calm beneath a crown of white snowdrops—flowers that die early, just like the omegas they're pinning them on.

"You've barely touched your breakfast," Thaddeus says, his voice catching. "You should eat something before the journey."

I nod, breaking off a small piece of bread from the untouched plate. The glamour feels more natural today after sleeping in it. Still, I keep quiet, afraid my voice might give me away despite how hard I've practiced her soft way of speaking.

"It's normal to be nervous," he continues, thinking my silence is fear. "Your mother was the same on our wedding day."

These constant comparisons between marriage and sacrifice make me want to scream. As if being hunted and claimed by a fae alpha in rut is anything like a wedding night. But I force Willow's gentle smile onto my borrowed face.

"I'm ready, Father."

Behind the partition in the small bedroom, the real Willow lies heavily drugged on a straw pallet I set up before dawn. The sleeping draft I gave her—one of her father's own medicines, ironically—will keep her out cold until well after we've left. By the time she wakes, I'll be halfway to the Gathering Circle in her place, and she'll be safe from the Hunt's brutality.

My deception has layers now. Under Willow's ceremonial dress, I've strapped thin leather pouches with iron tokens, a small folded steel blade, and dried herbs that temporarily mask omega scent. Around my thigh, bandages secure a detailed map of the Bloodmoon Forest I copied from Fergus's hidden stash. The glamour hides all of it perfectly, maintaining the illusion of Willow's frail body despite all the survival tools I've armed myself with.

Thaddeus kneels in front of me, eyes shining with tears as he adjusts the flower crown one final time. "You've always been braver than I deserve," he whispers.

Guilt twists through my gut. This man isn't saying goodbye to his daughter—he's saying goodbye to me, with no idea his real child is safely asleep a few feet away. Whatever comfort he's taking from this moment is built on lies.

Yet I don't regret it. Not when the alternative is Willow's certain death. Not when the man crying over her is the same one who would sacrifice her to those fae monsters.

The village bell tolls, calling the selection party to gather. Thaddeus helps me stand, his healer's hands gentle on my shoulders.

"It's time," he says, voice breaking.

Outside, Thornwick has transformed for the grim occasion. Crimson ribbons flutter from every building, but there's no festival atmosphere, just quiet ceremony. The selection party waits at the village center—Headman Lloyd on his bay horse, the village elders in their formal robes, and Maeve, her wild hair decorated with bones and feathers for the journey.

The hedge witch's eyes lock onto mine as I approach, her strange amber gaze narrowing slightly. My heart skips—does she sense her stolen grimoire page? Can she see through the glamour to the blacksmith underneath? But after a moment, she just nods, her face as unreadable as ever.

"The tribute is prepared," Thaddeus announces formally, guiding me to the small covered cart that will carry me for part of the journey.

I scan the crowd for Fergus, finding him standing apart from the others, his weathered face set in grim lines. Our eyes meet briefly. He doesn't know who I am, can’t see through the disguise, but I left a note for him this morning before I slipped out. Based on the small, grief-filled nod of acknowledgement he gives me, he’s read it—and he’s prepared to mourn my fate.

But he won’t stop me. That’s the thing about Fergus: no matter how much it pains him, he knows that I’m my own woman, stubborn and determined through and through, and I won’t—can’t—be stopped when I put my mind to something.

We start the journey without fanfare, our small procession winding through Thornwick's gates and onto the eastern road. I sit alone in the cart, watching familiar landmarks disappear as we travel toward the border. The day drags on, broken only by brief stops to rest the horses and let us all eat. I nibble on my bread and cheese, stomach churning.

During one stop, Maeve approaches my cart, offering a small clay cup of herbal tea. "For strength," she says, her voice like dry leaves rustling.

I take it cautiously, smelling the steam before sipping. The bitter taste of shadowroot burns the back of my throat—the same herb I've used for years to suppress my omega biology. My eyes meet hers in surprise.

"The Hunt is difficult enough as it is," she murmurs, speaking just for me. "This will delay what's coming, at least for the first day or two. Maybe enough time for you to get to safety and choose your fate."

Before I can respond, she turns away, rejoining the elders under a sprawling oak. The interaction leaves me uneasy. Does she know who I really am? Or is she just offering what small mercy she can to someone she thinks is Willow? Either way, I drink the tea, knowing that the longer it takes for my heat to come, the better my chances of survival.

