Page 7

CHAPTER 7

POV: Briar

Our last supper is served in a huge white tent at the circle's edge. Apparently providing comfort before slaughter somehow lets the butchers sleep better at night. The contrast is sickening—silk tablecloths and silver goblets for women who'll be crawling through dirt tomorrow.

Inside, long tables arranged in circles hold platters of food too rich for nervous stomachs—roasted meats dripping with honey, bread still steaming from the oven, fruits that shouldn't even be in season. The fae courts' not-so-subtle reminder of their magical abundance, of what our villages get in exchange for our bodies.

I pick at a piece of bread, its texture unnaturally perfect on my tongue. Everything here feels too pristine. Even the tent canvas is absurdly white, as if the fabric has never even touched the ground.

Around me, thirty-six omegas go through their own private rituals of goodbye. Some pray quietly, lips moving in whispers to gods who clearly stopped listening long ago. Others scratch final letters onto parchment for families they'll probably never see again. A few just stare into space, their minds already checked out to some internal hiding place beyond tomorrow's hunt.

I watch them all through Willow's borrowed face, calculating who might make it past the first day. Not many, if the stories are true. The rumors that filter back to border villages talk about mass killings within hours—alphas competing so aggressively for prime omegas that they destroy what they're fighting over.

"You're not eating."

The voice pulls me from my dark thoughts. Flora settles beside me, her platinum hair nearly identical to Willow's, though her violet eyes mark her as something special. A delicate cup of herbal tea steams between her fingers—no doubt some concoction to boost fertility or ease claiming pain.

"Neither are you," I point out, nodding at her untouched plate.

She smiles, the expression carefully designed to show a calm she can't possibly feel. "No appetite before a performance. Family tradition."

Performance. Interesting word choice for what's coming. But maybe it's accurate for Flora, whose whole existence has been crafted for this moment. She carries herself with the practiced grace of someone who's rehearsed her role since childhood—the perfect omega tribute, bred through countless generations specifically to appeal to fae preferences.

Around her, a small court has formed. Younger omegas cluster at her table, drawn by her fake composure, hoping some of her apparent calm might rub off on their trembling bodies. I watch cynically as she explains the Wild Hunt to them from a wholly different perspective than my own.

"The first day is crucial," she explains, her voice carrying the cadence of someone reciting a memorized speech. "Most deaths happen within hours of the moon rising. The best strategy is immediate shelter—caves, dense thickets, anywhere that limits approach angles."

Her audience nods desperately, hungry for any advice that might keep them alive even a few hours longer. A girl from Elmcrest—I've already forgotten her name—leans forward. "But how do you... I mean, when they catch you..." Her voice breaks.

Flora's smile never wavers. "The teeth breaking skin is the worst part," she explains, fingers touching her own neck to demonstrate. "When they bite to claim, they're already in full rut—their canines elongate and sharpen specifically for penetrating the scent gland where your neck meets your shoulder."

The clinical detail makes several younger omegas turn pale. Mira, the seventeen-year-old from Westhaven, looks ready to pass out, her skin ashy beneath her tan. But Flora keeps going, her voice eerily steady.

"The depth of the bite determines the strength of the claiming bond. A shallow bite just marks territory—painful but superficial. A deep bite that floods your bloodstream with their claiming hormones creates a stronger bond. It burns like fire spreading through your veins." Her fingers trace the path from her neck downward, an unconsciously sensual gesture that clashes with her academic tone. "Some alphas bite repeatedly—neck, wrists, inner thighs—creating multiple bond points to ensure complete submission."

"Does it... does it hurt the whole time?" asks Carrie, the village seamstress whose gray eyes have grown huge.

Flora tilts her head, considering. "The bite pain changes into something else once the claiming really begins. The hormones they release trigger your own body's response—a heat-state around the bite that spreads outward. By the time they mount you, the pain has usually transformed into a different sensation altogether."

"Mount you?" Mira whispers, clearly clueless about even the basics of what's coming.

I watch discomfort flicker across Flora's perfect features before her training kicks back in. "Yes. Alphas in rut prefer dominance positions—taking you from behind is most common for initial claiming. Their instinct drives them to pin you down, to assert control through physical force."

Her violet gaze sweeps across her audience, judging if they can handle more details. Something in their expressions must convince her to continue.

"When they enter you, they're already fully engorged—the rut state causes significant enlargement, far beyond normal size even for fae. The initial penetration can be... overwhelming. But it's the knot you need to prepare for." She makes a shape with her hands that causes several girls to look away. "It forms at the base and swells once they're fully inside you, locking you together while they release."

"How long?" someone asks, barely audible.

