Page 14 of Run Little Omega

Last come the Winter Court representatives, their entrance marked by a noticeable drop in temperature. Pale skin ranging from porcelain white to deepest blue, hair like freshly fallen snow. They move with precise economy, every gesture calculated and controlled.

"Lord Frostbaine," Flora identifies a particularly imposing alpha whose pale blue eyes empty of all expression as he studies us. "Winter Court enforcer specifically bred for Hunt participation. His bloodline has been ruthlessly culled over generations to produce the perfect stud specimen."

The clinical description fails to capture how fundamentally wrong he looks—the network of raised scars cataloging successful impregnations, the absolute emptiness behind his gaze. Not cruelty or sadism, but their absence. A breeding machine in fae form.

Other alphas materialize along the tree line, each bringing fresh waves of dread among the gathered omegas. The Collector, whose tattoos catalog each successful claiming in ceremonial pictures. Shadows, whose entire body absorbs light, creating a silhouette of perfect darkness even in the bonfire's glow. Ember Farren, whose hair burns with internal fire and whose skin develops faint luminescence as he scents potential prey.

And then?—

"The Winter Prince," gasps Flora, genuine awe replacing her academic detachment.

Against the darkest part of the tree line stands a solitary figure who commands attention despite his stillness. While other alphas posture and prowl, Prince Cadeyrn of the Winter Court observes the gathering with detached calculation, his presence a cold void in the emotional chaos surrounding us.

Unlike the other nobility, he wears no ceremonial leathers or court insignia—only simple garments of deepest blue that emphasize rather than adorn his fae perfection. His skin glows marble-white in the moonlight, free of scarring, his hair falling in light-absorbing waves to his shoulders. But it's his eyes that capture and hold my attention—deep ice-blue, ancient beyond comprehension, studying our gathering with the dispassionate interest of someone observing insects.

"Seven centuries without entering rut," whispers Rose, awe and horror mixing in her voice. "They say he's never claimed an omega, never sired offspring. His control is absolute."

"Why participate in the Hunt then?" asks Mira, confusion momentarily overriding her fear.

"Political obligation," answers Flora. "The Winter Court requires his participation to maintain appearances, but his restraint is legendary. Some say it's how he's maintained his youthful appearance for centuries—rutting ages fae royalty, and he refuses to give in to primal urges."

I study him carefully, noticingng the fluid precision of his movements as he slowly walks the tree line. Unlike the other alphas whose barely-contained lust saturates the air, the Winter Prince appears unmoved by what’s coming—a predator so confident in his superiority that he feels no need to display it. His arrogance will be his undoing if I get my hands, and my hidden knife, on his murderous fae hide.

His gaze sweeps methodically over each omega, pausing briefly on each of them. When his attention reaches our small cluster, I force myself to look away, remembering Wren's warning about eye contact. But something—curiosity, defiance, or simple stupidity—draws my eyes back to him just as his gaze reaches me.

The moment stretches, crystallizing into something unexpected. His eyes narrow slightly, head tilting as if seeing a puzzle where a simple tribute should be. While others see Willow's face, somehow Cadeyrn seems to be looking at something else—something beneath or beyond the glamour.

His nostrils flare, testing my scent, and his expression shifts momentarily from boredom to genuine interest. The change is subtle—nothing as obvious as widened eyes or parted lips—but in a face trained to perfect control for centuries, every expression is massive.

Without thinking, I meet his stare directly, like the stubborn idiot I am.

My omega instincts scream at the mistake—no normal omega would stare down an alpha of his standing. Yet I can't look away, caught in the pull of those ancient eyes. For an instant, I glimpse something behind his perfect mask—curiosity, perhaps, or recognition of some sort.

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, before he deliberately turns away, breaking our connection with pointed finality. The message is clear: he's seen something interesting but not compelling enough to hold his attention.

A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening air. I've spent my life avoiding notice, cultivating invisibility through careful deception. Now, at the worst possible moment, I've attracted the attention of perhaps the most dangerous alpha in the Hunt.

"Did you see that?" Flora whispers, her violet eyes wide. "He looked at you. Really looked."

I shrug, copying Willow's characteristic gentle dismissal. "Perhaps he sensed my illness."

"No." Her gaze sharpens. "The prince never shows interest in potential breeding stock. His participation is ceremonial only. Yet something about you caught his attention."

Before I can respond, a commotion ripples through the gathered omegas. Near the eastern edge of the circle, a girl collapses, her white cloak pooling around her like spilled milk. Seizures rack her body, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth as the silver bracelet around her wrist pulses with unnatural light.

"Rejection syndrome," murmurs Wren, moving immediately toward the fallen omega with a healer's instinct. "Her body's fighting the binding magic."

Fae emissaries converge on the scene, their perfect faces emotionless as they surround the convulsing girl. One produces a small crystal vial, forcing liquid between her lips while another chants in a language that hurts my ears to hear. The bracelet's pulsing intensifies, then stabilizes to a steady glow as the girl's seizures gradually subside.

"What happens to her now?" I ask, already guessing the answer.

Flora's expression confirms my fears. "Culled before the Hunt begins. Omegas who reject the binding magic are deemed unsuitable for breeding purposes."

Sure enough, two emissaries lift the now-unconscious girl, carrying her toward the forest rather than back to her village's delegation. No one moves to intervene—not her family, not the other tributes, not the human officials who negotiated her selection. Protocol trumps compassion, as it always does in the borderlands.

I touch my own bracelet, remembering the unusual pain I'd experienced during its attachment. Had I come close to rejection syndrome myself? Was something in my blood or in the glamour spell nearly incompatible with the binding magic? The implications are troubling—both for my deception and for what might happen when I enter the forest tomorrow.

"They're withdrawing," Sera observes, her strange silver-white hair gleaming in the firelight as she nods toward the tree line.

---