Page 3 of Run Little Omega

The ceremonial horns sound off, marking the completion of the sleection ceremony. Around us, the tension dissolves into relieved celebration. Wine flows. Music starts. The village commemorates its continued safety with a nervous, guilty air, though I hear many whispers that it’s okay because she’ll be gone soon either way and this way she doesn’t suffer for months.

I slip away as the festivities begin, unable to stomach the merriment or the gossip. My feet carry me through familiar streets towards the edge of Thornwick, past the protective ward-stones that mark our village’s boundaries. The runes on their surfaces pulse with fading magic—protection purchased with past tributes, no weakening as the seven-year cycle nears its end.

Beyond them looms the darkness of the Bloodmoon Forest, its ancient trunks twisted and black against the blue sky. Even at a distance, I can see the silver sheen of the tree leaves catching sunlight, the distinctive gleam that gives the forest its other name: the Silverblood Wood. Beautiful and deadly, just like everything in the fae realms.

In three weeks, the crimson moon will rise over the night sky. When it does, Willow will enter that forest along with other tributes from other border villages. They’ll be given a one-hour head start before the Hunt begins—before the fae alphas are released to track, claim, and breed the human omegas driven into heat by the moon’s influence. They’ll be held down, knotted, and impregnated over and over again—often by multiple alphas, each fighting to be the one whose seed wins out—and only the strong survive.

But many say the chosen are lucky if they die quickly.

I stare at the forest until my vision blurs. A plan slowly takes shape in my mind. A desperate, foolish plan, the king born from equal amounts of rage and love. The kind of plan that could save Willow.

Tonight, once the celebration dies down and the village is in its drunken stupor, I’ll visit Maeve’s cottage. The hedge witch keeps secrets, spellbooks forbidden in more proper cities, and in their pages there must be a way to trick the Hunt.

If the fae want an omega from Thornwick, they’ll get one.

But it won’t be Willow.

CHAPTER2

POV: Briar

Death has a visceral,lingering scent that can’t be hidden.

Underneath the sharp aroma of lavender sachets and drying bundles of feverfew hanging from the rafters, beneath the fresh wildflowers arranged on the windowsill, it lingers. Insistent, patient, inevitable death. I’ve known that smell since I was twelve, when my mother’s body surrended to the same wasting illness that is now claiming Willow inch by inch, hour by tortorous hour.

I perch on the edge of her bed, the wooden frame creaking. Even sitting still, I feel too large, too vital, too alive in this room where everything has been pared down to essentials.

Including Willow herself. Gone is any trace of baby fat from her cheeks, any of the curves beneath her shift. Every breath she takes is labored, measured, metered with effort. I miss my vital, wonderful friend.

“Your hair is a mess,” I tell her, reaching for the ivory comb on her nightstand and reaching for a distraction at the same time. “Want me to fix it?”

Willow’s eyes flutter open, green as spring leaves despite the shadows around them. She manages a hint of a wry smile. “Always so practical.”

“Someone has to be.” I slide behind her on the bed, careful not to jostle her fragile frame as I gather the silk strands of her hair. They come away in my fingers too easily, pale wisps floating to the bedspread. I pretend not to notice. "You should see what the baker's boy did to his arm trying to impress the tanner's daughter. Third-degree burns. Your father was up half the night with him."

"Poor Emil." Her voice is a pained whisper. "He's been sweet on Liesel for years."

I work gently, separating her hair into sections. "Well, heroically grabbing a baking sheet with bare hands wasn't his smartest move."

She laughs—a sound like dried leaves rustling. "Not everyone solves problems by hitting them with hammers, Briar."

"Their loss. Hammers are remarkably effective."

The rhythm of her breathing changes slightly—an audible hitch that makes my hands still. We're both painfully aware of how each breath is becoming more labored than the last, despite the herbal infusions and tinctures that clutter her bedside table. Remedies upon remedies, all failing one by one as the life slowly drains from her body.

"Will you tell me about the forge?" she asks after a moment, eyes closed. "Something new you're making."

I resume braiding, letting my voice fill the silence with descriptions of ironwork and commissions, of tempering techniques and the perfect balance of a well-crafted blade. These are safe topics, far from the specter of death haunting the room or the crimson ribbons visible through her window, fluttering from every eave in Thornwick. A sick, twisted celebration of the crimson moon that will bring the village prosperity even as its omegas are cruelly killed.

An edge of anger enters my voice as I think of it, so I force my mind to other subjects, ones that will distract us both. Willow's breathing evens out as I speak, each inhale shallower than it should be. I keep talking anyway, even as she drifts into a restless sleep, my words a shield against the inevitable.

I finish the braid and carefully tie it with a length of blue ribbon—her favorite color, the shadow of cornflowers in the middle of summer. The contrast against her paper-white skin is stark, emphasizing how little time she has.

"She needs to rest."

I glance up to find Thaddeus Ambrose hovering in the doorway, a fresh bundle of herbs clutches in his hand. The village apothecary's shoulders stoop under an invisible weight, his face worn by the deep grief of watching a love one die slowly. I recognize it from my own reflection after my mom died.

I ease off the bed, tucking the blanket around Willow’s shoulder. “Her fever is back.”

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