Page 94 of Run Little Omega

"To witness the reality behind those documents you're holding." She gestures toward the stack of execution orders still clutched in my hand. "To understand what your prince has authorized for centuries."

"He's not my—" I begin automatically, then stop, the protest withering on my tongue. The silver-blue markings connecting us suggest otherwise, regardless of my wishes in this moment.

"Isn't he?" The Survivor's eyes shift in the crystal light, darkening to the deep crimson of old blood. "That's what you must decide, girl. Is he the alpha whose touch awakens magic in your blood? Or the prince who signed these death warrants?"

I stare at the damning evidence in my hands, the elegant signature at each page's bottom seeming to mock my naivety. My fingertips trace the marking patterns spanning my collarbone where Cadeyrn's claiming bite still pulses with phantom sensation.

"Can he be both?" I whisper, the question meant for myself rather than her.

"That's what you must determine." She reclaims the documents, returning them to their cabinet. "But to make that choice, you need to see everything. No courtly explanations or pretty words softening the truth."

As we climb back toward daylight, I mentally catalog every touch, every word, every shared moment between Cadeyrn and me, searching for glimpses of the cold, calculating prince who authorized such atrocities. The male who has claimed me repeatedly, whose mind has melded with mine during our deepest connections, seems incongruous with the methodical executioner who sanctioned countless deaths with that elegant script.

Yet they are the same person. The silver-blue patterns across my skin—evidence of our unprecedented bond—also link me to centuries of calculated cruelty I'm only beginning to comprehend.

We emerge from the hidden archive into late afternoon light. The haven feels altered now, its peaceful sanctuary tainted by knowledge I can't unlearn. The stone circle no longer glows with welcoming power but watches like silent, judging sentinels.

"How much time remains before he returns?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

The Survivor scans the forest boundary with her unsettling gaze. "Sufficient. The Winter Prince hunts far from here, ensuring no rival alphas approach during his absence." Her mouth twists with bitter knowledge. "Always the tactician, even in something as primal as securing food for his claimed omega."

I touch the pendant hanging heavy against my sternum, drawing resolve from its solid weight. "Then show me what I need to see. All of it."

"Be certain, girl." Her voice softens with something like compassion. "Some knowledge can't be unlearned once witnessed. Some truths change everything."

I think of the documents bearing Cadeyrn's signature, of the clinical language describing women as "subjects" for termination, of the silver-blue markings that spread across my skin with each claiming. Whatever waits beyond the haven's protection, I must face it before he returns, before the claiming bond clouds my judgment again.

"I'm certain," I say, my voice steadier than my pounding heart. "Show me the truth he's concealed."

The Survivor nods once, her expression grim as she leads me toward the haven's boundary. The pendant grows heavier with each step, as though conscious of the burden of knowledge it will help me bear.

Behind us, the ancient oak concealing the archive stands sentinel, its roots once more tightly interwoven to hide evidence of centuries of calculated brutality. Ahead, beyond the haven's protection, lies a truth I suspect will shatter whatever remains of my illusions about the Winter Prince—and about the bond that now connects us through magic, blood, and silver-blue across my skin.

CHAPTER33

POV: Briar

The forestbeyond the haven's boundaries turns hostile, as though the land itself recoils from what lies ahead. Massive blackthorns that provided sanctuary now observe our departure with silent condemnation, aware of what waits beyond their protection.

The Survivor navigates the underbrush with unnatural precision, her aging frame belying decades of experience evading court hunters. I follow close behind, the iron pendant growing heavier against my sternum with each step from safety.

"What exactly are we seeking?" I ask as we descend a steep slope where ancient trees surrender to stunted, sickly growth. The vegetation here looks corrupted—pale and twisted, as though something has poisoned it from the roots.

"Not seeking," the Survivor corrects without turning. "Witnessing."

Her cryptic answer fails to quell the dread coiling in my gut. I trace the silver-blue markings across my collarbone to where they vanish beneath my threadbare tunic. They throb in rhythm with my pulse, a constant reminder of my connection to a man whose signature authorized atrocities I'm only beginning to comprehend.

As we press forward, the air thickens—becoming dense with a sickly-sweet odor reminiscent of the time a deer contaminated Thornwick's water supply during summer drought. But something else taints this decay—something chemical and wrong that sears my throat with each breath.

"Cover your mouth and nose," the Survivor instructs, pulling cloth across her lower face. "The air here isn't safe for direct breathing."

I use my sleeve as makeshift protection, but the stench penetrates regardless—a miasma of rot and something my instincts identify as fundamentally unnatural.

"What is this place?" My voice muffles through the fabric.

"The Vale of Culling." The words land like stones between us, weighted with grim significance. "Where the courts dispose of what they've deemed unnecessary."

We crest a small ridge, and the valley beyond unfolds beneath us, bathed in afternoon's silver light. My mind struggles to process the sight—hundreds, perhaps thousands of small mounds arranged in rough rows stretching to the basin's far edge. Some are ancient, covered in sickly vegetation, while others appear freshly turned, the earth dark and disturbed.

---