“You are an omega,” he continued. “Your power seeks. It binds. It consumes what it touches if it is not properly directed. Without guidance, you would tear through anyone who came too close.”
The word omega settled heavily inside me.
“If I left this tower?” I asked softly.
“If you met with anyone weaker than you, you would destroy them. And if there is someone strong enough to control you besides myself, they could use you to destroy everything.”
I struggled to breathe against the sudden pressure in the room.
“I locked you away because I love you,” he said, finally looking at me.
He rose and crossed the space between us. His hand cupped my cheek and he lifted me to my feet. His skin was warm and I leaned into the touch before I could stop myself, closing my eyes, seeking the solace of his touch, the only touch I had been allowed in years.
His other hand settled at my waist. The warmth beneath my ribs surged—then shifted. It didn't settle but shifted outward, sharply. Almost painfully. As though something within me had narrowed and was being drawn through an invisible thread. My knees weakened. Dizziness washed over me, soft and disorienting.
He pressed his nose to my throat and inhaled, holding his breath for a moment, then he exhaled, the breath tickling the strands of my hair.
His fingers flexed once at my waist. When he stepped back, he looked troubled, unsettled, as if I were a puzzle he had not seen before and could not solve.
“That is enough,” he murmured. “You are tired. Possibly a little feverish. You need rest. Go to your nest tonight. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
He released me, and the room dimmed as he vanished.
I stood there for a moment, gripping the back of the chair to steady myself. My limbs felt heavy, my pulse thready and rapid. It was always like this after he left. As though I had run a great distance without ever moving.
I meant to return directly to my chamber, to stubbornly ignore his suggestion. Instead, my feet carried me upward into the nest. I collapsed into the furs and pillows, too weary to question it. I needed the comfort that my nest provided. The softness eased the weight pressing down on me, but it didn't fill the space that felt newly empty.
Moonlight spilled silver across the low table beside me.
A book lay there, one that I was certain had not been there before.
A History of Omegas.
The word stirred something quiet and buried. Recognition. Unease. Curiosity.
My fingers brushed the cover.
Sleep claimed me before I could read the first line.
Malric
The Wyrdwood didn't welcome intruders. Previous search parties had been led in circles within the forest, blocked by vines, shifting branches, and strange creatures that made it clear the fae were not welcome here. That’s how I knew this was where the weapon was. Only the tyrant king had the magic to enchant the entire woods to keep people out and protect his most valuable weapon in the war.
Whatever that weapon was. It was my job to find it, steal it, or destroy it. Our lives and the lives of all Unseelie Fae depended on it.
I expected the same reaction from the woods that my predecessors received, yet so far, there had been no tricks. Thaneand I had entered the forest and braced for the subtle attacks, yet all had been quiet. The canopy knit overhead so tightly that light filtered through in narrow, deliberate strands. Moisture clung to the bark of blackened oak, catching against the grooves like old scars. Ferns pressed against our boots as we advanced, their fronds brushing leather and steel, parting to let us pass. The entire wood pressed on us like bars in a prison.
Iron bars, damp stone, air that tasted of rust and blood. I shut that memory down before it gathered shape. Now was not the time for the past to rear its ugly head. I didn’t have the time to kneel to the horrors of the past.
Behind me, Thane adjusted his pace. His breathing roughened, not from exertion. He had marched longer distances under heavier burdens than this. What pressed against him was the same thing that pressed against me. Even though we had not experienced the trickery of the Wyrdwood yet, this was no ordinary forest. The air was heavy with old magic, not wild but restrained. Watching. Measuring. The forest listened.
“Slow your stride,” he said quietly. “Nothing here is fleeing.”
“Time is,” I replied.
The rebellion was losing ground and forces, and our support was waning. We had lost three strongholds in the past month. The king’s forces were disciplined, well-supplied, and driven by fear. Fear is efficient. It does not hesitate.
We relied on loyalty. Loyalty bleeds more easily.
