Page 9 of Run Little Omega

The effect hits me instantly and it's excruciating. The vapor enters my lungs like liquid metal, spreading outward through my veins until every part of me burns with cold fire. My bones seem to shift beneath my skin, not breaking but somehow rearranging themselves in ways bones should never move.

I bite down hard on a leather strip I'd prepared for this, muffling the scream that tears from my throat. The pain gets worse, a pulling sensation like my very self is being extracted through my skin and replaced with something else. My vision splits and doubles, the trees around me swimming as tears fill my eyes.

Through it all, one thought keeps me going: Willow. I'm enduring this for Willow.

And because it’s far past time for someone to stand up to the fae.

The transformation peaks in a moment of such intense pain that I nearly pass out. I collapse to all fours, gasping around the leather strip, sweat or tears dripping to the forest floor. Just when I'm sure I've made a terrible mistake, that the spell will tear me apart instead of transforming me, the pain suddenly disappears.

The silence afterward feels complete. Even the night insects have gone quiet, as if shocked by what they've seen. I stay still, taking stock: the feel of dirt under my palms, the cool night air on my skin, the strange lightness in my limbs.

Something's different. My body feels wrong—no, not wrong. Different. My balance has shifted slightly. My hair, when it falls around my face, shimmers silver-white in the moonlight instead of copper.

It worked. It actually fucking worked.

With shaking hands, I reach for a bucket of water I'd placed nearby. The surface ripples as I lean over it, then stills to show my reflection.

Willow's face stares back at me.

Her delicate features have replaced my stronger ones—the high cheekbones, the slightly pointed chin, the wide green eyes that always remind me of new leaves. Her platinum blonde hair falls in a straight sheen where my copper curls should be. Even the translucent quality of her skin is perfectly copied, the blue veins visible at her temples and wrists.

The glamour is flawless. Disturbingly so.

I touch my face, expecting to feel Willow's soft skin. Instead, my fingers meet my own familiar features, though my eyes insist they're touching Willow's. I flex my arm, watching as the image of Willow's slender limb moves, yet feeling my own blacksmith's muscles underneath.

The spell affects only what people see—a perfect illusion that has changed only the surface. My strength is the same, thank the gods. Everything about me is unchanged except for what people see when they look at me.

This is exactly what I'd hoped for. While I’ll look like Willow, I'll bring my own physical advantages to the Hunt under her demure and submissive face.

I stand carefully, testing how the glamour holds when I move. The illusion stays perfect, Willow's reflection copying my actions without even a flicker. I try a series of self-defense exercises—lunges, quick turns, a right hook Fergus taught me—and find I can move normally.

A chilling thought strikes me despite the summer night: what if the glamour affects my scent too? If it covers up the scent of my approaching heat, the fae alphas of the Hunt might ignore me completely. The entire plan would fail.

But the grimoire page was clear—the spell only affects what people see. My omega scent will grow stronger as the crimson moon waxes, drawing the Hunt to me as intended. The spell only needs to last long enough to prevent the fae from realizing what I’ve done and potentially sending Willow out in my place.

I begin gathering my supplies, putting out candles and packing away the copper bowl, now empty and cool to touch. The hair circle has vanished, used up by the spell. The grimoire page lies curled and blackened at the edge of the clearing, its purpose fulfilled.

A twig snaps behind me.

I freeze, my hand automatically reaching for the knife at my belt.

"Willow?" a man's voice calls in confusion.

Thaddeus Ambrose stands at the edge of the trees, his stooped figure outlined by moonlight. The apothecary's eyes are wide as he takes in the scene—the candle stubs, the ritual tools, his daughter apparently doing magic in the middle of the night.

My mind races. I hadn't planned for this. Thaddeus rarely leaves his cottage after dark, especially with Willow needing constant care. It’s just my terrible luck that he’s here.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks, stepping closer. His eyes scan the clearing, and my pulse races. "You should be resting."

I open my mouth, then realize my mistake—my voice will give me away instantly. I lower my eyes and bring a hand to my throat, copying Willow's shy gesture when her voice fails from weakness.

"Are you ill?" Concern replaces suspicion as Thaddeus rushes forward. "Did you strain your voice again?"

I nod, keeping my face turned away. My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he must hear it. One wrong move, one slip in the act, and everything falls apart.

"What made you come out here?" He gathers my ritual supplies, hopefully mistaking them for simple medicinal ingredients. "Was it another nightmare about the ceremony?"

Another nod.

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