Page 112 of Run Little Omega

"Now you choose," The Hound answers, backing toward the forest's edge as my scent intensifies beyond what even his remarkable control can withstand. "Complete the transformation alone—possible, but agonizing, and likely to kill you—or call to him through your bond. Invite him to the Sacred Grove where Wild Magic was first balanced between alpha and omega."

Another wave of heat crashes through me, drawing a cry I can't suppress. The claiming bond burns between us, carrying my pain to Cadeyrn in waves that match the pulsing crimson light.

"He'll come regardless," The Hound adds, now barely visible at the forest's edge. "The question is whether you'll allow him to cross the threshold. No alpha may enter the Sacred Grove without invitation from one who carries Wild Magic in their blood."

I close my eyes, feeling the forest's ancient awareness surrounding me, neither pressuring nor guiding but simply witnessing my choice. The crimson moon hangs directly overhead now, its light no longer simply illuminating but actively reshaping me with each pulsing wave.

Through our bond, I sense Cadeyrn moving toward me, drawn by instinct and concern rather than possessive rage. Whatever transformation began with our claiming continues in both of us, changing him as profoundly as it changes me.

The heat builds to unbearable levels, my body arching involuntarily as another vision crashes through me—the original Wild Hunt concluding in perfect balance, alpha and omega transformed together into something neither court politics nor human prejudice could categorize.

Something that belonged only to itself and to the Wild Magic flowing between realms.

As the crimson moon reaches its absolute zenith, casting the Sacred Grove in perfect blood-red illumination, I make my choice.

CHAPTER40

POV: Briar

I'm dying.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Actually fucking dying.

My insides feel like they're being ripped apart by invisible claws. Heat pulses through me in merciless waves, each one worse than the last, turning my blood to liquid fire. I writhe on the ancient stone dais, skin slick with sweat that evaporates almost instantly in the oppressive crimson light.

This isn't normal heat. This is something else—a transformation stalled midway, Wild Magic awakened but incomplete, tearing me apart from the inside out.

I bite down on my knuckles to stifle another scream as a fresh surge hits me. The taste of copper floods my mouth. Great. Now I'm bleeding. Just perfect.

The Sacred Grove's flowers pulse in sick synchronicity with my convulsing body, their blood-red petals drinking in my agony like it's some kind of fucked-up fertilizer. The crimson moon hangs bloated and obscene above me, its light drilling into my marrow, rewriting something fundamental that was never meant to be unfinished.

"They're coming," The Hound calls from the edge of the grove, his voice tight with urgency. "Court hunting parties. At least two dozen alphas."

I want to respond with something cutting. Something brave. All that comes out is a keening wail that doesn't sound remotely human.

My fingernails have lengthened to curved points, magic gathering around them even as my core burns. The silver threading through my copper hair has taken over completely now, each strand catching the crimson light like metal wire.

Half-transformed. Caught in between. Dying by fucking inches.

The forest erupts with violence—trees shattering, underbrush cracking, animals scattering in terror. The hunting parties have arrived, their coordinated magic breaking through the ancient woodland's barriers.

Then—a cold so intense it cuts through even my fever.

Winter descends at the forest's edge, not natural winter but something older, primal. Trees explode as sap flash-freezes within their trunks. The ground hardens with an audible crack, arcane patterns identical to those covering my skin spreading in all directions. The very air crystallizes, moisture particles suspended like diamond dust in the eerie stillness.

Cadeyrn.

I push myself up on trembling arms, desperate for a glimpse of him through the grove's protective barrier. What I see steals what little breath I have left.

It's him, but not him. Still Cadeyrn's face, still his midnight-black hair—but everything else has changed. Tiny spring flowers bloom along his hairline, appearing and dying and reappearing in endless cycles. His marble-white skin now bears patches of autumn camouflage that shift and swirl like fallen leaves in wind. The summer court's golden tan spreads across his chest in patterns that pulse with internal fire.

Wild Magic. Not just winter anymore, but all courts. All seasons. The barriers between them dissolving as he fights.

And fight he does. Nine alphas surround him, more approaching through the trees. Representatives from all courts move with unnatural coordination, millennia of rivalry set aside to eliminate the threat we apparently represent.

His power has grown exponentially since our separation. Ice erupts from his fingertips with surgical precision, freezing a Summer Court alpha solid mid-leap. His movements blur with impossible speed as he evades Spring Court vines that whip toward his legs. When an Autumn Court alpha gets too close, decay magic eating at the edges of his shield, Cadeyrn responds with a roar that shakes the very ground, ice spears erupting from the frozen earth to impale his attacker.

But he's outnumbered. Badly. As I watch, a Spring Court alpha manages to entangle his leg with thorned vines. A Summer Court alpha circles behind, hands blazing with killing fire.

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