Page 8 of Run Little Omega

In the darkness, I can see Willow's face as I left her bedside earlier—the fragile peace in her expression, the acceptance I’ll never share with her. My friend believes she's living her final days with dignity, giving purpose to an inevitable death. Well, I say fuck that.

I’m going to make those days extend into years, regardless of the price I might pay in the Bloodmoon Forest.

The glamour spell is only the beginning. If I'm going to survive the Hunt long enough to make a difference, I'll need more than just Willow's appearance. I'll need knowledge, weapons, and preparation no omega has brought to the forest before.

The iron tokens were just the start. Tomorrow, I'll need to extract blood and hair from Willow without raising suspicion. Then I'll need to practice the spell itself, master the Old Tongue pronunciations, prepare my body for what's coming.

Outside, the festival sounds begin to fade as exhaustion claims the revelers. Soon Thornwick will sleep, unaware that one of their own plans to undermine generations of tradition. To defy the fae courts themselves.

My path is set now. I may not survive what's coming, but I also won’t stand aside while Willow is sacrificed. If the Wild Hunt wants an omega from Thornwick, they'll have one—just not the one they expect.

And unlike the omegas who came before, I won't be easy prey. The fae alphas of the Hunt are used to frightened, unprepared girls. They've never chased a blacksmith with iron in her pockets and fire in her heart.

Let them come. I'll be ready.

CHAPTER4

POV: Briar

Magic demands precision.It’s unforgiving, brutal even, when you fuck it up. One wrong word, one misplaced ingredient, and the spell collapses—or worse, twists into something else entirely.

Tonight, I can’t afford to make any mistakes.

Midnight approaches as I slip out of the forge's back entrance, a leather satchel clutched to my chest. Inside it is the torn grimoire page, a copper bowl polished to mirror brightness, seven white candles, a vial of preserving herbs, and the most crucial ingredients—Willow's blood and hair, collected over weeks of daily visits.

Each strand of platinum blonde hair carefully taken from her comb, each bloodied handkerchief pocketed when her father wasn't looking. Small thefts that felt like betrayals even as I did them. Necessary evils to prevent the worse fate waiting for her at the Gathering Circle.

The forest behind the forge gives me privacy, a small clearing where moonlight pools like silver water. It’s perfect for ritual magic that needs lunar energy. Tonight is the only night I can do this, just before the moon waxes crimson and the Wild Hunt begins.

My hands work steadily despite my shaking fingers. First, the circle of protection—not against magical threats but against nosy humans. The last thing I need is some drunk villager stumbling on a blacksmith's apprentice doing forbidden magic. Seven candles placed at key points, their flames oddly still in the night breeze.

Inside this circle, I arrange Willow's hair in a spiral around the copper bowl. Each pale strand seems to glow in the moonlight.

From my pocket, I take out the small vial with scraps of Willow's handkerchiefs, dark with dried blood. These go into the bowl, followed by seven drops of preserving herb mixture to rehydrate the blood. The mixture begins to swirl, giving off a faint metallic smell that mixes with the forest scents around me.

The grimoire page sits on a flat stone in front of me, its ancient writing shifting slightly as if the words are alive. Magic keeps its creator's intention going, sometimes long after they're gone.

I wonder briefly who made this spell—someone else trying to save someone they loved? Or something darker, like stealing a lover or even committing murder?

No time for that now. The moon reaches its highest point, flooding the clearing with pale light. I take out my smallest blade—a thin, sharp tool I usually use for detail work on silver. Tonight, it has a different purpose.

"Blood willingly given forms the strongest bonds," I whisper, quoting my mother as I press the blade to my fingertip. The sting is quick, almost welcome in its clarity. Seven drops fall into the bowl, rippling across the surface.

Now comes the crucial part—the spell words themselves. The stolen page contains words in the Old Tongue, a language no longer spoken here but preserved in rituals and songs. I've practiced the pronunciation for three days straight, my mouth struggling with the forgotten syllables, which descend from ancient Faerie languages we once shared with the fae.

I take a deep breath and begin to read.

The first words hang visible in the night air like smoke. Each syllable makes the hair on my arms stand up. The second phrase causes the blood mixture to bubble and release a pale vapor that smells like burning roses.

By the third line, the air around me thickens, pressure building like I'm suddenly underwater. The candle flames stretch toward the center of the circle, pulled by invisible forces.

The final words are hardest to say—my tongue feels swollen, my throat fighting against sounds it was never meant to make. But I force them out, one by one, each syllable precise despite how much it hurts. For Willow.

As the last word fades, the mixture in the bowl suddenly ignites. Not with normal fire, but with cold, white flame that burns without heat. The vapor thickens, forming a column that rises to eye level before curling toward me like it's alive.

The grimoire's instructions are clear: I must breathe in the vapor to complete the transformation.

I hesitate for just a heartbeat before leaning forward and breathing deeply.

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