Page 6

CHAPTER 6

POV: Briar

Night falls over the Gathering Circle like a heavy curtain, bringing a stillness that feels anything but natural. The bonfire at the center throws long shadows across the ancient stones, turning the monoliths into towering guards. We omegas huddle closer together, instinct pushing us toward shared warmth even though we all know it won't protect us from what's coming.

They're coming. We all feel it—a pressure in the air, a primal awareness that makes the hair on our necks stand up. A scent in the air that calls to our omega natures, stoking primitive desires.

"It's just the viewing," whispers Rose beside me, her perfect features tight with barely controlled panic. "They can't approach us tonight. Ancient protocol."

Protocol. Such a civilized word for what amounts to displaying cattle before slaughter. I say nothing, focusing instead on the weight of iron tokens against my thigh and the steady rhythm of my blacksmith's heart beneath Willow's borrowed face.

The first alpha appears from the tree line like he was conjured from nothing—there one moment where nothing had been before. Others follow, materializing from between silver-leaved trees with the fluid grace of predators. They keep their distance, staying at the forest's edge as the Hunt's ancient rules demand, but their presence changes the clearing instantly.

"Gods above," breathes Carrie, the plain village seamstress whose gray eyes now shine with unwilling fascination. "They're beautiful."

She's not wrong. Fae beauty is a weapon more effective than claws or fangs—a lure designed to hypnotize prey into fatal stillness. Even knowing this, I can't help but stare.

The Summer Court alphas arrive first, their golden skin glowing like they're lit from within. Flame-red hair falls in elaborate braids woven with trophies—small bones, teeth, scraps of cloth—physical records of past conquests. They pace along the forest boundary like caged predators, muscles rippling beneath ceremonial leather, amber eyes gleaming with raw hunger.

"That's Lord Klairs Thorn," whispers Flora, her specialized breeding giving her knowledge most omegas don't have. "Seven centuries of Hunt participation. He's claimed dozens. The scars on his skin—one for each successful breeding."

I follow her gaze to the tallest of the Summer alphas, his bronzed skin indeed covered with raised patterns that glow faintly in the firelight. His frame is impossibly broad, radiating heat you can actually see as a shimmer in the night air. When he turns his head toward our huddled group, nostrils flaring to sample our collective scent, several omegas whimper involuntarily.

Not me. I've faced forge fires hot enough to melt iron. One alpha's heat doesn't scare me.

The Autumn Court representatives appear next, their approach more measured than the Summer Court's restless prowling. Their skin has subtle patterns like fallen leaves, their hair the russet and gold of harvest season. They stand perfectly still, amber eyes developing visible vein-like patterns as they study us with unsettling intensity.

"The Raveling Brothers," Flora continues, voice dropping lower. "Not twins, but bred close enough to share nearly identical features. They hunt as a unit, trading omegas between them during extended breeding sessions."

My stomach turns at what she's saying. The Brothers stand side by side, perfectly mirrored in stance and expression, distinguished only by the ritual scarring on their forearms—one with vertical marks, the other horizontal. Their synchronization feels wrong, unnatural in a way that goes beyond their fae nature.

"What happens if they both want the same omega?" Mira asks, her youth—I’ve learned she’s barely seventeen—making her both terrified and morbidly curious.

Flora's violet eyes darken. "They don't compete. They share."

The young girl turns pale, instinctively shrinking behind Wren, whose midwife's hands settle protectively on her shoulders. "Don't look directly at any of them," the older woman advises. "Eye contact can be interpreted as challenge or invitation."

Wise advice I immediately ignore as the Spring Court alphas emerge next, their appearance deceptively gentle compared to the others. Skin in soft greens and pinks, hair like new growth after winter thaw. Their beauty carries a false gentleness that makes them potentially more dangerous than the obviously predatory Summer Court.

"The Huntsman," breathes Ivy, recognition and terror mixing in her voice. "My cousin was selected three Hunts ago. He claimed her." Her unmarked hands tremble as she points toward a slender alpha whose unremarkable build hides the reputation that precedes him. "They say he's kind during the chase. Gentle even, until the moment he isn't."

