Page 73 of Run Little Omega

I tell myself that's not what drives me. I'm not seeking Cadeyrn from some omega need to be near my alpha. I'm gathering intelligence, understanding the larger game.

Even in my own thoughts, the lie rings hollow.

As I prepare to cross the haven's barrier, Lira catches my hand. Her dark eyes, still haunted but clearer now, meet mine. "Thank you," she whispers, pressing something small and hard into my palm. "For not abandoning me to them."

I look down to find a small knife carved entirely from bone, its handle etched with unfamiliar symbols. "It belonged to my mother," Lira explains. "Made from the thigh bone of a fae who tried to claim her outside the Hunt. It can pierce their magic if you strike true."

Moved by her gift, I secure the bone knife in my belt before stepping through the shimmering barrier into unprotected forest.

The sun hangs low, painting silver leaves with crimson light reminiscent of fresh blood. I move silently through the undergrowth, following the claiming bond's pull that draws me toward the ridge Marta mentioned.

Battle sounds reach me before visuals—the distinctive crack of ice forming, flames rushing through air, and beneath it all, guttural snarls of alphas in territorial combat. I drop low, approaching the ridge's edge cautiously.

The scene below steals my breath.

A perfect circle has been cleared in the valley, half covered in glittering ice, half smoldering with barely contained fire. Surrounding this makeshift arena, trees have been bent into natural barriers, their trunks and branches woven together to create containing walls.

At the center stand two figures—one familiar, one not.

Cadeyrn's transformation continues to shock me. His body, once lean and aristocratic, has expanded with muscle straining against his minimal clothing. Frost covers his skin in elaborate patterns matching those on my own flesh, pulsing with blue-white light that follows his heartbeat. His eyes—once detached and ice-blue—now burn with predatory focus.

Facing him stands a fae who could only be Lord Ember Farren of the Autumn Court. Slender where Cadeyrn is broad, hair the exact shade of burning coals, eyes shifting between gold and amber as the light changes. In rut, his skin has developed a kind of magical glow, brightening with each surge of battle magic.

Unlike Cadeyrn's previous executions, this time he’s fighting more cleanly. They circle each other with deliberate steps, movements full of ancient dominance.

"You’re violating the Hunt's fundamental purpose," Ember's voice carries clearly. "Exclusive claiming undermines the entire breeding program."

"Perhaps the breeding program requires undermining," Cadeyrn responds, his voice permanently altered by days of primal sounds. "Seven centuries of 'careful selection' has produced weaker offspring with each generation. The courts are dying, Ember."

This statement visibly shocks the Autumn Court alpha. "Blasphemy," he hisses, flames gathering at his fingertips. "Court magic represents the pinnacle of fae development."

"Court magic is a prison," Cadeyrn counters, ice crystallizing around his own hands. "It has separated us from our true nature, from the Wild Magic that once flowed freely through all fae bloodlines."

Their powers collide at the circle's center—fire meeting ice in an explosion of steam and light. I shield my eyes, feeling conflicting magics ripple even at this distance.

When my vision clears, Ember kneels, blood trailing from a cut above his eye. Cadeyrn stands over him, frost spreading from his bare feet to encircle the fallen alpha without touching him.

“The Summer Court has allied with the Spring," Ember gasps, clearly recognizing he's outmatched. "They move against you now, gathering forces at the forest’s edge."

"And Autumn Court?" Cadeyrn asks, ice forming around his fist.

"Divided. Some fear what your transformation represents. Others..." Ember's gaze rises to meet Cadeyrn's directly. "Others recognize the truth in your words. Court magic diminishes with each generation. If another path exists..."

"It does." Cadeyrn's voice holds absolute certainty. "I've felt it awakening since claiming her. The Wild Magic responds to our bond, to something in her blood that calls to mine."

For the first time, I realize they discuss me—whatever dormant heritage flows in my veins that triggered Cadeyrn's unprecedented rut.

Ember comprehends the implications faster than I do. "A descendant of the original Wild Hunt," he breathes, awe replacing fear. "After all this time..."

"The courts have spent centuries breeding it out of our bloodlines," Cadeyrn says, voice dropping. "Controlling rut, suppressing instinct, calculating matches based on court aesthetics rather than magical compatibility."

"And now it reawakens." Ember's face fills with excitement. "Through your claiming bond with this omega. That means that if another claims her?—“

His words die unfinished. With movements too swift for my eyes to track, Cadeyrn strikes—an ice blade materializing in his hand and driving through Ember's heart. Unlike previous kills, this one comes swift, merciful, almost respectful.

"You deserved to know why you die," Cadeyrn murmurs as he lowers Ember's body to the ground. "And to understand that you will not be allowed to touch her, no matter how tempting it is.”

I watch, transfixed, as Cadeyrn arranges the body in a peaceful position, then uses his magic to preserve it. Ice flowers bloom around the corpse, a kind of beauty that will outlast the Hunt itself.

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