Page 89 of Run Little Omega

It's not an answer, and we both know it. But as The Hound approaches with the Survivor, the moment for questions passes.

"You should rest," the Survivor tells us both, her quicksilver eyes lingering on Cadeyrn with undisguised distrust. "The haven's protection strengthens at night, but even here, vigilance remains necessary."

Cadeyrn nods, his hand finding mine again, cillae synchronizing between us. Whatever secrets lie between him and the Survivor, whatever history remains unspoken, the connection between us feels inviolable in this moment.

As we return to our shelter, the ancient stones stand silent witness, their symbols glowing faintly in the fading light—a language I'm only beginning to decipher, written in frost across my skin and carved in stone beneath my feet.

Tonight we rest in uneasy sanctuary. Tomorrow, I suspect, will bring revelations I'm not prepared to face.

CHAPTER31

POV: Briar

Morning light fracturesthrough the woven branches of our shelter, casting shifting shadows across my skin. I've been awake for hours, watching the silver-blue markings along my arms pulse with each heartbeat. What began at my bracelet has claimed most of my body now—no longer decorative but sentient, an ancient language writing itself through my flesh.

I extract myself from our bed of furs, careful not to wake Cadeyrn. After yesterday's journey, he sleeps with unusual depth—even immortals need rest, though he'd sooner die than admit such weakness.

Outside, the air carries a different weight than the rest of the Bloodmoon Forest—raw, untainted by centuries of court manipulation. The stone circle pulls at me with subtle gravity, every step deepening my awareness of power thrumming beneath the soil.

The Survivor stands waiting, as if she'd calculated my emergence to the second. Perhaps she had.

"You slept soundly," she observes, quicksilver eyes cataloging changes in my appearance that even I haven't noticed.

"Better than since this nightmare began," I admit.

"The haven recognizes its own." She motions for me to follow. "Come. Things to show you while your prince still dreams."

I bristle at her phrasing. "He's not my prince."

Her knowing smile makes my hand itch for a weapon. "The patterns connecting you suggest otherwise."

"It's not that simple," I manage, hating how defensive I sound.

"No," she agrees, leading me toward a low stone structure nestled against the largest blackthorn. "Important things rarely are."

The structure reveals an entrance with steps descending beneath the massive tree's root system. The Survivor produces a crystal that illuminates at her touch, bathing the passage in silvery light that reminds me of the protective potion she gave me days ago.

"What is this place?" I ask as we descend.

"Truth," she answers simply. "History uncorrupted by court revision."

The passage opens into a circular chamber whose walls bear thousands of intricate carvings. I halt, momentarily overwhelmed—generations of images flowing into one another, telling a story spanning centuries. The Survivor's crystal casts the reliefs in stark shadow, lending them uncanny dimension.

"The original Wild Hunt," she says, directing my attention to the most weathered section. "Before the courts perverted it."

I step closer, drawn to scenes depicting something utterly foreign to my experience. Here, omegas don't flee in terror but advance with dignity, wearing ceremonial garb. Alphas approach not as predators but as equals in some ritual exchange. The claiming isn't violent domination—instead, both figures transform together, surrounded by magic that changes them equally.

"This bears no resemblance to what I've witnessed," I say, tracing the ancient lines with my fingertip.

"No. It's what should be." The Survivor positions herself beside me. "The original ritual honored both participants. Alpha and omega, each transformed by their union, each changed in ways that strengthened the flow between realms."

My eyes track the progression of carvings, watching the ritual transform through successive generations. Gradually, mutual transformation yields to something calculated, one-sided. Court symbols emerge—stylized representations of seasonal powers dividing what was once unified.

"The courts happened," I state flatly, reading the stone narrative before me.

"Precisely." Bitterness edges her voice. "Fae nobility discovered they could harness greater power by controlling the Hunt, making it serve their ambitions rather than maintaining balance."

I study a carving showing four distinct figures—each bearing emblems I recognize from the courts—standing above a fragmented landscape. "They deliberately fractured the Wild Magic."

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