I follow her gesture to a fae with chestnut hair falling across eyes the unnatural green of spring leaves, his face arranged in an expression of perfect empathy. As I watch, small flowers bloom across his exposed forearms, their colors shifting subtly in response to our fear.

He feeds on it, I realize. Our terror nourishes him as surely as food would.

Last come the Winter Court representatives, their entrance marked by a noticeable drop in temperature. Pale skin ranging from porcelain white to deepest blue, hair like freshly fallen snow. They move with precise economy, every gesture calculated and controlled.

"Lord Frostbaine," Flora identifies a particularly imposing alpha whose pale blue eyes empty of all expression as he studies us. "Winter Court enforcer specifically bred for Hunt participation. His bloodline has been ruthlessly culled over generations to produce the perfect stud specimen."

The clinical description fails to capture how fundamentally wrong he looks—the network of raised scars cataloging successful impregnations, the absolute emptiness behind his gaze. Not cruelty or sadism, but their absence. A breeding machine in fae form.

Other alphas materialize along the tree line, each bringing fresh waves of dread among the gathered omegas. The Collector, whose tattoos catalog each successful claiming in ceremonial pictures. Shadows, whose entire body absorbs light, creating a silhouette of perfect darkness even in the bonfire's glow. Ember Farren, whose hair burns with internal fire and whose skin develops faint luminescence as he scents potential prey.

And then?—

"The Winter Prince," gasps Flora, genuine awe replacing her academic detachment.

Against the darkest part of the tree line stands a solitary figure who commands attention despite his stillness. While other alphas posture and prowl, Prince Cadeyrn of the Winter Court observes the gathering with detached calculation, his presence a cold void in the emotional chaos surrounding us.

Unlike the other nobility, he wears no ceremonial leathers or court insignia—only simple garments of deepest blue that emphasize rather than adorn his fae perfection. His skin glows marble-white in the moonlight, free of scarring, his hair falling in light-absorbing waves to his shoulders. But it's his eyes that capture and hold my attention—deep ice-blue, ancient beyond comprehension, studying our gathering with the dispassionate interest of someone observing insects.

"Seven centuries without entering rut," whispers Rose, awe and horror mixing in her voice. "They say he's never claimed an omega, never sired offspring. His control is absolute."

"Why participate in the Hunt then?" asks Mira, confusion momentarily overriding her fear.

"Political obligation," answers Flora. "The Winter Court requires his participation to maintain appearances, but his restraint is legendary. Some say it's how he's maintained his youthful appearance for centuries—rutting ages fae royalty, and he refuses to give in to primal urges."

I study him carefully, noticingng the fluid precision of his movements as he slowly walks the tree line. Unlike the other alphas whose barely-contained lust saturates the air, the Winter Prince appears unmoved by what’s coming—a predator so confident in his superiority that he feels no need to display it. His arrogance will be his undoing if I get my hands, and my hidden knife, on his murderous fae hide.

His gaze sweeps methodically over each omega, pausing briefly on each of them. When his attention reaches our small cluster, I force myself to look away, remembering Wren's warning about eye contact. But something—curiosity, defiance, or simple stupidity—draws my eyes back to him just as his gaze reaches me.

The moment stretches, crystallizing into something unexpected. His eyes narrow slightly, head tilting as if seeing a puzzle where a simple tribute should be. While others see Willow's face, somehow Cadeyrn seems to be looking at something else—something beneath or beyond the glamour.

His nostrils flare, testing my scent, and his expression shifts momentarily from boredom to genuine interest. The change is subtle—nothing as obvious as widened eyes or parted lips—but in a face trained to perfect control for centuries, every expression is massive.

Without thinking, I meet his stare directly, like the stubborn idiot I am.

My omega instincts scream at the mistake—no normal omega would stare down an alpha of his standing. Yet I can't look away, caught in the pull of those ancient eyes. For an instant, I glimpse something behind his perfect mask—curiosity, perhaps, or recognition of some sort.

