Page 192 of Run Little Omega

She glances between us, noting my presumption but raising no objection. Through our bond, I feel Cadeyrn's approval, his pride in my assertion of authority. "Of course, Lady Briar. Already many gather in the outer courtyards—omegas from all four territories, some with children, others alone. All bearing awakening cillae."

The image strikes me with unexpected force—omegas finding sanctuary in the Winter Court, of all places. The same palace that once housed the coldest, most controlled breeding program now offering protection to those awakening to Wild Magic. Irony has never tasted quite so sweet.

"They'll need proper accommodation," Cadeyrn observes, ever practical. "And instruction in controlling newly awakened magic."

"Later," I tell him, fighting to keep my eyes open as exhaustion claims its due. "First, I need more sleep. And probably another twelve meals. Growing four magical beings takes a lot out of you."

His laugh holds genuine warmth, his hand squeezing mine with gentle pressure. "Rest, then. The transformation continues whether we oversee it directly or not."

As I settle back against the furs, four impossible children arranged between us, I think of everything that's changed since I entered the Hunt wearing my friend's face. The blacksmith's apprentice who expected to die fighting, now mother to four children carrying balanced Wild Magic. The Winter Prince whose perfect control defined him for seven centuries, now transformed by claiming into something wilder, truer.

Not an ending but a beginning. Not victory through dominance but transformation through balance.

Outside our sanctuary, the Wild Magic continues its gradual spread, touching those with even traces of old blood throughout all four territories. Small skirmishes flare where resistance remains strongest, but these grow fewer with each passing hour as more awaken to cillae and recognize kin where once they saw enemy.

Within the throne room, our four impossible children sleep peacefully, unaware that their very existence has triggered the transformation of an entire magical system. Ember with his quicksilver fire magic, Alder with his steady earth rhythms, Lyra with her dancing air currents, little Willow with her flowing water patterns—all balanced rather than separated, all necessary parts of a whole that court doctrine tried to divide.

"Sleep," Cadeyrn murmurs, his hand finding mine as cillae synchronize between us. "Tomorrow brings new challenges, but for now, we've earned this moment of peace."

I surrender to exhaustion, knowing he's right. The transformation we've begun extends far beyond these walls, beyond our direct influence or control. The Wild Magic awakens what court doctrine suppressed for centuries, flowing through pathways long sealed by artificial division.

Somewhere in the borderlands, Willow tends to her garden, unaware that the wasting sickness slowly retreats as poisoned earth purifies beneath Wild Magic's influence. In other villages, omegas find cillae spreading across their skin, magic responding to emotion rather than rigid training. In court territories, rigid hierarchy fractures as those with old blood awaken to possibilities beyond artificial separation.

The future unfolds not with dramatic battles but with quieter, more persistent transformation—Wild Magic remembering what it once was, what it was always meant to be.

Run, little omega. Not from death, but toward rebirth. Not alone, but together. Not in fear, but in transformation's embrace.

EPILOGUE: SEVEN YEARS LATER

POV: Briar

The crimson moonhangs bloated above the Gathering Circle, bleeding ancient magic into the night. I stand where I once trembled in another's skin, my copper hair—now permanently streaked with silver—catching the light as I survey the gathered volunteers before me. The cillae etched across my skin pulse with blue-white light, responding to the ancient celestial body that started this whole bloody transformation.

Seven years ago, I entered this forest wearing a glamour spell and carrying the fate of Thornwick village on my shoulders. Tonight, I wear only my true face and the scars of all I've survived. The cillae have become a part of me, living sigils that dance with my emotions and connect me to something older than the courts, wilder than their rigid divisions.

I trace the most prominent pattern—a jagged spiral that begins at my claiming mark and wraps around my throat like a question. It pulses with the same rhythm as my heart, a physical reminder of how completely the Wild Magic has changed me from the defiant blacksmith who once fought even her own omega biology.

