The Hunt begins in less than an hour.

The announcement has already played twice through the speakers surrounding the staging grounds, each repetition calmly reminding all participating Omegas to report to the designated release area before the countdown reaches zero. Nobody needs reminding. The atmosphere is far too tense for something that's supposed to be a civic tradition, and Ingmar Royle has never quite known what to do with that fact.

He is standing on the Omega side of the staging area. He shouldn't be there; Alphas aren't supposed to cross the separation line before the Hunt begins, but apparently the regulation is more of a suggestion when nobody important is watching.

He believes in the thing the regulation is protecting: one hour of head start, dawn as the line, five years of freedom for whoever is still out there, a legally recognised partner for whoever is not. He has never called it fair. Participation is mandatory, there is no safe zone and no easy way out, and he calls the whole arrangement necessary, calmly, with reasons, and he is aware of how that sounds to the people on this side of the line.

You stand among them with Esme, both of you watching the countdown. He noticed you before he noticed the one who is unwell, and he has been careful not to look at you since, because the carefulness is the only manners he has left.

"Forty-seven minutes," Esme mutters at you, checking her phone again. She is trying to sound casual. She isn't succeeding.

Levin is giving another Omega some brutally practical advice about crossing the river without leaving a trail, and Ingmar does not interrupt.

"Don't follow the water downstream," Levin says flatly. "Everyone thinks that's clever. It isn't. You'll leave footprints on the banks, and every Alpha with a functioning nose will know exactly where you went."

The Omega looks as though he's hoping for something more reassuring.

"Fuck off and survive."

Levin turns away before the poor bastard can decide whether that's a joke, and Esme snorts.

"Charming."

Then Esme's attention shifts. Several metres away, one of the Omegas is standing distinctly unwell, flushed despite the cool evening air, repeatedly tugging at her collar with one hand pressed against her neck. Her breathing is shallow, and then he catches it: her scent is stronger than it should be.

Esme heads towards her, and you follow close behind, and Ingmar is near enough to hear all of it.

"Yara? When was your last suppressant?"

The Omega hesitates, and the silence is answer enough. Esme closes her eyes for half a second.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I stopped taking them."

"Before the Hunt?"

She nods. Esme glances towards the Alpha staging area and finds him already on this side of it, and her concern becomes something more careful.

"Then she's not going out there alone. She's staying with us."

"That may not be entirely necessary."

Esme immediately steps between them.

"You're on the wrong side; you shouldn't be here."

His expression doesn't change. If anything, he looks faintly apologetic.

"Technically, you're right. But the regulations are intended to prevent interference between competitors before the release, not stop someone receiving medical assistance. Especially when she's approaching heat."

He keeps his voice down and tells her he won't touch her or interfere with her preparations, and that there are medical staff nearby if she needs anything.

"You expect me to believe you're just being helpful?"

"I don't particularly care whether you believe me." His gaze remains calm. "I'd simply prefer everyone entered the Hunt healthy."

There's no smirk in it, no threat and no obvious ulterior motive; only the concern, which he has been told before is worse.

He would like you to say something. Anything that isn't the reasonable answer, because he will get the reasonable answer from the other three all night, and the wanting in him is steady rather than loud, and has been for longer than he is willing to say out loud.

Then the speakers crackle overhead.

THIRTY MINUTES UNTIL OMEGA RELEASE.

"Good luck," he says, and means it, which is the trouble.