"Depends on the court. Winter Court alphas knot for up to an hour, their seed coming in waves rather than all at once. Summer Court knots are shorter but more intense—their body temperature rises so high during rut that skin contact can leave burn marks. Spring Court knots secrete mild hallucinogens through their skin, making the experience dreamlike but also disorienting. It’s only Autumn Court that prefers a quick knot and release, often followed by a second knotting in another position, or even a third."

She pauses, taking a delicate sip of her tea before continuing. "The knot itself isn't as painful as people say, as long you don't fight against it. Struggling only tears… things. Accepting is the safest thing you can do once claimed."

The irony of this statement—accepting violation as the safer path—isn't lost on me. But I recognize the truth in her words. She's describing survival strategies, not offering romantic advice.

"If you end up with a very large alpha, position becomes especially important," Flora continues. "Any movement during knotting can cause tearing, which is why it’s a good idea to make sure you can support your weight. Side-to-side positions are easier to bear if there’s… discomfort while you wait for the knot to subside."

Her gaze shifts suddenly, catching me watching. "You're Willow, yes? From Thornwick?"

I nod, keeping my expression gentle. "Yes."

She studies me with unexpected intensity, head tilting slightly. "Your frame is slight, even for an omega. If captured by a larger alpha, your greatest risk is pelvic fracture during forceful breeding. You'll want to position yourself to maintain some control over the depth of penetration—straddling positions allow downward resistance against their thrusts, though few alphas in full rut will permit such omega-dominant arrangements."

Several nearby tributes turn to look at me with a mixture of pity and morbid fascination. The irony—that beneath Willow's delicate appearance lies my blacksmith's frame, far more capable of withstanding physical trauma than most—sits bitter on my tongue.

"If pinned against a tree or on the ground," Flora continues, addressing me specifically now, "brace your forearms against their chest or hips to create space. Most breeding injuries occur when the omega cannot moderate the alpha's depth or force. And keep your neck turned even while presenting—a bite too close to major vessels can cause fatal blood loss."

She delivers this advice with the same tone someone might use to recommend a cooking technique. Her clinical detachment is both disturbing and necessary—she strips away any pretense of romance or dignity, focusing instead on pure physical survival.

"What about after?" asks another omega, barely more than a whisper. "If we survive the claiming, what happens next?"

Flora's composure slips for just a moment, a flash of genuine emotion crossing her features before the practiced mask returns. "If successfully impregnated, you'll be transported to the appropriate court for monitoring. The pregnancy advances unnaturally fast—three months rather than nine. Your body will..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "Your body will undergo adaptations to accommodate the fae embryo's magical requirements."

The euphemism hangs in the air, not nearly enough to mask the brutal reality. Stories of omega bodies transformed beyond recognition during fae pregnancies circulate through border villages—skin stretching to translucence, veins turning silver or gold as fae blood replaces human blood, organs shifting to make room for offspring too large for human wombs.

"Most omegas don't survive the birth," Flora acknowledges, her voice finally losing its practiced serenity. "Those who do are rarely the same afterward."

Silence falls across our gathered circle, the horror of our futures finally stripped of ceremonial bullshit. I notice several omegas touching their stomachs reflexively, as though already feeling the alien presence that will likely eat them from within.

"Well," Flora says, brightening her tone falsely, "that's why we must each find our own way to accept what comes. There's no changing our fate, only how we meet it."

The way she delivers this platitude—with practiced inflection and a dismissive hand gesture—confirms my hunch that her entire presentation is rehearsed. She's been trained for this moment, coached to prepare her fellow tributes while simultaneously encouraging us to accept our fate rather than resist it. I wonder if she’ll be so calm when she’s the one being held down and forcefully penetrated by an engorged alpha cock, fangs in her neck and bruises on her skin.

A bell chimes melodically, signaling the serving of the final course. Attendants—all of them fae—glide between our tables, distributing bowls of something that looks like honey-sweetened porridge but smells faintly of herbs I recognize from Fergus's hidden stash. Breeding enhancers, subtle fertility stimulants to prepare our bodies for what comes next.

I take the bowl but have no intention of eating any of it. Instead, I carefully spill it on the ground as I move between tables, scanning the crowd then approaching the most vulnerable omegas.

Mira is the one I go to first. Her seventeen years hang around her neck like a death sentence. Too young to have developed any survival skills, too poor to have received protection or training. Her small frame practically disappears inside her oversized ceremonial cloak, dark hair falling forward to hide features still soft with childhood.

I settle beside her, putting my now-empty bowl down. "Not hungry?"

She startles like a deer, wide eyes darting to my face before immediately dropping. "I can't," she whispers, voice cracking. "Every time I try, I just... I can't stop thinking about what she said about the biting and the... the knot." Her voice breaks on the final word.

I nod, understanding completely. While the other tributes are distracted, I slip an iron token from my sleeve, pressing it into her palm under the table. "Keep this hidden against your skin," I murmur. "Iron disrupts fae glamour. If one tries to cloud your mind during the chase, this will give you moments of clarity."

