Page 30

CHAPTER 30

POV: Briar

The forest transforms as we approach the central haven. The blackthorns stand taller here, their trunks thicker with bark that catches light like oil on water. Their red sap weeps more freely, droplets falling in slow arcs to stain the earth. Each footfall feels judged, as if the soil itself weighs our worth with ancient consciousness.

"We're close," Cadeyrn murmurs, his hand at the small of my back. A week ago, I'd have twisted away from that possessive touch. Now I lean into it, craving the connection as the cillae across my skin ignite in response.

The transformation in the Winter Prince still catches me off-guard. That cold, calculating creature from the Gathering Circle has become something both more feral and more present. The cillae swirling across his marble-white skin burn brighter here, synchronized with my own.

"How do you know?" I ask, though I sense it too—a vibration beneath my skin, a pressure against my temples.

"The magic." He tilts his head, attending to something beyond my perception. "It's older here. Untainted."

The undergrowth recedes as we advance, yielding to a path bordered by smooth obsidian stones. Not natural formations but deliberately placed markers. The symbols etched into their surfaces strike me as familiar though I've never consciously seen them.

"These markings," I say, fingers hovering above a spiral pattern that mirrors the frost on my wrist.

Cadeyrn's expression tightens. "Navigation markers. From before the courts existed."

Before I can press further, the path widens abruptly, trees falling away to reveal the haven. I halt, lungs seizing at the sight.

This is no simple clearing—it's a perfect circle carved into the forest's heart, surrounded by ancient blackthorns that reach impossible heights. Their branches weave together overhead, forming a living cathedral that filters sunlight through silver leaves. At the center stands a stone circle—not the precise monoliths of the Gathering Circle, but something rawer, more elemental. These stones erupted from the earth itself, twisted and gnarled like the bones of some primordial beast.

"It's..." Words fail me before the power that thrums through this place.

Cadeyrn doesn't respond, his attention fixed on a figure at the clearing's far edge. I follow his gaze and recognition floods through me immediately.

The Survivor stands between two of the largest stones, observing our approach with unnatural stillness. Her silver-shot hair remains bound in that same intricate knot, iron pins glinting in the filtered light. Her eyes shift color like mercury as we near, responding to the ambient magic.

"You found your way after all," she says, addressing me before her gaze shifts to Cadeyrn. Her expression transforms from cautious welcome to naked revulsion. "You," she hisses, voice fracturing with emotion I can't decipher. "Winter Prince."

Cadeyrn inclines his head, the gesture measuring rather than respectful. "Elder. We seek sanctuary."

The Survivor's eyes dart between us, lingering on the cillae connecting our skin, the silver threads in my copper hair, the ice-blue flecks in my amber eyes. Understanding dawns in her expression, followed by something darker—fear, perhaps. Or hatred.

"The claiming bond," she states flatly. "It's awakened in you both."

I step forward, positioning myself slightly between them. Old instinct—shield the vulnerable party. Except nothing about this woman radiates vulnerability. Power emanates from her in waves, different from Cadeyrn's winter magic but equally potent.

"Your map guided us here," I say, pulling the worn hide from my pack. The secret paths she'd shown me in her cottage had led us through the worst of the pursuit. "You knew I'd need it."

Her quicksilver eyes fix on me. "I guide all omegas who demonstrate survival potential. You," her gaze traces the cillae twisting up my arms, "have surpassed even my expectations."

"The courts hunt us," I press. "We need sanctuary."

"Of course they hunt you." Her laugh splinters like ice. "You embody everything they've spent centuries suppressing."

Cadeyrn moves beside me, his presence an anchor. The cillae across our skin pulse in tandem, responding to proximity. The Survivor's eyes narrow at the display.

"The Wild Magic awakens in you," she states, not a question but an observation. "The true claiming bond, not the perverted version the courts maintain."

"Will you grant us sanctuary?" Cadeyrn repeats, his voice carrying an edge I haven't heard since our first encounter—uncertainty.

The Survivor studies him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nods once, a sharp, reluctant gesture.

"Three days. No more." She turns, walking toward the stone circle at the clearing's center. "Come. The boundary must recognize you both."

We follow, my hand finding Cadeyrn's instinctively. His fingers lace through mine, squeezing gently. The gesture feels strangely vulnerable from someone who hours ago had me pinned beneath him in savage claiming.

As we approach the central stones, power surges through the clearing, tangible as a thunderstorm though not a leaf stirs. The cillae across my skin blaze with sudden intensity, ice-cold fire racing through my veins. Beside me, Cadeyrn inhales sharply, his patterns responding in kind.

"What—" I begin, but words fail as the magic crests within me, filling spaces I never knew existed. It's like the first moment of Cadeyrn's claiming but magnified beyond measure—raw power flooding every cell, awakening abilities I've only glimpsed in our most intimate moments.

Frost blooms from my feet, crystallizing the grass in spiraling patterns that echo those on my skin. I lift my hand in wonder, watching ice form around my fingertips without conscious effort. This isn't Cadeyrn's winter magic flowing through our bond—this is something uniquely mine, responding to ancient power buried in my bloodline.

"The haven recognizes you," the Survivor says, watching with that same inscrutable expression. "Both of you."

I recall her words from our first meeting—about the Hunt being an ancient ritual honoring balance, not the corrupted breeding program it's become. The magic surging through me now feels like validation of that forgotten purpose.

Cadeyrn's eyes meet mine, a question in their ice-blue depths. I nod slightly, answering the unspoken communication. This connection between us deepens by the hour—thoughts and feelings flowing through the bond with increasing clarity.