By late afternoon, the landscape around us changes. Familiar farmland gives way to wilder terrain, the plants growing denser and stranger as we near the border. Trees twist at unnatural angles, their bark darkening to the distinctive black of the Bloodmoon Forest. Silver leaves flutter overhead, catching sunlight in hypnotic patterns.

And then we see it—the Gathering Circle. Ancient stone monoliths rise from the earth like the teeth of some massive buried beast. Arranged in a perfect ring a hundred paces across, each stone stands three times taller than a man, their surfaces carved with symbols that are more ancient than even the fae themselves. The clearing around them stays mysteriously free of plants, as though the earth refuses to touch this sacred, terrible place.

Other villages have already arrived, their banners fluttering beside makeshift camps. White-cloaked figures huddle together near the circle's edge—other omegas, waiting for the same fate I've volunteered for. From here, they look like a flock of sacrificial birds, huddled against predators they can sense but not yet see.

Our cart stops at Thornwick's designated area. Headman Lloyd helps me down, his formal manner barely hiding his relief that his own daughters are safely at home. The grass beneath my feet feels different here—coarser, somehow aware of what's happening.

"The ritual begins at sunset," he explains, though everyone knows the tradition. "Until then, you may join the other tributes or remain with us."

"I'll join them," I answer softly, copying Willow's deference. "We share a common path now."

He nods, clearly uncomfortable with the reminder of what awaits us. I move away from Thornwick's delegation, heading toward the gathered omegas. With each step, the weight of what I've done—and what I'm about to face—settles more firmly around my shoulders.

The omegas form a loose circle, some clinging to each other while others stand alone in resignation. I count thirty-seven tributes of different ages. Most look to be in their late teens or early twenties, typical selection age, but some exceptions catch my eye.

A girl who appears barely post-pubescent trembles visibly at the edge of the group, her dark hair falling in tangled curtains around a face too young for what's coming. Her white cloak—too large for her small frame—has none of the traditional embroidery that decorates most tribute garments. A poor family's child, then, without means to buy protection or fancy details. Her selection was almost certainly rigged, her vulnerability making her an easy target for villages protected by wealth and influence.

At the opposite end stands a middle-aged woman with practical hands and the distinctive spiral tattoos of a midwife at the corners of her eyes. Unlike the others, she looks determined, prepared even, as if this is a deliberate choice. A volunteer, surely—perhaps trading herself for a patient or family member. Such trades are rare but not unheard of, especially among healers with strong protective instincts.

I approach carefully, keeping my movements delicate to maintain Willow's characteristic grace. A few omegas glance up at my arrival, their expressions ranging from curious to vacant. Several wear the slightly glazed look of those who've been given calming herbs—chemical courage to face what comes and loosen the muscles for claiming.

"Thornwick?" asks a soft voice beside me.

I turn to find a young woman with auburn hair and striking green-gold eyes. Her white cloak has the intricate embroidery of a wealthy border family, though her face shows the same fear as the poorest tribute.

"Yes," I reply, finding Willow's gentle tone. "And you?"

"Emberfall." She gestures to the largest delegation across the clearing. "I'm Rose."

The name clicks from village gossip—the famed beauty whose selection had been specifically requested by the local fae emissary. Looking at her perfect features, I get why. Rose embodies the aesthetic preferences of the fae courts—heart-shaped face, naturally pink lips, symmetrical features arranged with almost artificial precision.

"I'm Willow," I say, the lie becoming easier with each repetition.

More omegas join our small cluster as sunset approaches—Flora, with her strange violet eyes and platinum hair similar to Willow's; Ivy, clearly from a prominent family judging by her elaborate hairstyle and unmarked hands; Sera, whose silver-white hair and strangely patterned skin suggest she’s had previous contact with the Winter Court, and survived a pregnancy with one of their alphas. I shudder at the thought of going through not one, but two Hunts.

We exchange names and villages but little else. What is there to say? Some will be dead within days. Others will survive only to face pregnancy with fae offspring—a condition few human omegas survive. The silent acknowledgment of our shared fate creates a bond more profound than words ever could.

The horizon bleeds crimson as the sun begins to set, painting the monoliths in bloody light. A hush falls over the entire Gathering as robed figures emerge from the trees at the edge of the clearing—the fae emissaries who will oversee the ritual binding. Even from this distance, their inhuman beauty hits like a physical force—too perfect, too symmetrical, too still to be human.

