Page 11 of Run Little Omega

I nod, breaking off a small piece of bread from the untouched plate. The glamour feels more natural today after sleeping in it. Still, I keep quiet, afraid my voice might give me away despite how hard I've practiced her soft way of speaking.

"It's normal to be nervous," he continues, thinking my silence is fear. "Your mother was the same on our wedding day."

These constant comparisons between marriage and sacrifice make me want to scream. As if being hunted and claimed by a fae alpha in rut is anything like a wedding night. But I force Willow's gentle smile onto my borrowed face.

"I'm ready, Father."

Behind the partition in the small bedroom, the real Willow lies heavily drugged on a straw pallet I set up before dawn. The sleeping draft I gave her—one of her father's own medicines, ironically—will keep her out cold until well after we've left. By the time she wakes, I'll be halfway to the Gathering Circle in her place, and she'll be safe from the Hunt's brutality.

My deception has layers now. Under Willow's ceremonial dress, I've strapped thin leather pouches with iron tokens, a small folded steel blade, and dried herbs that temporarily mask omega scent. Around my thigh, bandages secure a detailed map of the Bloodmoon Forest I copied from Fergus's hidden stash. The glamour hides all of it perfectly, maintaining the illusion of Willow's frail body despite all the survival tools I've armed myself with.

Thaddeus kneels in front of me, eyes shining with tears as he adjusts the flower crown one final time. "You've always been braver than I deserve," he whispers.

Guilt twists through my gut. This man isn't saying goodbye to his daughter—he's saying goodbye to me, with no idea his real child is safely asleep a few feet away. Whatever comfort he's taking from this moment is built on lies.

Yet I don't regret it. Not when the alternative is Willow's certain death. Not when the man crying over her is the same one who would sacrifice her to those fae monsters.

The village bell tolls, calling the selection party to gather. Thaddeus helps me stand, his healer's hands gentle on my shoulders.

"It's time," he says, voice breaking.

Outside, Thornwick has transformed for the grim occasion. Crimson ribbons flutter from every building, but there's no festival atmosphere, just quiet ceremony. The selection party waits at the village center—Headman Lloyd on his bay horse, the village elders in their formal robes, and Maeve, her wild hair decorated with bones and feathers for the journey.

The hedge witch's eyes lock onto mine as I approach, her strange amber gaze narrowing slightly. My heart skips—does she sense her stolen grimoire page? Can she see through the glamour to the blacksmith underneath? But after a moment, she just nods, her face as unreadable as ever.

"The tribute is prepared," Thaddeus announces formally, guiding me to the small covered cart that will carry me for part of the journey.

I scan the crowd for Fergus, finding him standing apart from the others, his weathered face set in grim lines. Our eyes meet briefly. He doesn't know who I am, can’t see through the disguise, but I left a note for him this morning before I slipped out. Based on the small, grief-filled nod of acknowledgement he gives me, he’s read it—and he’s prepared to mourn my fate.

But he won’t stop me. That’s the thing about Fergus: no matter how much it pains him, he knows that I’m my own woman, stubborn and determined through and through, and I won’t—can’t—be stopped when I put my mind to something.

We start the journey without fanfare, our small procession winding through Thornwick's gates and onto the eastern road. I sit alone in the cart, watching familiar landmarks disappear as we travel toward the border. The day drags on, broken only by brief stops to rest the horses and let us all eat. I nibble on my bread and cheese, stomach churning.

During one stop, Maeve approaches my cart, offering a small clay cup of herbal tea. "For strength," she says, her voice like dry leaves rustling.

I take it cautiously, smelling the steam before sipping. The bitter taste of shadowroot burns the back of my throat—the same herb I've used for years to suppress my omega biology. My eyes meet hers in surprise.

"The Hunt is difficult enough as it is," she murmurs, speaking just for me. "This will delay what's coming, at least for the first day or two. Maybe enough time for you to get to safety and choose your fate."

Before I can respond, she turns away, rejoining the elders under a sprawling oak. The interaction leaves me uneasy. Does she know who I really am? Or is she just offering what small mercy she can to someone she thinks is Willow? Either way, I drink the tea, knowing that the longer it takes for my heat to come, the better my chances of survival.

By late afternoon, the landscape around us changes. Familiar farmland gives way to wilder terrain, the plants growing denser and stranger as we near the border. Trees twist at unnatural angles, their bark darkening to the distinctive black of the Bloodmoon Forest. Silver leaves flutter overhead, catching sunlight in hypnotic patterns.

And then we see it—the Gathering Circle. Ancient stone monoliths rise from the earth like the teeth of some massive buried beast. Arranged in a perfect ring a hundred paces across, each stone stands three times taller than a man, their surfaces carved with symbols that are more ancient than even the fae themselves. The clearing around them stays mysteriously free of plants, as though the earth refuses to touch this sacred, terrible place.

Other villages have already arrived, their banners fluttering beside makeshift camps. White-cloaked figures huddle together near the circle's edge—other omegas, waiting for the same fate I've volunteered for. From here, they look like a flock of sacrificial birds, huddled against predators they can sense but not yet see.

Our cart stops at Thornwick's designated area. Headman Lloyd helps me down, his formal manner barely hiding his relief that his own daughters are safely at home. The grass beneath my feet feels different here—coarser, somehow aware of what's happening.

"The ritual begins at sunset," he explains, though everyone knows the tradition. "Until then, you may join the other tributes or remain with us."

"I'll join them," I answer softly, copying Willow's deference. "We share a common path now."

He nods, clearly uncomfortable with the reminder of what awaits us. I move away from Thornwick's delegation, heading toward the gathered omegas. With each step, the weight of what I've done—and what I'm about to face—settles more firmly around my shoulders.

The omegas form a loose circle, some clinging to each other while others stand alone in resignation. I count thirty-seven tributes of different ages. Most look to be in their late teens or early twenties, typical selection age, but some exceptions catch my eye.

A girl who appears barely post-pubescent trembles visibly at the edge of the group, her dark hair falling in tangled curtains around a face too young for what's coming. Her white cloak—too large for her small frame—has none of the traditional embroidery that decorates most tribute garments. A poor family's child, then, without means to buy protection or fancy details. Her selection was almost certainly rigged, her vulnerability making her an easy target for villages protected by wealth and influence.

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