Page 4 of Run Little Omega

Thaddeus nods, moving to his workbench under the window. “I gathered fresh valeria root. It might help with the night sweats, at least.”

He moves with practiced efficiency, crushing leaves and measuring powders with still hands. The same hands that delivered half the village, including me. Those hands will soon place his only daughter into the fae’s hands at the Gathering Circle.

“She won’t survive the journey,” I say quietly, watching his shoulders tense. “You know that.”

His hand on the pestle never falters. “Maybe, maybe not. But she won’t survive to the next full moon either, Hunt or no Hunt.”

“So you’re just giving up.”

Now the pestle stills, the mortar clenched in his hand. Thaddues turns slowly, his shadowed eyes finding mine. “Is that what you think this is?”

“What else would you call it?”

“Mercy.” He sets the mortar aside, wiping his hands on his apron. “Do you know what’s waiting for her if she stays here? Weeks of pain as her organs fail one by one. Bedsores that won’t heal. Then seizures as the disease reaches her brain. I’ve seen it, Briar. I’ve watched it take dozens in my time, your mother included.”

Mentioning her death lands just as he knew it would. I look away, focusing my gaze on the meticulously labeled jars that line the walls. “So instead, you’ll send her out there to be hunted like an animal. Torn apart by rutting alphas competing for the right to claim her.”

“The village receives compensation for each tribute. Enough gold to rebuild our failing ward-stones.” His voice remains, reasonable. It makes me want to scream. “The protective magic that keeps thornwick safe from border raids, from blight, from the very disease consuming her—it all comes at a price. You know this as well as Willow.”

“I know you’re trading her life away.”

“Her life is already forfeit.” His voice breaks. “Don’t you think I’ve tried everything? Every remedy, every tincture, every desperate bargain with hedge witches and traveling healers? Nothing works. All I can do now is ease her pain, and even that I’m failing at.”

I move away from the bed, unable to stay still as rage boils beneath my skin. “So this makes it easier? Telling yourself it gives her death purpose?”

“A quick death at fae hands is preferable to months of suffering,” he says, his voice hollow. “This way, her sacrifice protects the entire village. Including you, Briar.”

My secret hangs between us, unknown by Thaddeus but maybe suspected, given how many times I’ve purchased herbs from him for “allergy symptoms” and “painful menses.” He doesn’t say anything, and he never will, but my guilt is a cramp in my stomach.

“She deserves better than this,” I whisper.

“We all deserve better than what the world gives us. Especially those of us in the borderlands.” He returns to his grinding, signaling the end of the discussion. “She’s made her peace with it. You should try to do the same.”

A slight movement from the bed draws my attention. Willow’s eyes are open, bright from fever and far too knowing.

“You heard us,” I say, moving back to her side.

She reaches for my hand, her cold grip surprisingly firm. “He’s right, Briar. I’ve made my choice.”

“It’s not a choice when there are no other options.”

"There are always options." Her thumb traces the calluses on my palm. "I could fight to stay alive another month, maybe two if we're lucky. Drain my family's resources for treatments that won't work. Watch my father destroy himself trying to save me." Her gaze drifts to her father and back. "Or I can do this. Better me than someone with years ahead of them."

The sad smile that touches her lips makes my heart twist painfully. Willow has always been the gentle one, the one who feeds stray cats and weaves flowers into crowns for village children. Even now, facing her own death, she’s selflessly thinking of others.

"Don't you dare be noble about this," I mutter, blinking hard against the burning in my eyes. "It's a barbaric tradition and you know it."

"Most traditions are, when you look closely enough." Her fingers tighten around mine. "Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Don't waste your anger on my father. Or the village. Or even the fae." Her voice grows stronger, despite the illness weakening her. "Save it for something that matters."

I swallow the protest that rises in my throat. Willow doesn't need my rage right now; she's got enough on her plate. Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to her forehead, breathing in the lavender scent of her hair one last time.

"I promise," I lie.

The forge welcomes me back with familiar heat and the comforting scent of coal and iron. I don't bother changing into my work clothes or stoking the fire properly. Instead, I grab a heavy hammer and a pile of scrap metal, ready to release my rage at the world.

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