Page 18 of Run Little Omega

"No one 'just hears' about the lightning-struck tree or the waterfall clearing." Her expression hardens. "Those are survivor knowledge, passed only between those who've entered the forest and returned."

An impossibility, given the Hunt's death rate, but she speaks with first person knowledge in her voice. I realize suddenly what she must be—one of the exceedingly rare omegas who survived a previous Hunt, pregnancy, and birth. Such women exist in rumors only, their existence as mythical as dragons to most border villages.

"You've survived it," I breathe.

She neither confirms nor denies, but her silence is answer enough. "Tomorrow when you run," she says instead, "ignore the obvious paths. The forest shifts during the Hunt to create optimal tracking conditions. What seems like escape is often a funnel toward waiting alphas."

I absorb this information, comparing it against the maps I've memorized. "The havens?"

"Real, but fewer than seven remain active. The court magic that protected them has weakened over generations." Her hand moves to her sleeve, withdrawing something small that gleams dully in the low light. "Take this."

She presses a metal object into my palm—a compass, but unlike any I've seen before. Instead of pointing north, its needle races back and forth, as though tracking forces invisible to my eyes.

"It detects the nearest active haven," she explains. "A remnant from... before."

"Why give this to me?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. Of all the omegas present, "Willow" seems least likely to survive long enough to use such a valuable tool.

Sera's eyes, reflecting too much light, have uncomfortable knowledge in them. "Because you're not what you seem," she says finally. "And neither is the Hunt."

Before I can question her cryptic words, she's gone, gliding between pallets to return to her own sleeping area. I close my fingers around the compass, feeling its subtle vibration against my skin—a comfort and a warning. I won’t be able to avoid claiming forever.

Another tool for survival, another unexpected alliance. I tuck the compass securely into my bodice alongside the remaining iron tokens, adding this new advantage to my mental inventory.

Sleep doesn't come as the night deepens. Around me, the collective breathing of thirty-six omegas creates a rhythm broken by occasional whimpers or muffled sobs. I stare at the tent ceiling, painfully aware of each passing hour that brings dawn closer.

My thoughts keep returning to the Winter Prince. His eyes on me at the viewing ceremony bothers me like a splinter under my skin. Why did he, of all the alphas there, seem to see something beneath Willow's appearance? What sparked that interest in eyes, the eyes of a fae prince seven centuries old?

More importantly, what will happen if he's the one to catch me? Flora spoke of the different courts' claiming styles, but said nothing of the Winter Prince specifically. Does his legendary control extend to the claiming itself? Or would centuries of restraint make the eventual release all the more violent?

I imagine those cold eyes blazing with rut-fever, that perfect composure shattered by primal instinct. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends an unexpected flush of heat through my core—a reaction I immediately shut down through sheer willpower.

This is what Flora meant about separating mind from body. Already my omega biology betrays me, responding to the mere thought of a powerful alpha when I should be focusing solely on survival.

The silver bracelet throbs gently against my wrist, its magic a constant reminder of the binding I cannot escape. Once the Hunt begins, there will be no sanctuary for tributes except the temporary reprieve of the havens. We run, they chase. Some will die immediately, torn apart in territorial disputes between competing alphas. Others will survive claiming only to perish during pregnancy or birth. A precious few might live, forever changed by what happens in the Bloodmoon Forest.

I've chosen this fate willingly, stepping into Willow's place with my eyes open. But as I lie awake on the eve of the Hunt, surrounded by the palpable fear of my fellow tributes, the reality of what awaits me is stark.

Tomorrow, I'll run into the Bloodmoon Forest wearing Willow's face but carrying my own strength. I'll draw the most dangerous alphas away from weaker prey, leading them on a chase designed to occupy them while others reach safety.

A dangerous game with my life as the wager. But I've been gambling with survival since the day Fergus found me hiding in his cellar, an omega masquerading as something else, existing in the margins.

One more deception. One final masquerade.

Let the Hunt come. I'm ready.

CHAPTER8

POV: Briar

Dawn bleeds across the horizon,staining the empty sky a pale shade of red. It’s fitting, really. Red like the blood we’ll soon shed at the alphas’ pleasure.

We’re yanked from sleep (or tossing and turning) by fae attendants who glide through the tent brusquely, tossing white shifts at us like they’re funeral shrouds.

“Practical garments for the journey ahead,” says the one who tosses a shift to me Her skin is the color of spring leaves, a pale greenish yellow, her smile flashing the sharp teeth of a predator at me.

Journey. Another pretty word to cover up what’s about to happen to us. I snatch the garment silently, its fabric thin between my fingers. It’ll rip like paper when they grab us—which is, of course, the whole point. The claiming is meant to be fun for them, after all. Even our clothes are just part of their sick game.

We get dressed in silence, the air thick with the knowledge that we’re putting on what amounts to our funeral clothes. I tuck my remaining iron tokens and Sera’s compass under the thin fabric, glad the glamour hides the lumps of my hidden weapons. The shadowroot tea should keep my heat under control for a few more hours—just long enough to get a head start.

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