Page 12 of Run Little Omega

At the opposite end stands a middle-aged woman with practical hands and the distinctive spiral tattoos of a midwife at the corners of her eyes. Unlike the others, she looks determined, prepared even, as if this is a deliberate choice. A volunteer, surely—perhaps trading herself for a patient or family member. Such trades are rare but not unheard of, especially among healers with strong protective instincts.

I approach carefully, keeping my movements delicate to maintain Willow's characteristic grace. A few omegas glance up at my arrival, their expressions ranging from curious to vacant. Several wear the slightly glazed look of those who've been given calming herbs—chemical courage to face what comes and loosen the muscles for claiming.

"Thornwick?" asks a soft voice beside me.

I turn to find a young woman with auburn hair and striking green-gold eyes. Her white cloak has the intricate embroidery of a wealthy border family, though her face shows the same fear as the poorest tribute.

"Yes," I reply, finding Willow's gentle tone. "And you?"

"Emberfall." She gestures to the largest delegation across the clearing. "I'm Rose."

The name clicks from village gossip—the famed beauty whose selection had been specifically requested by the local fae emissary. Looking at her perfect features, I get why. Rose embodies the aesthetic preferences of the fae courts—heart-shaped face, naturally pink lips, symmetrical features arranged with almost artificial precision.

"I'm Willow," I say, the lie becoming easier with each repetition.

More omegas join our small cluster as sunset approaches—Flora, with her strange violet eyes and platinum hair similar to Willow's; Ivy, clearly from a prominent family judging by her elaborate hairstyle and unmarked hands; Sera, whose silver-white hair and strangely patterned skin suggest she’s had previous contact with the Winter Court, and survived a pregnancy with one of their alphas. I shudder at the thought of going through not one, but two Hunts.

We exchange names and villages but little else. What is there to say? Some will be dead within days. Others will survive only to face pregnancy with fae offspring—a condition few human omegas survive. The silent acknowledgment of our shared fate creates a bond more profound than words ever could.

The horizon bleeds crimson as the sun begins to set, painting the monoliths in bloody light. A hush falls over the entire Gathering as robed figures emerge from the trees at the edge of the clearing—the fae emissaries who will oversee the ritual binding. Even from this distance, their inhuman beauty hits like a physical force—too perfect, too symmetrical, too still to be human.

"Tributes, approach the circle," commands a voice that seems to bypass my ears and vibrate directly in my skull.

We move as one, our white cloaks billowing in the evening breeze as we enter the ancient ring of stones. The ground beneath my feet pulses with subtle energy, the earth itself seeming to acknowledge what's happening. At the circle's center waits a stone altar carved with symbols that match those on the monoliths—a language older than any human tongue.

The fae emissaries arrange themselves in a perfect pattern around us, each positioned between two standing stones. Their robes shift color with each movement—summer gold, autumn amber, spring green, winter blue—showing their court affiliations without words.

"When called, step forward and extend your wrist," instructs an emissary in Spring Court green, her flower-petal skin glimmering in the fading light. "The binding is painless but permanent for the duration of the Hunt."

A lie, I suspect, and no doubt the first of many.

The ritual proceeds with practiced efficiency. Each omega approaches when her name is called, extending her wrist to receive the silver tracking bracelet that will bind her to the Hunt. The bracelets themselves look deceptively delicate—slender bands of pure silver inscribed with runes similar to those on the monoliths.

I watch carefully as the first tributes receive theirs. The clasping mechanism makes a distinctive click when closed, followed by a brief flare of blue-white light as the magic activates. Several omegas gasp or whimper as the bracelet closes, though none cry out in actual pain.

"Mira of Westhaven," calls the emissary.

The trembling young teenage girl steps forward, her small frame nearly lost within her oversized cloak. Her hand shakes violently as she extends it, eyes squeezed shut in terror. The bracelet snaps around her wrist with that same distinctive click, the blue light briefly illuminating her tear-streaked face.

Names continue, each followed by the click and flare that signals another omega bound to the Hunt, bound to a violent claiming and near-certain death.

"Wren of Oakhollow." The middle-aged midwife steps forward with dignity, her steady hands and calm expression a stark contrast to the younger tributes.

"Nessa of Riversbend." A sturdy farm girl with callused hands and sun-browned skin, her blue eyes wide with fear.

"Carrie of Southmark." Unremarkable in every way—medium height, light brown hair, gray eyes reflecting resignation rather than defiance.

And then?—

"Willow of Thornwick."

My turn. I step forward, keeping my eyes downcast as I extend my wrist toward the Winter Court emissary—a tall figure whose skin gleams like fresh snow beneath his blue robes. His fingers, when they grasp my arm, feel like ice even through the fabric of my sleeve.

"Look up, tribute," he commands softly.

I raise my eyes slowly, maintaining Willow's gentle expression despite my pounding heart. The fae's face is beautiful in the way of perfectly sculpted ice—flawless, crystalline, and utterly without warmth. His eyes, pale blue with no visible pupil, examine my features with clinical detachment.

For one terrible moment, I fear he sees through the glamour. But then he nods, seemingly satisfied, and positions the silver bracelet around my wrist.

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