Page 30 of Run Little Omega

The smoke leads me to a sight so unexpected I pause, momentarily forgetting my careful stealth. A small cottage nestles between the massive roots of an ancient oak, its structure seeming to grow organically from the tree itself. Bark and wooden walls merge seamlessly, making it difficult to tell where the tree ends and the cottage begins. There are even flowers growing from the roof and roots wrapping around the doorframe.

An elderly woman sits outside on a smoothly polished stump, working with small tools and materials spread across her lap, some kind of braiding or beadwork. Her silver-streaked dark hair falls in a complex braid, and when she turns slightly, I catch the glint of metal—iron pins hidden within her hair, visible only from certain angles.

She doesn't look up, but her hands pause in her lap. "You might as well come out. I've been aware of you since you entered my clearing."

I step from the tree line, scanning the clearing for any threats. "Who are you?"

"Someone who survived what you're going through now." When she finally raises her head to look at me, I see she's much older than I would've guessed, her eyes aged and her face weathered. Her skin bears the unmistakable marks of fae claiming—her throat and wrists are scarred with the distinct puncture wounds of alpha teeth, silvery and healed with what must be years of age.

She gestures to another stump across from her. "Sit. You look dead on your feet, and that's not a state that will end well for an omega in the Hunt."

I hesitate before accepting the invitation. Up close, I notice other details of what she's been through—a slight tremor in her left hand, a burn scar peeking from beneath her sleeve, the way she tilts her head to better hear from her right side.

"You're the one they call The Survivor," I realize aloud.

Stories whispered in the villages have mentioned her—the only living omega known to have endured not just the Hunt, pregnancy, and birth, but to have escaped afterwards. Survivors, like Marta and Sera, are rare. Those who make it usually suffer their fate: being tossed back in again, or worse, becoming the permanent plaything of an alpha's court.

"Some call me that." She shrugs, continuing her work. I now see she's fashioning small tokens from twists of vine, iron filings, and what appears to be dried herbs. "Others have less flattering names."

"You live here? In the bloodmoon forest?"

"Where better to hide from fae than in the place they consider too dangerous for us to survive?" A wry smile touches her lips. "They never look in their own backyard."

My body chooses this moment to remind me what I am. A wave of heat floods through me, making my vision blur and forcing a small gasp from my throat. I dig my nails into my palms, using the sharp pain to focus.

The Survivor notices. Of course she does. "Your heat's advancing quickly," she observes matter-of-factly. "First time?"

I nod, embarrassed despite myself. "I've kept it suppressed. Iron tokens, herbs."

"Ah. That explains it. Your body's making up for lost time." She sets aside her work. "Come inside. I have something that might help, and these woods have too many ears."

The cottage interior is a single room filled with hanging herbs, shelves of stoppered bottles, and bundles of materials I can't identify. A small hearth occupies one wall, a steaming pot suspended above carefully banked coals. The scent of unfamiliar spices permeates the air, not unpleasant but strange.

"Sit," she commands, gesturing to a bench beside a rough-hewn table. "You need relief more than conversation right now."

She ladles liquid from the pot into a clay cup, the steam rising in spirals. "Drink. It will ease your heat symptoms temporarily."

I sniff cautiously. The tea smells of earth and roots and something metallic. "What is it?"

"Nothing that will harm you. Quite the opposite." When I still hesitate, she sighs. "If I wished you ill, I could have simply directed the nearest alpha to your location. The Hunt isn't kind to lone omegas, glamoured or otherwise."

She has a point. I sip the tea and feel immediate relief spreading through my overheated body, the persistent ache in my abdomen subsiding to a manageable level. The dampness between my thighs doesn't disappear, but becomes less distracting.

"Thank you," I breathe, cradling the cup like it holds liquid gold. "That's... that's much better."

She nods, preparing a cup for herself. "Temporary solution only. But it allows for clear thinking, which you'll need."

"You know what I am," I say, not bothering to elaborate. She clearly sees through my glamour, though I don't understand how.

"A deceiver," she says simply. "Wearing another's face to save her from sacrifice. Bold. Foolish, perhaps, but bold."

"It was necessary," I reply, refusing to apologize. "My friend is dying already. She wouldn't have survived the Hunt."

"So you take her place." She studies me over the rim of her cup. "Does she know what you've done?"

"No." The guilt of that deception weighs heavily inside me. Maybe I should've told Willow—but no doubt she would've stopped me if I had. "There wasn't time to explain."

The Survivor makes a noncommittal sound. "The Hunt isn't what you think it is," she says after a moment. "What any of the village omegas think it is. It wasn't always a breeding program for the courts."

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