"Tributes, approach the circle," commands a voice that seems to bypass my ears and vibrate directly in my skull.

We move as one, our white cloaks billowing in the evening breeze as we enter the ancient ring of stones. The ground beneath my feet pulses with subtle energy, the earth itself seeming to acknowledge what's happening. At the circle's center waits a stone altar carved with symbols that match those on the monoliths—a language older than any human tongue.

The fae emissaries arrange themselves in a perfect pattern around us, each positioned between two standing stones. Their robes shift color with each movement—summer gold, autumn amber, spring green, winter blue—showing their court affiliations without words.

"When called, step forward and extend your wrist," instructs an emissary in Spring Court green, her flower-petal skin glimmering in the fading light. "The binding is painless but permanent for the duration of the Hunt."

A lie, I suspect, and no doubt the first of many.

The ritual proceeds with practiced efficiency. Each omega approaches when her name is called, extending her wrist to receive the silver tracking bracelet that will bind her to the Hunt. The bracelets themselves look deceptively delicate—slender bands of pure silver inscribed with runes similar to those on the monoliths.

I watch carefully as the first tributes receive theirs. The clasping mechanism makes a distinctive click when closed, followed by a brief flare of blue-white light as the magic activates. Several omegas gasp or whimper as the bracelet closes, though none cry out in actual pain.

"Mira of Westhaven," calls the emissary.

The trembling young teenage girl steps forward, her small frame nearly lost within her oversized cloak. Her hand shakes violently as she extends it, eyes squeezed shut in terror. The bracelet snaps around her wrist with that same distinctive click, the blue light briefly illuminating her tear-streaked face.

Names continue, each followed by the click and flare that signals another omega bound to the Hunt, bound to a violent claiming and near-certain death.

"Wren of Oakhollow." The middle-aged midwife steps forward with dignity, her steady hands and calm expression a stark contrast to the younger tributes.

"Nessa of Riversbend." A sturdy farm girl with callused hands and sun-browned skin, her blue eyes wide with fear.

"Carrie of Southmark." Unremarkable in every way—medium height, light brown hair, gray eyes reflecting resignation rather than defiance.

And then?—

"Willow of Thornwick."

My turn. I step forward, keeping my eyes downcast as I extend my wrist toward the Winter Court emissary—a tall figure whose skin gleams like fresh snow beneath his blue robes. His fingers, when they grasp my arm, feel like ice even through the fabric of my sleeve.

"Look up, tribute," he commands softly.

I raise my eyes slowly, maintaining Willow's gentle expression despite my pounding heart. The fae's face is beautiful in the way of perfectly sculpted ice—flawless, crystalline, and utterly without warmth. His eyes, pale blue with no visible pupil, examine my features with clinical detachment.

For one terrible moment, I fear he sees through the glamour. But then he nods, seemingly satisfied, and positions the silver bracelet around my wrist.

The clasp snaps shut with finality, the sound like fate itself sealing.

Pain erupts immediately—not the subtle discomfort the others seemed to feel, but searing agony that races up my arm and explodes behind my eyes. The bracelet burns against my skin, magic reacting violently with something in my blood or the glamour spell or both. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming, tasting copper as the blue-white light flares with unusual intensity around my wrist.

The emissary's eyes widen slightly—the first genuine expression I've seen on his perfect face. But then the moment passes, the pain subsiding to a dull throb that pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat. He releases my arm without comment, already turning to the next tribute in line.

I retreat to join the others who have received their bracelets, my mind racing. Why did I react differently? Is it the glamour interfering with the binding magic? Or something else—something in my blood that responds differently to fae enchantment?

No time to think about that now. As darkness claims the Gathering Circle, reality settles over me with crushing weight. There's no going back. The silver bracelet binds me to the Hunt as surely as my promise binds me to protecting Willow. Come dawn, I'll enter the Bloodmoon Forest alongside thirty-six other omegas, each of us prey in a game designed for our destruction.

But unlike them, I have purpose beyond just surviving, hidden beneath my glamour. Iron in my pockets. Steel against my thigh. And the strength of a blacksmith beneath a dying girl's face.

Let the Hunt come. I've been forging my own fate for years.