Her fingers close around the token, eyes widening. "That's forbidden," she breathes, even as she tucks it into her bodice.

"So is surviving." I hold her gaze. "There's a safe haven near the northern ridge. Look for a waterfall that splits around a standing stone. Alphas can't claim within that clearing, though the protection lasts only twelve hours."

"How do you know this?"

"I listen." Not entirely a lie. I've spent years collecting scraps of information about the Bloodmoon Forest, piecing together maps from travelers' tales and Fergus's restricted knowledge. "Follow the morning star tomorrow when you run. Don't stop until you reach water. If an alpha corners you before you reach safety, remember what Flora said—don't fight the knot, but do protect your neck. Turn your head to the side to keep the major vessels away from their teeth."

Hope flickers across her face—dangerous, maybe, but better than the empty resignation I'd seen before. She nods once, a gesture of such solemn determination that my heart twists painfully. In another life, this girl might have been a healer, a teacher, a mother. Instead, she's prey, her future measured in hours rather than decades.

I move on before our interaction draws attention, approaching Carrie next. The unremarkable seamstress sits with her hands folded in her lap, gray eyes fixed on nothing. Unlike Mira's terror or Flora's calculated serenity, Carrie radiates pure acceptance. She's already surrendered to whatever comes.

"Your cloak is coming loose," I say by way of introduction, using the excuse to settle beside her and adjust the ceremonial white fabric. As I do, I slip another iron token into her sleeve, along with a small parchment containing hastily drawn landmarks.

"The western stream forks around a lightning-struck tree," I whisper. "Follow it upstream to find a cave entrance hidden behind a curtain of silver vines. It leads to one of the seven havens. If you're caught before reaching it, go limp rather than rigid during claiming. Tensed muscles tear more easily, especially during the knot expansion. And if you're claimed by multiple alphas?—"

"Stop." Her voice cuts through mine, surprisingly firm for someone who appeared so defeated moments ago. "I appreciate the intentions behind your advice, but I've made my peace. This was always my fate from the moment I presented as an omega."

I study her face, searching for any crack in her resignation, any sign of rebellion. Finding none, I ask, "Why are you here? Really?"

"Why does anyone end up here? Bad luck. Poor family. Wrong biology." She shrugs. "My village needed the compensation. I had no special skills or prospects. The math was simple."

A cold calculation, but one I understand too well. Border villages operate on brutal pragmatism—individual lives weighed against collective survival. How many would my own life in Thornwick have saved if I'd registered as omega at twelve instead of hiding with Fergus's help?

"Take the token anyway," I insist. "You might change your mind when the Hunt begins."

She accepts it with a half-smile that holds no real hope. "There are no chances in the Hunt. Only time borrowed with interest we can't repay."

Before I can respond, a commotion near the tent entrance draws everyone's attention. The Spring Court emissary arrives, flower-petal skin glimmering in the lamplight as she announces the evening curfew. Guards appear at regular intervals around the tent's perimeter—not to keep dangers out, but to ensure we remain within.

"Return to your sleeping areas," the emissary instructs, her musical voice belying the command's finality. "Rest well. Dawn approaches quickly."

We're herded toward sleeping pallets arranged in neat rows at the tent's far end. Being close to each other should be comforting, but all the omegas are so wound tight that the fear only spreads. Some omegas cling to each other, forming protective clusters that will be torn apart within hours. Others isolate themselves, already preparing for the solitude of the chase.

I claim a pallet near the edge, giving me clear sightlines to both exits and the majority of tributes. The straw mattress crackles beneath my weight, the sound loud in the growing quiet. Around me, whispered prayers and muffled sobs create a strange night song.

Flora arranges herself gracefully on a nearby pallet, her platinum hair braided tightly for sleep. Even this seems performative, as if she’s keeping her beauty intact for the morning, so she catches the right alpha’s eyes. When she catches me watching, she offers an enigmatic smile.

"The first time always hurts the most," she whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. "But after that, you learn to separate your mind from your body. You exist somewhere else while they take what they need." Her perfect composure finally cracks, revealing the frightened girl beneath the careful training. "I hope you find that place quickly, Willow of Thornwick."

I lie back, staring at the tent's peaked ceiling where strange shadows dance in the lamplight. Sleep seems ridiculous given what awaits us at dawn, yet my body craves rest after days of tension. The iron tokens remaining against my thigh press into my muscle, a comforting reminder of my preparation.

My thoughts drift to Willow, hopefully still safely unconscious in Thornwick. By now, Thaddeus must have discovered the deception. I wonder if he's relieved or horrified—to find his daughter alive but another in her place, walking willingly toward the doom meant for her. I hope someday he'll understand why I couldn't watch her die when I had the strength to take her place.