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, before he deliberately turns away, breaking our connection with pointed finality. The message is clear: he's seen something interesting but not compelling enough to hold his attention.

A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening air. I've spent my life avoiding notice, cultivating invisibility through careful deception. Now, at the worst possible moment, I've attracted the attention of perhaps the most dangerous alpha in the Hunt.

"Did you see that?" Flora whispers, her violet eyes wide. "He looked at you. Really looked."

I shrug, copying Willow's characteristic gentle dismissal. "Perhaps he sensed my illness."

"No." Her gaze sharpens. "The prince never shows interest in potential breeding stock. His participation is ceremonial only. Yet something about you caught his attention."

Before I can respond, a commotion ripples through the gathered omegas. Near the eastern edge of the circle, a girl collapses, her white cloak pooling around her like spilled milk. Seizures rack her body, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth as the silver bracelet around her wrist pulses with unnatural light.

"Rejection syndrome," murmurs Wren, moving immediately toward the fallen omega with a healer's instinct. "Her body's fighting the binding magic."

Fae emissaries converge on the scene, their perfect faces emotionless as they surround the convulsing girl. One produces a small crystal vial, forcing liquid between her lips while another chants in a language that hurts my ears to hear. The bracelet's pulsing intensifies, then stabilizes to a steady glow as the girl's seizures gradually subside.

"What happens to her now?" I ask, already guessing the answer.

Flora's expression confirms my fears. "Culled before the Hunt begins. Omegas who reject the binding magic are deemed unsuitable for breeding purposes."

Sure enough, two emissaries lift the now-unconscious girl, carrying her toward the forest rather than back to her village's delegation. No one moves to intervene—not her family, not the other tributes, not the human officials who negotiated her selection. Protocol trumps compassion, as it always does in the borderlands.

I touch my own bracelet, remembering the unusual pain I'd experienced during its attachment. Had I come close to rejection syndrome myself? Was something in my blood or in the glamour spell nearly incompatible with the binding magic? The implications are troubling—both for my deception and for what might happen when I enter the forest tomorrow.

"They're withdrawing," Sera observes, her strange silver-white hair gleaming in the firelight as she nods toward the tree line.

She’s right. The fae alphas have begun their retreat, melting back into the Bloodmoon Forest with the same unnatural grace that marked their arrival. The last to depart is Prince Cadeyrn, his tall figure pausing at the boundary between clearing and wilderness. For a heartbeat, I swear his gaze finds mine again across the impossible distance—a final assessment before the Hunt begins.

Then he's gone, leaving only silver leaves trembling in his wake.

The gathered omegas release a collective breath, tension draining from rigid shoulders and clenched hands. Tonight's viewing has concluded without incident—a small mercy in a tradition that offers few. The cynic in me wonders which of us have been marked for immediate claiming, whether through beauty or submission or defiance. But I don’t voice the thought aloud, knowing we all need a precious few hours of peace before the horror begins.

"Come," announces a Spring Court emissary, her flower-petal skin luminous in the growing darkness. "A final meal awaits before tomorrow's journey begins."

The tributes move as one toward a large tent erected at the circle's edge, its canvas walls rippling in the night’s chill wind. I stay where I am for a moment longer, staring at the spot where the Winter Prince disappeared. The memory of his ice-blue eyes lingers like frost on glass—an impression that refuses to melt away.

What did he see when he looked at me? And why does it matter so damn much?

"Willow?" Flora appears at my side, her violet eyes curious. "Are you coming?"

I nod, putting on Willow's gentle smile while my mind races. Tonight offers one final chance to prepare, to strategize, to help those with the least chance of survival. The iron tokens against my thigh feel heavier with each step toward the tent, their weight a reminder of my true purpose.

Tomorrow, thirty-six omegas will enter the Bloodmoon Forest as prey. But one of us enters as something else entirely.

One of us enters as the hunter's hunter.