Page 108 of Run Little Omega

My fingers dig into the earth beneath me, ice crystallizing around them in jagged patterns. Reanimation magic. The Summer Court has brought Klairs back from death—an expensive, forbidden practice used only in the most extreme circumstances. Just to hunt me.

"Split as you wish," Klairs responds, his voice closer now. "But remember our agreement. She's to be claimed by representatives of all courts. The Wild Magic must be diluted, controlled."

Claimed by all courts? My stomach twists with horror at the implication. Multiple alphas, multiple claimings, multiple knots—not for pleasure as with the Raveling Brothers' twisted ritual, but for magical purpose. To suppress whatever's awakening in my blood.

"The Winter Prince will sense our approach," a third voice warns, this one carrying the distinctive melodic quality of Spring Court speech. "Their claiming bond may be stretched, but it remains intact."

"Let him come," Klairs responds with casual confidence. "Four courts united against one rogue prince? Even with his newfound power, he can't stand against our combined strength."

I need to move. Now. While they're still discussing strategy rather than actively hunting. But my body refuses to cooperate, limbs heavy with exhaustion, back burning with every attempted movement. The Wild Magic that flowed so freely during my fight with the Raveling Brothers feels distant now, inaccessible in my depleted state.

"Remember—no permanent damage," the Spring Court voice cautions. "Her womb must remain viable for breeding. The Council wants to study the offspring, determine which genetic combinations best dilute the Wild Magic without eliminating useful traits."

My blood turns to ice at these clinical words. Not people to them—not even the Raveling Brothers with their twisted ritual saw me as merely breeding stock. This is something colder, more calculated. Court politics at its most ruthless.

I press my palm against the oak's root, feeling its ancient energy pulse beneath my touch. "Help me," I whisper, unsure if my plea is directed at the tree, the forest, or some forgotten deity who might still walk these woods.

The root shifts subtly beneath my hand, a movement so slight I might have imagined it. But the sensation sends a surge of something warm through my veins—not quite strength, not quite magic, but a reminder that I'm not facing this alone.

"There," Klairs announces, his voice now alarmingly close. "Behind the great oak. Blood scent mingles with Wild Magic."

My heart pounds against my ribs as I realize they've found me. I press deeper into the hollow, hands raised defensively as ice gathers at my fingertips—a pitiful defense against what must be at least a dozen seasoned alphas.

They emerge from the forest like nightmares made flesh. Klairs Thorn leads, his imposing figure even more terrifying than I remember. His bronzed skin bears the ritual scars I've heard about, but now something else mars his perfect physique—a jagged wound across his throat that doesn't bleed, the edges blackened with the magical energy that reanimated him. His eyes hold no human emotion, just calculating hunger.

Behind him, a semi-circle of alphas forms—four from Summer Court with their bronze skin and flame-colored hair, three from Spring with their flower-petal complexions and deceptively gentle expressions, and two from Autumn with leaf-patterned skin that shifts subtly with each movement.

No Winter Court representatives. I'm not sure if that's comforting or concerning.

"Look at her," one Spring alpha murmurs, genuine fascination in his voice. "The transformation is further along than reported."

I don't know what he means until I catch sight of my reflection in a nearby puddle. Silver threads have completely overtaken one side of my copper hair. The markings that once proclaimed me as Cadeyrn's claim have evolved into something else—intricate spirals that pulse with their own light rather than reflecting his possession. Most shocking of all, my ears have developed a subtle but unmistakable point at their tips.

I'm becoming something neither human nor traditional fae. Something the courts apparently fear enough to unite against.

"The Winter Prince's exclusive claiming has accelerated the process," Klairs observes, his voice unnaturally flat—a side effect of reanimation magic. "We must act quickly."

He steps toward me, and instinct takes over. Ice explodes from my fingertips, shards launching toward him with deadly intent. My attack lacks the focused power I wielded against the Raveling Brothers, but it's enough to make him stagger back, several shards embedded in his chest.

But he doesn't bleed. Doesn't even flinch. The reanimation magic sustaining him simply works around the wounds, black energy sealing the punctures as quickly as they form.

"Impressive," he notes dispassionately. "But ultimately futile."

The other alphas advance now, forming a tighter ring around my shelter. I lash out again, ice forming in desperate, jagged formations that wound two Spring Court alphas but barely slow their approach. My magic feels thin, depleted, like drawing water from an almost-dry well.

"Don't damage her," Klairs commands as a Summer alpha raises his hand, flames gathering around his fingers. "The Council wants her intact for breeding."

Breeding. The word ignites something in me beyond fear or rage—a fundamental rejection of being reduced to my biological function. Of being claimed not for desire or even rutting impulse, but for calculated genetic outcomes.

"I am not yours to breed," I snarl, pushing to my feet despite the screaming pain across my back. Blood runs freely down my spine now, soaking what remains of my tattered clothing. "I belong to no court and no alpha."

My defiance draws various reactions—amusement from the Summer alphas, clinical interest from Spring, and something like respect from Autumn. Only Klairs remains expressionless, the reanimation magic having stripped away the capacity for emotional response.

"Your belonging is not required," he states flatly. "Only your body and the magic in your blood."

He reaches for me, bronzed fingers extended toward my throat, and I brace for capture, for whatever horrors these court alphas have planned.

But his hand never reaches me.

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