Page 107 of Run Little Omega

The guilt threatens to consume me, but beneath it burns a new emotion—unfamiliar, uncomfortable, yet undeniable.

Hope.

Not for forgiveness—I deserve none after centuries of calculated cruelty disguised as necessity. But for change. For transformation. For the chance to unmake what the courts have created, to rediscover what Wild Magic truly means when freed from protocols and politics.

I sink to my knees in the clearing, pressing my palms against the forest floor. The Bloodmoon Forest responds immediately, roots surfacing beneath my hands, connecting me to its ancient network that spans both human and fae realms.

"Show me," I whisper to the sentient wood. "Show me where she sleeps."

The forest doesn't answer with images but with sensations—Briar's steady heartbeat transmitted through living roots, her breath synchronizing with silver leaves that rustle miles away, her blood mingling with red sap as the forest aids her healing.

She lives. She transforms. She becomes something new.

As do I.

Seven centuries of Winter Prince. Seven centuries of perfect control and unquestioning obedience. Seven centuries of signing death warrants with elegant script and never witnessing the consequences.

Ended with a single claiming. With copper hair and amber eyes and defiance that awoke something I thought long dead.

My conscience.

I will not follow her now. Will not impose my presence when she has rejected it so clearly. The bond between us remains—damaged but unbroken—a testament to what we've begun together, whether she chooses to continue it or not.

But I will address the Council. Will confront the courts with truths they've suppressed for generations. Will dismantle, if necessary, the very systems I've helped maintain.

For her. For the memory of her mother. For Willow and all the others condemned by protocols I authorized without question.

The forest around me stirs with ancient awareness, responding to my silent oath. Wild Magic flows through roots and branches, acknowledging my transformation—not just physical but moral.

The Winter Prince who entered this Hunt no longer exists. What emerges from this forest in three days will be something else entirely.

Something the courts have never faced before.

CHAPTER38

POV: Briar

The forest'sprotection cradles me like a mother's embrace. I drift between consciousness and darkness, my body fighting to heal itself from the Raveling Brothers' attack. The wound across my back burns with each shallow breath, blood seeping sluggishly into the moss beneath me. I should move. Should find better shelter. Should clean these wounds before infection sets in.

But exhaustion weighs on me like stone, pinning me to this hollow where the ancient oak's roots have shifted to create a natural cradle. The Wild Magic that erupted from me during the fight has left me hollow, drained in ways I never experienced after using the controlled abilities Cadeyrn taught me.

Cadeyrn. The claiming bond stretches between us, thin but intact. Through it, I sense his distant awareness, his concern mingled with resolve to respect my need for distance. Even now, after everything I've learned about him, the connection provides strange comfort—a reminder that I'm not completely alone in this deadly forest.

A sudden stillness jerks me from my half-conscious state. The birds have stopped singing. The insects have fallen silent. Even the perpetual rustling of silver leaves has ceased, as if the forest holds its breath in warning.

Something approaches. Multiple somethings.

I force myself upright, biting back a cry as the movement tears at the wounds across my back. Blood trickles down my spine, warm and wet against my skin. The fox that guided me here is long gone, but I swear I catch a glimpse of russet fur at the edge of my vision, there and gone like a fever dream.

Voices drift through the trees—not the hushed whispers of omegas seeking sanctuary, but the confident tones of alphas who hunt without fear of becoming prey themselves. I press deeper into my shelter, hoping the massive oak's roots and the Wild Magic that seems to flow through them will keep me hidden.

"The scent grows stronger," a voice announces, deep and commanding. "Blood and frost and something else. Something old."

My heart stutters as recognition dawns. That voice—I know it from the Gathering Circle, from whispered omega warnings, from Lira's terrified recounting. Lord Klairs Thorn of the Summer Court, whose bronzed skin bears ritualistic scars—one for each omega successfully bred across dozens of Hunts.

But he should be dead. Cadeyrn killed him during the first week—one of the nine alphas slaughtered for approaching what the Winter Prince considered his exclusive territory.

"Reanimation magic leaves traces," another voice responds, lighter but no less authoritative. "Her heightened senses will detect it if we approach directly. We should split the perimeter."

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