"Willow," a voice whispers from the darkness. "Are you awake?"

I turn to find Sera, the omega with silver-white hair and strangely patterned skin, kneeling beside my pallet. Her eyes reflect lamplight with unusual intensity, her expression determined.

"What is it?" I whisper.

She glances around before leaning closer. "You've been giving away iron tokens."

My muscles tense, preparing for trouble. Possession of iron is punishable by immediate culling during the Hunt—the fae courts take no chances with the one substance that naturally disrupts their magic.

"I saw you," she continues, voice barely audible. "With the young one, and the seamstress."

I weigh my options quickly. Denial seems pointless; she clearly saw the exchanges. Attack would draw unwanted attention. Truth, then, or enough of it to satisfy.

"They need protection more than I do."

Sera studies me with unnerving intensity. "You've been to the forest before."

Not a question, but an assessment based on the landmarks I shared. I shake my head. "Just repeated what I've heard."

"No one 'just hears' about the lightning-struck tree or the waterfall clearing." Her expression hardens. "Those are survivor knowledge, passed only between those who've entered the forest and returned."

An impossibility, given the Hunt's death rate, but she speaks with first person knowledge in her voice. I realize suddenly what she must be—one of the exceedingly rare omegas who survived a previous Hunt, pregnancy, and birth. Such women exist in rumors only, their existence as mythical as dragons to most border villages.

"You've survived it," I breathe.

She neither confirms nor denies, but her silence is answer enough. "Tomorrow when you run," she says instead, "ignore the obvious paths. The forest shifts during the Hunt to create optimal tracking conditions. What seems like escape is often a funnel toward waiting alphas."

I absorb this information, comparing it against the maps I've memorized. "The havens?"

"Real, but fewer than seven remain active. The court magic that protected them has weakened over generations." Her hand moves to her sleeve, withdrawing something small that gleams dully in the low light. "Take this."

She presses a metal object into my palm—a compass, but unlike any I've seen before. Instead of pointing north, its needle races back and forth, as though tracking forces invisible to my eyes.

"It detects the nearest active haven," she explains. "A remnant from... before."

"Why give this to me?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. Of all the omegas present, "Willow" seems least likely to survive long enough to use such a valuable tool.

Sera's eyes, reflecting too much light, have uncomfortable knowledge in them. "Because you're not what you seem," she says finally. "And neither is the Hunt."

Before I can question her cryptic words, she's gone, gliding between pallets to return to her own sleeping area. I close my fingers around the compass, feeling its subtle vibration against my skin—a comfort and a warning. I won’t be able to avoid claiming forever.

Another tool for survival, another unexpected alliance. I tuck the compass securely into my bodice alongside the remaining iron tokens, adding this new advantage to my mental inventory.

Sleep doesn't come as the night deepens. Around me, the collective breathing of thirty-six omegas creates a rhythm broken by occasional whimpers or muffled sobs. I stare at the tent ceiling, painfully aware of each passing hour that brings dawn closer.

My thoughts keep returning to the Winter Prince. His eyes on me at the viewing ceremony bothers me like a splinter under my skin. Why did he, of all the alphas there, seem to see something beneath Willow's appearance? What sparked that interest in eyes, the eyes of a fae prince seven centuries old?

More importantly, what will happen if he's the one to catch me? Flora spoke of the different courts' claiming styles, but said nothing of the Winter Prince specifically. Does his legendary control extend to the claiming itself? Or would centuries of restraint make the eventual release all the more violent?

I imagine those cold eyes blazing with rut-fever, that perfect composure shattered by primal instinct. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends an unexpected flush of heat through my core—a reaction I immediately shut down through sheer willpower.

This is what Flora meant about separating mind from body. Already my omega biology betrays me, responding to the mere thought of a powerful alpha when I should be focusing solely on survival.

The silver bracelet throbs gently against my wrist, its magic a constant reminder of the binding I cannot escape. Once the Hunt begins, there will be no sanctuary for tributes except the temporary reprieve of the havens. We run, they chase. Some will die immediately, torn apart in territorial disputes between competing alphas. Others will survive claiming only to perish during pregnancy or birth. A precious few might live, forever changed by what happens in the Bloodmoon Forest.

I've chosen this fate willingly, stepping into Willow's place with my eyes open. But as I lie awake on the eve of the Hunt, surrounded by the palpable fear of my fellow tributes, the reality of what awaits me is stark.

Tomorrow, I'll run into the Bloodmoon Forest wearing Willow's face but carrying my own strength. I'll draw the most dangerous alphas away from weaker prey, leading them on a chase designed to occupy them while others reach safety.

A dangerous game with my life as the wager. But I've been gambling with survival since the day Fergus found me hiding in his cellar, an omega masquerading as something else, existing in the margins.

One more deception. One final masquerade.

Let the Hunt come. I'm ready.