Page 96 of Run Little Omega

"Because you must decide who you are," the Survivor says. "And who he is to you. Is he the alpha whose touch awakens magic in your blood? Or the prince who authorized countless murders of omegas and their children? Can he be both? Can you bond with someone capable of such deliberate cruelty?"

My hand moves unconsciously to my abdomen. We've coupled repeatedly throughout my heat, his body locking with mine each time, filling me with his seed. If I conceive, would our child meet court standards? Or would Cadeyrn sign the order for our execution if the infant displayed unpredictable magic?

"He doesn't know," I say, though even to my ears it sounds desperate. "He can't understand the full extent of this."

The Survivor's expression softens marginally. "He has signed those orders for seven centuries, girl. Whether he witnessed the executions personally or not, he authorized them. Every mound in the Winter Court section bears his signature on its death warrant."

I move forward as if pulled by invisible force, following the corrupted stream to where graves bear the Winter Court insignia—the stylized snowflake etched into Cadeyrn's formal regalia. These mounds are oldest, most numerous, stretching back further than any other court's section.

A cold fury builds within me, ice forming on my fingertips as my awakening magic responds to emotion. Frost crystals spread across the tainted stream's surface wherever my hand passes, imprisoning the unnatural oils in grotesque patterns.

"This ends," I whisper, my breath materializing as visible frost despite the warm afternoon. "Whatever the cost, this ends now."

"What will you do?" The Survivor watches intently.

I survey once more the field of unmarked graves, the poisoned stream carrying death to my village, the evidence of centuries of methodical murder linking directly to the man who has claimed me as his.

Ice spirals up my forearms, no longer following the elegant patterns of our claiming bond but forming sharp, angular edges like weaponry. The pendant against my chest grows cold, responding to my fury rather than shielding me from surrounding corruption.

"I'll make him witness what he's done," I state, voice steady despite the storm raging within. "Then force his choice—between his precious court traditions and what our bond could become."

We retrace our path in silence, my mind cataloging every horror, cementing every detail into memory that no claiming bond can erase. By the time we reach the central haven, my rage has transformed into something cold and lethal, like the ice now forming beneath each footfall.

The Survivor pauses at the haven's boundary. "Remember, he may not have wielded the blade, but his signature authorized every cut."

I nod, the markings on my skin pulsing with contained fury. "I won't forget."

I enter the haven alone and wait at its center, surrounded by white stones concealing the hidden archive. Ice spreads with each breath, coating the ground in angular formations that mirror the jagged patterns now covering my skin rather than the flowing spirals of our claiming bond.

When Cadeyrn returns, game slung across his shoulder, he halts abruptly. His expression shifts from satisfaction to confusion to wariness as he registers the ice, the rage, the accusation in my stance.

"Briar?" He sets down his kill and approaches cautiously. "What's happened?"

I meet his gaze directly, letting him see the full force of my fury, letting him feel through our bond the horror and betrayal coursing through me.

"Tell me about the cullings, Prince Cadeyrn," I demand, frost emanating from my body in waves that make the air between us shimmer. "Tell me about the infants buried alive in the Vale."

All color drains from his face, and for the first time since I've known him, the Winter Prince looks afraid—not of me, but of the truth I've unearthed. Of the choice now confronting him.

And perhaps, most of all, of the judgment in my eyes where once had grown fragile trust.

CHAPTER34

POV: Briar

The silencebetween us stretches like ice across a winter lake—beautiful, treacherous, and moments away from shattering. Cadeyrn stands motionless at the clearing's edge, his kill forgotten at his feet. The cillae across his skin pulse erratically, betraying emotions his face refuses to reveal.

"Briar." My name emerges from his lips like a prayer and plea wrapped into one. "What have you done?"

"What haveIdone?" The laugh that escapes me holds no humor, only bitter disbelief. "That's what concerns you? Not whatyou'vedone for seven centuries?"

I gesture to the documents spread before me on the flat stone serving as our makeshift table. The Survivor brought them from the archive after we returned from the Vale of Culling—physical proof of Cadeyrn's complicity that he can't dismiss or explain away.

He approaches slowly, as one might approach a wounded predator. His eyes never leave mine, even as they flick momentarily to the damning evidence between us. The elegant script of his signature seems to mock us both, a tangible record of atrocities authorized with a casual flourish of his hand.

"You went to the Vale." Not a question. He can likely smell the stench of death clinging to my clothes, see the horror etched into my expression.

"I saw what you've done." My voice fractures despite my efforts to remain steady. "Hundreds of graves. Omegas buried while still pregnant, their babies left to die slowly underground."

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