No white-cloaked sacrifices stand before me tonight. No silver tracking bracelets bind unwilling wrists. Instead, twenty-three volunteers wait in a loose circle around the ancient stones, their expressions showing determined curiosity rather than resigned terror. Some bear cillae of their own—awakened omegas who discovered their magic after our transformation of the courts. Others remain unmarked but equally resolute, having chosen this path with open eyes and willing hearts.

"The Hunt transforms," I tell them, my voice carrying easily through the night air. "It strips away pretense, forces confrontation with your true nature. What emerges may not be what you expect."

I see understanding in their eyes, mixed with the inevitable apprehension. How could it be otherwise? Despite our efforts to restore the Hunt's original purpose, it remains a journey into primal truth that few are truly prepared to face. I remember my own journey—running not just from death but from the claiming that would forever alter me. Fighting a bond I now cherish even with its complications.

"The forest participates," I continue, gesturing to the Bloodmoon trees that surround us, their black bark and silver leaves rustling with sentient awareness. "It remembers what the courts forgot—that balance requires both pursuit and surrender, both strength and vulnerability. Trust its guidance even when the path seems uncertain."

As if responding to my words, a branch from the nearest blackthorn bends toward me, silver leaves brushing against my cheek with deliberate gentleness. I feel the forest's recognition—the connection forged during that first claiming beneath a similar tree, when crimson sap rained down upon Cadeyrn and me as Wild Magic erupted between us. That memory still burns in my flesh, a heat that time has transformed but never diminished.

The wind shifts suddenly, carrying a scent that makes my pointed ears twitch with recognition. The quadruplets are approaching from the tree line, their presence announcing itself moments before they materialize from between ancient blackthorns. Each step they take sends ripples through the Wild Magic that saturates this place, like pebbles dropped in still water.

Alder leads, as he often does—steady and methodical at seven years old, with dark hair patterned with frost resembling tree roots spreading across his scalp. His eyes shift between amber and earth-brown as he scans the gathering, assessing with a seriousness that belies his age. Earth magic flows from his feet with each step, causing tiny shoots to sprout and then recede in his wake. Of all our children, he most resembles Cadeyrn in his careful evaluation before action, though without the centuries of court control to stifle his natural warmth.

Lyra follows, her copper hair streaked with silver like mine, moving in currents only she perceives. Her feet barely touch the ground, air magic holding her partially aloft in a state of perpetual grace. At seven, she already shows a connection to the wind that even the most accomplished court mages find unsettling. She spins into view, cillae dancing across her skin like musical notes waiting to be played. Of all the quadruplets, her magic manifests most visibly, most constantly—refusing containment just as air refuses to be held.

Ember arrives next, raising the temperature wherever he passes. Frost crystals melt in concentric circles around him, reforming as he moves past. His black hair flashes with copper highlights like banked coals, his temper as quick as his smile. Fire magic dances at his fingertips, responding to emotions he hasn't yet learned to fully control—though not for lack of trying. He's burned down three training rooms this year alone, each incident followed by genuine remorse and fervent promises to master his impulses. Each promise lasts exactly until his next surge of feeling.

Little Willow completes their quartet, silver-white hair framing a face too wise for its years. Her mismatched eyes—one ice-blue, one amber-gold—see both realms simultaneously, a perspective that often leaves her speaking in riddles her siblings translate for us. Water magic flows around her, never still, always seeking connection. Unlike her brothers' assertive presence or Lyra's ethereal movements, Willow moves with liquid purpose, adaptable yet inexorable. She carries her namesake's gentle spirit but with a core of strength the original Willow never needed to develop.

They arrange themselves at the circle's edge, watching with solemn curiosity as the volunteers prepare for their journey. Though they've witnessed the transformed Hunt each year since their birth, this marks the first time they've been allowed to attend the beginning ceremony. They understand, in their way, that they are both cause and result of the changes that swept through both realms.

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