Page 92 of Run Little Omega

He approaches carefully, the patterns across his skin synchronizing with mine despite the tension between us. "Not everything can be explained in a single conversation," he says quietly. "Some truths require time."

"And some require courage," the Survivor adds pointedly.

Cadeyrn's jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait. Instead, he turns to me. "What you're learning here—what you're experiencing—is precisely why the courts view us as a threat. Wild Magic resists control or direction. It responds to emotion, intention, balance. Everything the courts have worked centuries to eliminate."

"We need to leave," he continues, addressing the Survivor instead of meeting my eyes. "Court hunting parties approach the haven's boundary."

"They cannot enter without permission," she replies, though concern shadows her weathered features. "The ancient protections hold."

"For now," he agrees, "but we've been here nearly a full day. Even ancient magic has limits when four courts' worth of enraged alphas hammer at it."

I struggle to focus on this immediate danger, watching the patterns on my skin pulse erratically with conflicting emotions.

"Go," the Survivor tells us, her urgency surprising me. "Passages beneath the haven connect to the forest beyond. The Wild Magic will guide you if you permit it."

Cadeyrn nods once. "Thank you for the sanctuary," he says formally, "however brief."

"Don't thank me, Winter Prince." Her quicksilver eyes fix on him with undisguised contempt. "I do this for her, and for what you both represent despite everything else. The Magic has chosen its vessels, whatever my personal feelings about one of them might be."

He accepts this with unexpected grace, turning to me with a question in his gaze. Despite my growing suspicion, the threat of pursuing court parties forces practical decision.

"Let's go," I say, though I make no move to take his offered hand. "But this conversation isn't finished."

As we leave the chamber, I glance back at the carving showing us connected by tendrils of Wild Magic. Whatever secrets Cadeyrn withholds, whatever history lies between him and the Survivor, our bond remains undeniable—a physical connection written in silver-blue across our skin.

The Wild Magic has chosen us for reasons beyond our understanding. The question now is whether I can trust the man it's bound me to, and what price we'll both pay for the power awakening between us.

CHAPTER32

POV: Briar

I watchCadeyrn until he vanishes between the ancient blackthorns, his silhouette dissolving into shadow. Even with everything I've learned about the courts' perversion of the Hunt, my body betrays me with a hollow ache as he disappears. The silver-blue markings across my skin throb with answering rhythm, as though some part of him remains anchored to me despite the growing distance.

"He's hunting," I state, more to convince myself than to inform the Survivor standing silent beside me. "He'll be gone at least an hour."

"Longer," she replies, mercury eyes assessing me with unnerving directness. "The Winter Prince is methodical in all things. He'll ensure you're properly fed after your... activities."

Heat crawls up my neck at her knowing tone. Despite the revelations in the underground chamber—or perhaps because of them—Cadeyrn and I had coupled twice since dawn, his claiming as demanding as ever. The markings across my collarbone still tingle where his teeth pressed into my flesh.

"You distrust him," I observe, noting the tension that crackles between them whenever they occupy the same space.

The Survivor's weathered face remains impassive. "Trust is a luxury rarely afforded to those who've survived what I have."

"And what exactly is that?" I press, weary of enigmatic half-truths. "You clearly share history with the Winter Court. With Cadeyrn specifically."

Rather than answering, she turns toward the massive oak anchoring the eastern edge of the haven. "Come. There's more you must see while your prince is occupied elsewhere."

I follow, irritation wrestling with curiosity. "He's not my prince."

Her only response is a skeptical glance at the silver-blue patterns now mapping most of my upper body, visible evidence of our connection.

The oak appears solid initially, but as we approach, I notice a narrow gap between enormous roots that coil around each other like intertwined serpents. The Survivor kneels beside this opening and whispers words in that ancient language she used before. The roots respond, shifting apart to reveal a steep staircase descending into darkness.

"What lies below?" I ask, peering into the shadows.

"The true history of the Hunt," she answers, producing a small crystal that illuminates at her touch. "Come."

The passage plunges deeper than expected, the air growing dense with the musty scent of aged parchment and dried herbs. After what feels like endless steps, we emerge into a vast chamber that halts my breath.

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