Page 5 of Run Little Omega

The first strike echoes through the empty workshop, sending a jolt up my arm. The second follows immediately, and then the third. The punishing rhythm matches the fury pounding through my veins. Each blow absorbs a fraction of my rage, turning a twisted horseshoe into an unrecognizable lump.

I don't hear Fergus enter. It’s only when his scarred hand closes over mine, stilling the hammer mid-swing, that I realize I'm not alone.

"That's enough," he says. "You'll damage the anvil."

I look down to see the metal piece has been thoroughly flattened, and now I’m leaving marks in the anvil's surface. Sweat drips from my chin onto the workbench, and my muscles burn with exertion.

"Sorry," I mutter, setting the hammer aside. "I'll smooth it out."

Fergus guides me to the wooden bench against the wall, pushing a waterskin into my hands. "Drink. Then talk."

I gulp down water that tastes faintly of the river stones it was filtered through. But talking is another thing. Words feel inadequate against the tightness in my chest.

"It's Willow," I finally say, as if this explains anything at all. In Thornwick, maybe it does.

Fergus nods, settling his bulk beside me. For a big man, he moves with surprising gentleness. "The Ambrose girl. Rumors are she’s this year's tribute."

"She can barely stand, Fergus. She won't survive the journey to the Gathering Circle, let alone the Hunt itself."

"Maybe that's a mercy."

I slam the waterskin down. "Why does everyone keep saying that? There's nothing merciful about sending a dying girl to be torn apart by fae alphas!"

"Better a quick death than a slow one." Fergus's voice remains steady, though something dark flickers behind his eyes. "Better to die serving a purpose than wasting away in a sickbed."

"That's what Thaddeus said. Almost word for word."

"Because it's what we tell ourselves to make it bearable." His hand—massive, calloused, bearing the burn scars of decades at the forge—covers mine. "What we've been telling ourselves for generations. It doesn't make it true."

I look up, startled by the bitterness in his tone. Fergus has always been pragmatic about the Hunt, never openly criticizing the tradition, though he finds excuses to be away from the village during selection years. I know he lost a daughter, but he never speaks of her.

Maybe now he will. “I don’t know how you can talk about Willow’s death so casually when you’ve lost a loved one to the Hunt too. It’s like you’ve forgotten.”

“I’ll never forget,” he says fiercely. His fingers trace an old burn scar that travels from his wrist up his forearm. "She was like you. Strong. Clever with her hands. Would have made a fine smith."

My throat tightens. "What happened to her? How did…"

"I’ll never know the details, but maybe that’s better when it comes to the Hunt." His voice drops lower. "They said she was chosen fairly. That the moonstone selection was random. But I saw Headman Lloyd's face when he drew her name. Saw the relief in his eyes that it wasn't his own daughter."

The confirmation of my suspicions—that the selection is manipulated to protect certain families—only fuels my anger. "And you did nothing?"

"What could I do? Challenge the selection? Defy the fae?" Fergus shakes his head. "I was told she would be treated humanely. That if she was too weak to bear fae children, they would cull her quickly, painlessly. A mercy killing."

The word "mercy" again, twisted beyond recognition.

"They lied," I say, already knowing the answer.

"They lied." Fergus confirms, his voice flat. "Three months after the Hunt, a trader from the borderlands brought news. He'd seen the culling pits. Said there was nothing merciful about them."

The hollow ache in my chest expands, making it difficult to breathe. I think of Willow, already so frail, facing such an end.

"I can't let that happen to her," I whisper.

"You can't stop it either." Fergus squeezes my hand once before releasing it. "The best you can do is be there for her in the time she has left. Make her last days peaceful."

But peace is the last thing on my mind as Fergus retires to his quarters, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the dying embers of the forge. Instead, I replay his words about the Hunt, about his daughter, about the lies told to make unthinkable sacrifices palatable.

Night falls over Thornwick, the silver gleam of stars somehow colder and more distant than usual. Through the open forge door, I can see crimson ribbons fluttering from the eaves of nearby houses, blood-red against the darkness. Preparations for the Hunt, protection for the village daughters—old superstitions die hard, and the village takes no chances with fae bargains.

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