Page 19 of Run Little Omega

Flora meets my eyes from across the tent, her thin, pale fingers making quick work of braiding her platinum hair. She gives me a small nod that might mean good luck or might just be saying goodbye, or even rest in peace. Next to her, Mira can’t stop trembling, her young face white as chalk now that morning is here and there’s no more pretending this isn’t happening.

“Form a procession,” barks the Spring Court emissary, her flower-petaled skin glowing in the dawn’s soft light. “Line up in order with the dignity that befits the honor being bestowed on you as tributes.”

Honor. Like we’ve been promoted instead of sentenced to painful deaths.

They march us back to the stone circle in a single file line. Hundreds of people watch us from the edges—human villagers on one side, fae court nobles on the other. Our people look away, faces tight with guilt and relief that it’s not their daughters. The fae just stare with hungry eyes, like we’re goats headed for the slaughter.

The silver bracelet on my wrist starts pulsing, making all the hair on my arm stand on end. I glance down to see that it’s lit up a bright red color, and am relieved to find the others are lit up too. Murmurs rise around us as up in the sky clouds part to reveal that the crimson moon has risen, its dark red glow pulsing crimson at the edges. It’ll remain there in the sky, first waxing then waning, until the end of the Hunt, visible day and night as it makes its journey.

My bracelet burns, worse than it seems to hurt the others. They flinch and rub their wrists but seem to calm as we grow closer to the stones. Meanwhile I’m btiing my tongue to keep from screaming as fire shoots up my arm in waves. Something about me, either my blood or the glamour spell, has pissed off the fae magic. I just hope nobody notices so I don’t get culled.

A figure awaits us at the circle’s center, someone I’ve never seen before in the flesh but instantly recognize from the whispered descriptions that have circulated through the borderlands for generations: Elder Iris Blom.

I recognize her by her stature, taller than the other female fae, and distinctly of the Spring Court. She has pale pink skin, like flower petals, and golden hair curled in elaborate braids around her head with living tendrils growing through it. The hair and tendrils alike sprout from her scalp, and her eyes are a deep forest green with amber rings. She’s wearing a long, thin gossamer gown made from what apepars to be flower petals, the soft colors of them shifting in a gradient from purple to pink to white. There are even tiny flowers growing around the sharply pointed tips of her ears, their leaves and blossoms shifting and turning towards the sun.

As we approach, her scent hits me like a breeze blowing through a blooming flower garden. The sharp, floral scent clings to my nostrils, and I have to swallow a sneeze. This is the architect of the modern Hunt, a female wrapped in delicate feminine concepts like spring and growth, a woman who transformed the Wild Hunt into what it is today. Legends say that before she took over, fae fertility was at such an all-time low it was feared (or hoped) their kind would go extinct—until the Spring Court elder took over and increased birth rates tenfold.

“Welcome, treasured tributes,” she says, her voice surprisingly deep and rich. “Today you will participate in a tradition older than memory, a sacred exchange that maintains the balance between our realms.”

Sacred exchange. More pretty words for an ugly truth. She announces the Hunt rules like they’re anything less than formalized brutality: we get a one-hour head start before they release the alphas, we can’t go past the ancient oaks marking the boundaries, and the havens offer twelve hour respites for us to “refresh our bodies” for the purpose of carrying fae infants.

“The Hunt honors our deepest nature,” she continues. “It celebrates the primal dance of pursuit and surrender, of strength and dominance meeting fertile submission.”

I tune out her voice before it makes me explode with range. Instead I study the alphas lined up beyond the circle. They stand in neat rows, carefully set back from us, but their control is tissue-paper thin—muscles coiled tight, nostrils flared to catch our scents, eyes narrowed as they track our every movement like wolves stalking lambs.

Each court’s alphas look different. The Summer Court alpha radiest heat, their golden-hued bodies tanned just this side of unnatural, their hair shades of yellow, ginger, and red. The Autumn Court alphas have skin in shades of tawny brown and rich umber, their faces long and sharp, dark hair braided back and eyes thoughtful yet hungry. The Spring Court alphas are the worst—they appear soft and gentle, with pink and lavender skin tones and plants trailing from their hair, but everyone knows they’re the cruelest of the lot, obsessed with fertility and breeding at all costs.

And then there’s the Winter Court alphas. They stand apart from the others, distant like a long winter’s snow covering the ground. Their skin ranges from porcelian white to pale blue, as well as the opposite end of the spectrum, blue-black and deep dark grey. They have ice-blue eyes that catch the light like crystals, and hair that’s either the sharpest white or the deepest, richest black. At their center, separate from the others and elevated, stands Prince Cadeyrn, the only royal fae alpha who participates in the hunt—the only without his own harem of court omegas to breed as he pleases.

He’s different today. Yesterday he kept his distance, but now he’s front and center. While the other alphas fidget, nostrils flaring and bodies tense, he stands still and relaxed. The others are already halfway to rut—wide black pupils, sweat-slick skin, thick musk rolling off them—but the Winter Prince looks completely in control of himself.

Something has changed, though. He’s not just glancing over the selection anymore. He’s focusing, searching, looking for something. When his eyes find me in the group, they lock on, his head tilting slightly like he’s puzzling something out.

I force myself to look away, but not before I see his expression shift—those ice-blue eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring. He’s trying to catch my scent, even with the shadowroot tea masking it.

“The ancient agreement between our realms requires willing participation,” Iris says, yanking my attention back to her. “Step forward now if any among you withdraws consent.”

What a fucking joke. The silver bracelets make it impossible for us to refuse—any omega who tried to run would drop screaming as the magic burned through her veins. This charade of choice lets them pretend they’re not monsters.

Nobody moves, of course. Elder Iris smiles like a well-fed cat.

“Then we’ll proceed.” She lifts a crystall horn to her lips. “When the horn sounds, your hour of grace begins. Use it wisely, treasured ones.”

She doesn’t spare another moment, doesn’t give us any mercy. With a deep breath and a sharp exhale, she blows the horn, and its blast cuts through the morning air—a sound so sharp it slices through me. For one heartbeat, we all freeze, thirty-six women and girls standing at the edge of a cliff we’re about to be shoved off.

Then all hell breaks loose.

The Omegas bolt like startled rabbits, white shifts flowing as they scatter in every direction. Some run blind with terror, while others clump together in groups. A few stumble or try to run in the wrong way, so the fae guards drag them to the trees. Nobody gets out of this. Not even if you surrender.

I’m the only one who takes a measured approach, taking a deep breath and mentally reviewing the forest map while I job forward. The alpha notice my determination—I catch several watching me with new interest. A prickle goes down my spin as I realize they want to hunt me because of my lack of fear, no doubt to break me, more than anything.

I feel Prince Cadeyrn’s stare more than any other.

I meet his gaze directly before sliding into the mask, mouthing a silent fuck you that actually gets a reaction—his perfect mask slips for just a second, eyes widening before he smirks just a little. After I tear my eyes away I move with purpose, heading straight for the deepest parts of the forest where most omegas wouldn’t dare venture.

The Bloodmoon Forest doesn’t give a damn that we’re running for our lives. Massive black-barked trees tower overhead, their trunks twisted from centuries of growth. Silver leaves catch sunlight, casting disorienting patterns on the ground. The forest floor is springly underfoot, packed with dead leaves that never fully decay. Each step kicks up the scent of dirt and something metallic—like old blood. As if the omegas from past Hunts are dying beneath the leaf cover.

One moment I’m at the edge of the clearing, and the next I’m deep in dense forest. It shouldn’t be this thick this close to open ground. I remember Sera’s warning about the Hunt—the forest rearranges itself to drawn in prey.

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