But violence? Violence I understand. Rage? That's my native language.
And I'm about to teach the Beast King exactly what a wrong omega can do when she stops pretending to be what everyone wants her to be.
The crowd disperses slowly, people lingering to stare at me like I'm already a ghost. Phern's mother hugs me with tears streaming down her face, thanking me over and over until I have to gently extract myself because I'm about five seconds from snapping at her to stop.
Then they're gone, and it's just me and Yaern in the emptying square.
She doesn't say anything for a long moment. Just looks at me with those too-knowing eyes.
"You volunteered," she says finally.
"Yeah."
"You volunteered to go to the Beast King. The dragon lord who's killed forty-seven omegas in three hundred years."
"Forty-seven that we know of," I correct. "Could be more. Probably are more."
"Kess." She grabs my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "This is suicide."
"Probably." I don't pull away. Let her see my face, let her see that I know exactly what I'm doing. "But Phern is fourteen. She's a child. And I—" I stop. Start again. "I'm not."
"You're twenty-two."
"I'm old enough to make my own choices about how I die." The words come out harder than I intend. "And I choose this. Better than bleeding out in the forest during a heat blackout. Better than accidentally killing a person instead of a wolf. At least this way, it means something."
"It means you're dead." Her voice cracks. "It means I lose my best friend because you're too fucking noble for your own good."
"I'm not noble." I almost laugh at that. "I'm angry. I've been angry my whole life—at the village for treating me like a rabid dog they have to tolerate, at my body for making me this way, at the Beast King for existing and demanding tribute and killing omegas for three hundred years. And now I get to do something about it."
Yaern's eyes widen. "You're going to try to kill him."
I don't deny it. It wasn't something I really thought about, but seeing that wolf this morning—knowing that I tried to kill something that also tried to kill me—it just kinda... happened. Because it makes sense, doesn't it? Send a beast to kill a beast.
She's quiet for a long moment, emotions warring across her face. Then she nods, just once, sharp and decisive.
"Then you'll need more than anger," she says. "We have until dawn tomorrow. I'll help you prepare."
Something loosens in my chest. Of course she will. Of course Yaern—my only friend, the only person in this gods-forsakenvillage who sees me as more than a monster—would help me plan my own untimely death.
"Thank you," I manage past the sudden tightness in my throat.
"Don't thank me yet." She links her arm through mine and starts pulling me toward the edge of the square. "You're going up against a three-hundred-year-old dragon shifter who's killed dozens of omegas. We need to figure out how you're going to stay alive."
"I don't need to survive," I point out. "Just get close enough for long enough to put a blade through his throat."
"Kess."
"What?"
She stops walking and turns to face me, her expression fierce. "Don't say goodbye like you're not coming back."
"I'm not?—"
"I don't care what you think is going to happen." Her grip on my arm tightens. "You're my best friend. The sister I chose. And I'm not losing you without a fight. So we're going to plan this properly. We're going to give you every possible advantage. And you're going to try—actually try—to come back to me alive. Understand?"
I want to argue. Want to tell her it's pointless, that no one survives the Beast King, that hoping for anything else is just setting herself up for more pain.
But the look on her face stops me.
