Page 88 of Run Little Omega

The Survivor guides me toward the stone circle, stopping within its boundary. Up close, the stones overwhelm—twice my height and covered in symbols that match the cillae across my skin. I reach out instinctively, tracing one with my fingertip. The stone pulses beneath my touch, warm despite its appearance.

"These symbols," I begin, "they're the same as?—"

"Your markings. Yes." The Survivor's voice softens for the first time. "They're the language of Wild Magic, from before the courts corrupted the Hunt."

"What do they mean?"

"Protection. Transformation. Rebirth." Her eyes track the most prominent marking on my forearm. "This one signifies balance—the equilibrium between worlds that the original Hunt maintained."

I absorb this, connecting fragments that have troubled me since Cadeyrn first claimed me beneath the blackthorn. "The courts don't want balance."

"No. They demand control." She steps closer, voice dropping. "Listen carefully, girl. When we met before, I didn't know how deeply you'd become entangled. The silver-blue potion I gave you—did you use it?"

"Yes," I confirm, remembering the cool liquid sliding down my throat after Cadeyrn's first claiming, exactly as she'd instructed. "After he first claimed me."

She nods, relief briefly softening her features. "Good. That will help shield you from what's coming."

"Shield me how?" I ask, glancing down at the cillae mapping my skin. "You never explained what it actually does."

The Survivor's eyes darken, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "It fortifies your womb against fae seed. Without it, his bloodline would consume you from within." Her fingers trace a pattern in the air that mirrors the frost on my forearm. "Court alphas' essence is toxic to human vessels—it transforms the carrier, not just the offspring. The potion creates boundaries between your flesh and the changes his seed brings."

"You mean pregnancy." The word feels strange on my tongue, a possibility I'd never considered when entering the Hunt.

She nods grimly. "The courts insist no omega can birth fae children outside their birthing chambers, under their physicians' control. They claim our bodies can't survive the transformation." Her mouth twists with bitter triumph. "I've done it twice. The potion is ancient knowledge they've tried to erase—proof we don't need their protection to survive what they've made of us."

"The Winter Prince isn't what you expected when you gave me your map and medicine," I observe, watching her reaction.

"No." Her gaze shifts to where Cadeyrn waits in the shelter, a silhouette moving behind woven branches. "Be wary of him, Briar. There is history here you don't yet comprehend."

"What history?" I ask, but she shakes her head.

"Not now. The stones have recognized you—that's sufficient for today." She glances toward the haven's edge where the sun's angle reveals late afternoon approaching. "Rest. Recover your strength. There will be time for more tomorrow."

Before I can press further, she turns sharply, attention caught by something at the haven's boundary. "We have company. Not court hunters, but something else entirely."

I follow her gaze to where a figure emerges from between the blackthorns—tall and lean with the predatory grace of an alpha. But this one moves differently, something almost human in his movements despite his unmistakable fae beauty.

"The Hound," I whisper, recognizing the alpha who helped us evade pursuing hunting parties.

The Survivor's expression shifts to surprise. "You know him?"

"He's helped us twice. Warned us of court alliances forming against us."

She studies me with renewed interest. "Then perhaps the Wild Magic works through more vessels than I suspected." She starts toward the haven's entrance, then pauses, looking back. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, there is much you should see."

I watch her leave, mind crowded with questions rather than answers. The symbols on the stones call to me, familiar in ways I can't articulate—as if they've always existed in my blood, dormant until Cadeyrn's claiming awakened them.

I turn back to the stones, drawn to one symbol in particular—a spiral contained within a perfect circle, identical to the cillae over my heart. When I touch it, something resonates deep within me, a recognition beyond conscious thought.

As I lower my hand, a shadow falls across the stone. I turn to find Cadeyrn observing me, his expression unreadable even through our strengthening bond.

"She spoke to you," he says, not a question.

"Yes." I study his face, searching for clues behind his careful mask. "She says there's history I don't understand."

Something flickers in his eyes—pain or guilt, I can't tell which. The cillae across his skin dim slightly, responding to his emotional state.

"There is history everywhere in the courts, Briar," he says finally, voice carefully measured. "Centuries of it."

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