Page 1 of Run Little Omega

CHAPTER1

POV: Briar

I smellthe fear before I see it on their faces.

It’s a sour note, hanging just beneath the woodsmoke and morning dew. It clings to every house in Thornwick today that houses an omega, the anticipation of grief and death seeping from under doorframes and wafting through open windows. Women hang sprigs of dried rosemary and bunches of rowan berries above their threshholds, while men shoe their horses with iron and clutch their daggers close.

Protection rituals. For all the good they’ll do them.

The forge is my sanctuary on days like this, when the village reeks of desperation. Metal doesn’t lie, doesn’t fear. It yields or resists, honest in its response to my hammer. Right now, I’m grateful for its simplicity as I shape a horseshoe, each strike echoing through the empty workshop.

“That for Widow Harlow’s gelding?” Fergus asks, his wide frame filling the doorway as he enters, bringing with him the scent of barley bread and smoke. “Swore I just shod ‘im.”

I nod without looking up. “Third one this month. Beast keeps throwing shoes on the northern road.”

My mentor grunts, moving to stoke the fire. I catch him watching me as I work, his scrutiny intense yet subtle. He gives a small nod of satisfaction and pride as I finish up. I’ve earned that pride through a decade of apprenticeship, through blisters and burns and countless hours perfecting my skills as a smithy.

What no one knows, save Fergus and me, is that I shouldn’t be here at all. I should be one of the girls in white today.

The thought makes me tighten my grip on the hammer to the point of pain. I bring it down with more force than needed, the impact jolting up my arm. I’ve survived this long by controlling everything about myself: my scent, maked daily with bitter herbs; my body, strengthened beyond what is typical with any omega; my emotions, carefully masked at all times.

“You took your tonic this morning?” Fergus asks casually.

“Always do.” It used to annoy me, the way Fergus hovers over my shoulder. I realized as I got older and saw omegas disappear during the Wild Hunt that he was just afraid. “My cycle is still weeks away, though. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I will anyway. Especially… especially until the crimson moon passes for another seven years.”

There’s nothing I can say to that. So I plunge the horseshoe into water, savoring the sound of the hiss and the sudden steam that clouds my vision. When it clears, I see her—a ghostlike presence at the forge entrance, her white-blonde hair catching morning light like spun silver.

Willow.

My hammer stills mid-air, suspended in the sudden silence. Something fractures inside me at the sight of her—too thin, too pale, too ethereal. As if she’s already halfway to becoming a ghost.

“I’ll check our stock of nails,” Fergus mutters as he makes a quick exit to the storeroom.

Willow glides into the forge with strange, otherworldly grace that’s grown more pronounced as her illness progresses. Each step seems to cost her precious energy, but she moves with the dignity of someone who has made peace with their fate. Her leaf-green eyes find mine, and the smile that spreads across her gaunt face is luminous.

“I thought I’d find you hiding away in here,” she says in her soft, lilting voice.

I set my tools down and wipe my hands on my leather apron, suddenly conscious of my sweat-dampened hair and soot-streaked forearms, so contrasting to her pristine presence.

“I’m not hiding,” I counter, forcing lightness into my tone. “Someone has to shoe the horses while everyone else hangs up useless herbs.”

Willow’s smile doesn’t waver, but her gaze sharpens. We’ve been friends too long for my lightness to fool her. “They’re not useless. They bring comfort.”

“Comfort doesn’t stop what’s coming.”

She reaches for my hand, her fingers thin and soft against my callused palm. “Nothing stops what’s coming, Briar. We both know that.”

The unspoken truth hangs between us, heavy and painful. Willow is dying, has been dying by inches for months now. The wasting sickness has hollowed her from the inside out, turning her into a husk of the beautiful girl I grew up with, who was hale and joyful. The apothecary, her own father, has run out of treatments. Even the hedge witch’s spells have failed.

And now the selection ceremony.

“Your father,” I begin, an edge in my voice, “he didn’t have to go and?—”

“It was my choice too, Briar.” She grips my hand tightly with surprising strength. “If I’m going to die anyway, at least this way it serves a propose. The village gets seven years of protection. My family receives compensation.”

“You’re not cattle to be traded,” I hiss.

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