Page 31 of Run Little Omega

"What was it, then?" I ask, curios despite myself.

"An ancient ritual honoring the balance between pursuit and evasion, power and surrender." Her voice takes on a rhythmic quality, as if reciting something memorized long ago. "The first Hunt was a willing sacrifice—omegas who chose to run, alphas who chose to pursue. Both transformed by the experience, both honored for their role."

I try to reconcile this with the brutal reality I've witnessed. "That's not what happens now."

"No." Bitterness edges her voice. "The courts corrupted it centuries ago, turning the sacred balance into a political competition. The alphas hunt not to honor ancient magic but to strengthen bloodlines, to produce heirs with specific traits."

"How do you know all this?" I ask, surprised by her knowledge of fae politics.

"I've lived in both worlds." She sips her tea, eyes momentarily distant with memory. "Claimed twice, bore children to two different courts. Escaped when they thought me too old to matter anymore."

She studies me with a shrewd gaze, attention lingering on the frost patterns visible beneath my sleeve. "Your bracelet's responding unusually. I've never seen that pattern before, though I’ve seen others like it.”

I glance down at the silver band, at the ice blue lines and whorls spreading from it. "Is that bad?"

"Different doesn't always mean bad." She reaches across and touches the icy whorls on my wrist with weathered fingers. "Though it does mean you've caught someone's particular attention. The Winter Court, I'd wager, given the frost."

The certainty in her voice unnerves me. "How can you tell?"

"Court magic leaves distinct signatures. Winter Court alphas mark with frost, Summer with heat, Autumn with patterns like fallen leaves, Spring with new growth." She withdraws her hand. “They’re called cillae, though most have forgotten the old word outside the fae courts.”

“Cillae.” I taste it in my mouth and shiver. “I didn’t know magic could mark someone like that. I’m… not an expert. This is my first magic spell, and I'm not sure how well I did it.”

She studies me. “The glamour you've cast—it's good work, but such spells always have limitations. You should know that certain fae can see through them."

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cillae. "Which fae?"

"Those with ancient bloodlines. Those with particular interest in the one being disguised." Her gaze is knowing, uncomfortably perceptive. "Has the Winter Prince crossed your path yet?"

The memory of ice-blue eyes watching me at the Gathering Circle sends an unwanted shiver through me—not entirely from fear. "How did you know about him?"

"The forest talks. And Prince Cadeyrn hunting alone, breaking centuries of tradition? That's the kind of news that travels fast, even to those who live apart from court politics."

Another wave of heat rolls through me at the mention of his name, more intense than before. The Survivor's tea is already wearing off, my body's desires reasserting themselves with vengeance. My skin flushes, nipples tightening painfully against the rough fabric of my shift. Between my thighs, the gathering moisture makes sitting still increasingly uncomfortable.

The Survivor notices my discomfort with the matter-of-fact awareness of someone who's experienced it herself. "Your body betrays you," she says, not unkindly. "It's the way of things during the Hunt. The crimson moon enhances the existing heat."

"I hate it," I mutter, shifting on the bench. "I'm not just some... some animal driven by instinct."

"No," she agrees. "But you can't separate yourself from your body, or your biology. Accepting what's happening to you isn't the same as surrendering to it."

She rises, moving to a small chest tucked beneath a shelf. She takes out a worn piece of hide, unfolding it carefully on the table between us. A map, hand-drawn in inks of various colors, showing the Bloodmoon Forest in greater detail than I thought possible.

"Secret paths," she explains, tracing lines that seem to shimmer in the cottage's dim light. "Routes that traditional tracking magic cannot penetrate. The courts don't know them—or if they ever did, they've forgotten by now."

I study the map intently, memorizing key features. A ring of white stones that offers temporary sanctuary. A cave system beneath a waterfall. A clearing where the trees form a perfect circle.

"Why help me?" I ask as she refolds the map.

"Because kindness is rare during the Hunt, and so are survivors. Because I don't want to be the only one who escapes. Because the trees have been whispering to me about you." She presses the map into my hands. "Take this. Use it well."

Before I can respond, she moves to a shelf of small bottles, selecting one after careful consideration. The vial she finally chooses contains liquid that shifts between silver and blue.

"Take this as well," she says, pressing it into my palm. "Not to prevent claiming—that's something almost none of us can avoid—but to ensure you survive what follows, should claiming occur."

The glass feels cool against my overheated skin. "What is it?"

"Protection," she answers simply. "When the time comes—after your first claiming—drink it all. It will help shield your body from the worst effects of the knot and the bite."

---