The Survivor leads us to a structure I hadn't noticed before, nestled between massive tree roots at the clearing's edge. It resembles her cottage in the forest but larger, constructed of living wood that seems to have grown into form rather than being carved.

"Rest here," she says, gesturing to the entrance. "The haven's protection covers all within the boundary. No court magic can penetrate these trees."

"Thank you," I say, genuinely despite the tension crackling between her and Cadeyrn.

She nods stiffly, then gestures to me alone. "A word, omega. Privately."

Cadeyrn tenses beside me, a low growl building in his chest. I place a hand on his arm, feeling the muscles coil beneath my fingers.

"It's fine," I tell him, projecting more assurance than I feel. "I'll return shortly."

His eyes flick between me and the Survivor, calculations running behind that feral gaze. Finally, he nods, withdrawing into the shelter with a last warning look at the older woman.

The Survivor guides me toward the stone circle, stopping within its boundary. Up close, the stones overwhelm—twice my height and covered in symbols that match the cillae across my skin. I reach out instinctively, tracing one with my fingertip. The stone pulses beneath my touch, warm despite its appearance.

"These symbols," I begin, "they're the same as?—"

"Your markings. Yes." The Survivor's voice softens for the first time. "They're the language of Wild Magic, from before the courts corrupted the Hunt."

"What do they mean?"

"Protection. Transformation. Rebirth." Her eyes track the most prominent marking on my forearm. "This one signifies balance—the equilibrium between worlds that the original Hunt maintained."

I absorb this, connecting fragments that have troubled me since Cadeyrn first claimed me beneath the blackthorn. "The courts don't want balance."

"No. They demand control." She steps closer, voice dropping. "Listen carefully, girl. When we met before, I didn't know how deeply you'd become entangled. The silver-blue potion I gave you—did you use it?"

"Yes," I confirm, remembering the cool liquid sliding down my throat after Cadeyrn's first claiming, exactly as she'd instructed. "After he first claimed me."

She nods, relief briefly softening her features. "Good. That will help shield you from what's coming."

"Shield me how?" I ask, glancing down at the cillae mapping my skin. "You never explained what it actually does."

The Survivor's eyes darken, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "It fortifies your womb against fae seed. Without it, his bloodline would consume you from within." Her fingers trace a pattern in the air that mirrors the frost on my forearm. "Court alphas' essence is toxic to human vessels—it transforms the carrier, not just the offspring. The potion creates boundaries between your flesh and the changes his seed brings."

"You mean pregnancy." The word feels strange on my tongue, a possibility I'd never considered when entering the Hunt.

She nods grimly. "The courts insist no omega can birth fae children outside their birthing chambers, under their physicians' control. They claim our bodies can't survive the transformation." Her mouth twists with bitter triumph. "I've done it twice. The potion is ancient knowledge they've tried to erase—proof we don't need their protection to survive what they've made of us."

"The Winter Prince isn't what you expected when you gave me your map and medicine," I observe, watching her reaction.

"No." Her gaze shifts to where Cadeyrn waits in the shelter, a silhouette moving behind woven branches. "Be wary of him, Briar. There is history here you don't yet comprehend."

"What history?" I ask, but she shakes her head.

"Not now. The stones have recognized you—that's sufficient for today." She glances toward the haven's edge where the sun's angle reveals late afternoon approaching. "Rest. Recover your strength. There will be time for more tomorrow."

Before I can press further, she turns sharply, attention caught by something at the haven's boundary. "We have company. Not court hunters, but something else entirely."

I follow her gaze to where a figure emerges from between the blackthorns—tall and lean with the predatory grace of an alpha. But this one moves differently, something almost human in his movements despite his unmistakable fae beauty.

"The Hound," I whisper, recognizing the alpha who helped us evade pursuing hunting parties.

The Survivor's expression shifts to surprise. "You know him?"

"He's helped us twice. Warned us of court alliances forming against us."

She studies me with renewed interest. "Then perhaps the Wild Magic works through more vessels than I suspected." She starts toward the haven's entrance, then pauses, looking back. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, there is much you should see."

I watch her leave, mind crowded with questions rather than answers. The symbols on the stones call to me, familiar in ways I can't articulate—as if they've always existed in my blood, dormant until Cadeyrn's claiming awakened them.

I turn back to the stones, drawn to one symbol in particular—a spiral contained within a perfect circle, identical to the cillae over my heart. When I touch it, something resonates deep within me, a recognition beyond conscious thought.

As I lower my hand, a shadow falls across the stone. I turn to find Cadeyrn observing me, his expression unreadable even through our strengthening bond.

"She spoke to you," he says, not a question.

"Yes." I study his face, searching for clues behind his careful mask. "She says there's history I don't understand."

Something flickers in his eyes—pain or guilt, I can't tell which. The cillae across his skin dim slightly, responding to his emotional state.

"There is history everywhere in the courts, Briar," he says finally, voice carefully measured. "Centuries of it."

It's not an answer, and we both know it. But as The Hound approaches with the Survivor, the moment for questions passes.

"You should rest," the Survivor tells us both, her quicksilver eyes lingering on Cadeyrn with undisguised distrust. "The haven's protection strengthens at night, but even here, vigilance remains necessary."

Cadeyrn nods, his hand finding mine again, cillae synchronizing between us. Whatever secrets lie between him and the Survivor, whatever history remains unspoken, the connection between us feels inviolable in this moment.

As we return to our shelter, the ancient stones stand silent witness, their symbols glowing faintly in the fading light—a language I'm only beginning to decipher, written in frost across my skin and carved in stone beneath my feet.

Tonight we rest in uneasy sanctuary. Tomorrow, I suspect, will bring revelations I'm not prepared to face.