Page 193 of Run Little Omega

The Wild Magic responds to their presence, cillae in the ground brightening where they stand. The volunteers notice, some with awe, others with trepidation. These children represent what the courts fought to prevent for centuries—the unified magic that transcends artificial division, the balance that threatens rigid hierarchy.

A hush falls over the gathering as another figure emerges from between the trees. Cadeyrn moves with the fluid grace of a predator, cillae matching mine across his skin, pulsing in synchronization with my heartbeat. The Winter Court crown sits upon his brow, redesigned for the pointed ears that mark his transformation.

Seven years have only enhanced the changes that began during that first Hunt. His body remains powerful and imposing, the perfect Winter Prince control permanently replaced by something wilder and more authentic. The cillae that cover him incorporate elements from all four seasonal courts—spring's spirals, summer's flames, autumn's whorls, and winter's geometric precision all flowing together in perfect harmony.

But it's his eyes that show the most profound transformation—no longer the cold, calculating blue of the Winter Prince who hunted me, but kaleidoscopic orbs that shift with his emotions, incorporating all four seasonal aspects. When our gazes meet across the circle, I see fire and earth, air and water, all in perfect balance rather than conflict.

Even after seven years, that connection still quickens my blood. The claiming bond between us pulses stronger than ever, carrying emotions and thoughts with an intimacy that defies explanation to those who haven't experienced it. Through it flows not just desire but understanding—the complex history we've built together, the conflicts we've navigated, the wounds still healing beneath transformed exteriors.

"The Hunt approaches," he announces, his voice carrying that harmonic undertone that emerged during our transformation. "You will have one hour before pursuit begins."

The volunteers straighten, some with determination, others with nervous anticipation. All understand that what awaits them in the forest is not the brutality of the old Hunt, but something more authentic—a ritual honoring both pursuer and pursued, a transformation that belongs to each participant alone.

"What happens in the forest is sacred," Cadeyrn continues, addressing them with unexpected gentleness. "The transformation you experience belongs to you alone. There is no failure in the Wild Hunt—only different paths to awakening."

Some of the volunteers exchange skeptical glances. They've heard the stories of previous Hunts, the legacy of brutality that can't be erased in a single generation. Centuries of trauma don't disappear simply because the system changes. I understand their doubt better than most—I carried similar skepticism when I first entered these woods wearing Willow's face, determined to fight rather than surrender.

"He means it," I add, seeing their uncertainty. "The Wild Hunt isn't about dominance anymore. It's about finding what the courts tried to separate within you—bringing divided parts back into balance."

The forest itself seems to respond to our words, branches bowing slightly as the ancient magic awakens with the climbing crimson moon. This connection between the land and those who inhabit it represents perhaps the most profound change of all. The rivers run clean now, the fae dumping grounds purified through Wild Magic that seeks balance rather than dominance. Thornwick flourishes under new protection agreements that honor choice rather than demanding sacrifice.

I think of the Vale of Culling—where Cadeyrn's blood ritual began the healing of poisoned ground, where purification plants now grow in shapes that defy court limitations. The place that once housed thousands of omegas buried alive now nurtures new growth, though the memory of what happened there remains preserved through monument and ritual. We don't erase the past; we transform its legacy.

My friend Willow—the original tribute whose place I took—serves as ambassador between human villages and fae courts, her wasting illness completely cured by the Wild Magic now flowing freely through the borderlands. She sits on the Unified Council alongside representatives from all four courts, her gentle wisdom guiding policies that heal centuries of division.

The Winter Court stands transformed—ice walls now transparent, hidden chambers exposed to light. The other courts followed reluctantly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm as Wild Magic strengthened all bloodlines rather than diminishing them. The old breeding programs have been dismantled, replaced by ceremonies that honor consent and choice above all.

Not without resistance, of course. The first years after the quadruplets' birth brought conflict, attempted coups, assassination attempts. Resistance to change runs deep in systems built on artificial separation. But Wild Magic, once awakened, could not be re-contained. It spread through both realms, touching those with even traces of old blood in their veins, awakening what court breeding programs had tried to suppress.

The horn sounds, its deep resonance echoing through the ancient stones. The volunteers scatter in all directions, some alone, others in pairs who have chosen to experience the Hunt together. Unlike the terrified flight of previous generations, their movement carries purpose and agency—the first step in a transformation they've chosen with open eyes.

The quadruplets gather around me as the last volunteer disappears into the trees. "Can we watch?" Ember asks, barely containing the fire magic that makes his skin glow with internal heat. "From the observer's stone?"

I exchange a glance with Cadeyrn, feeling his assessment flow through our bond. The children are old enough to understand the ritual's purpose but too young to participate. Observation might help prepare them for their own journeys when the time comes.

He gives a slight nod. "For a short while," I agree, taking Willow's small hand in mine. "It's not yet your Hunt, but understanding its purpose is important."

"It's ours and not ours," little Willow says cryptically, her mismatched eyes seeing beyond the present moment. "The forest remembers us from before."

Alder rolls his eyes with the exasperation only a seven-year-old brother can muster. "She means the Wild Magic recognizes us because we were born from it," he translates, ever practical despite his youth. "We already completed the transformation others seek."

"Born of Wild Magic itself," Cadeyrn agrees, pride evident in his voice. Not the possessive pride of an alpha creating heirs, but deeper appreciation for what our children represent—transformation made flesh, balance embodied. "Come. We'll watch the beginning, then return home for your lessons."

We settle at the observation point, a natural rise that overlooks the central clearing where a massive blackthorn tree stands—not the one where Cadeyrn first claimed me, but similar in its ancient presence, its crimson sap flowing more freely under the Hunt's influence. The children arrange themselves before us with the natural hierarchy they've established among themselves. Beneath the crimson moon, their cillae glow brighter, responding to the ancient magic that flows more freely during this cycle.

In the clearing below, I glimpse the first volunteers encountering initial ritual aspects—not alphas in rut, but challenges designed to awaken dormant magic, to push beyond comfortable limitations. Some approach alone, others in pairs, each seeking transformation on their own terms. No forced claiming, no brutal knotting, but conscious choice to merge with aspects previously denied.

The forest assists, branches moving to guide rather than trap, paths opening to lead rather than mislead. Blackthorn trees offer crimson sap freely rather than through violence, the sacred substance absorbed through ritualized marking rather than tearing flesh.

Cadeyrn's arm slips around my waist, his touch sending familiar warmth through our claiming bond. Through the connection, I feel his satisfaction at the Hunt's transformation, his pride in what we've built from brutal beginnings. But beneath lies something deeper—anticipation for what comes later, after the children sleep, when we'll have our own Hunt.

The ritual remains part of us, though transformed from its original violence into something we choose rather than endure. The chase still quickens our blood, the claiming still binds us, but now through mutual desire rather than biological imperative. My body responds to his proximity, heat building low in my belly, cillae brightening where his fingers trace my waist.

"Later," he murmurs, sensing my reaction through the bond. "Certain aspects of the Hunt remain private."

I feel his smile more than see it, his emotions flowing freely between us. Later, we'll run through the forest together, predator and prey in turn, neither role permanent, both necessary. Later, we'll claim each other beneath crimson moon and silver leaves, Wild Magic flowing between us as it has since that first brutal joining that broke Winter Court perfection and awakened what the courts sought to suppress.

But now, we watch the transformed Hunt proceed below, the volunteers beginning their own journeys toward balance. Some struggle against deeply ingrained resistance, others surrender too easily to transformation. Each path unfolds uniquely, as individual as the forest itself.

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