Then death.
Except I'm not dead.
The scars on my hips are next. I trace them underwater with careful fingers—four parallel lines on each side where his claws dug in during the first claiming, that night on the altar when everything changed. The texture is wrong, has been wrong for weeks now. Harder than the surrounding skin, tougher, like scar tissue that's turned to leather.
Like scales beginning to form.
One more test.
I let myself get angry, let the heat build in my chest. Think about the village elders and their weighted stones. My aunt in her white dress, walking into the forest to die. Forty-seven names carved in gold on memorial stones, forty-seven omegas who came before me and never walked out.
Then I look at my reflection in the still water near the tub's edge, leaning close to see my own eyes.
A thin red ring circles each pupil, delicate as a pen stroke, visible only when my blood runs hot.
All three symptoms.
I should be dead—should have died weeks ago, like the texts said, like every contaminated omega before me. Instead I'm getting faster, stronger, sharper, my body changing in ways that have nothing to do with dying.
The contamination isn't killing me.
It's changing me.
I find nail lacquer in the bottom drawer of my dresser—nearly black, the color of crow feathers—and paint my nails with quick, careful strokes. The lacquer covers the purple tint completely, hiding it beneath a darkness that could be fashionable if anyone here cared about such things.
Hidden.
The red ring only appears when I'm angry, and the scars are under my clothes. No one will know unless I tell them.
I dress in clean training leathers and head for the training yard, my body still sore but my mind restless, hungry for something to hit. I need to move, need to fight, need to feel my muscles burn with something other than memory.
And I need information. Carter might have both.
He's already warming up when I arrive, running through forms with his practice sword, his movements fluid and practiced in the morning light. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me crossing the yard.
"You're... up." He glances around like he's expecting Rhystan to materialize from the shadows, like he can't quite believe I'm standing here alone. "I thought after yesterday you'd be, uh. Occupied. For a few days."
"It passed."
"It—" He blinks, sword lowering slightly. "Already?"
"Already."
"Huh." He processes this, confusion written plainly across his young face. "That's... is that normal?"
"No." I grab a practice sword from the rack—not the one we fucked against, a different one on the far side—and settle into a ready stance. "It's not. You going to spar or ask questions?"
"Both, probably." But he raises his sword and we begin to circle, falling into the familiar rhythm we've built over weeks of training together.
I let him land the first strike, testing his guard, feeling out his stance. He's gotten better since we started—more confident, more willing to commit to his attacks. Still drops his left shoulder before he strikes, but he's learning to hide it.
"Can I ask you something?" I block his next strike and counter, driving him back a step across the packed earth.
"You're already asking."
"About dragon shifters. About your blood."
His rhythm falters, just slightly, just enough for me to notice. "What about it?"
