Page 31

CHAPTER 31

POV: Briar

Morning light fractures through the woven branches of our shelter, casting shifting shadows across my skin. I've been awake for hours, watching the silver-blue markings along my arms pulse with each heartbeat. What began at my bracelet has claimed most of my body now—no longer decorative but sentient, an ancient language writing itself through my flesh.

I extract myself from our bed of furs, careful not to wake Cadeyrn. After yesterday's journey, he sleeps with unusual depth—even immortals need rest, though he'd sooner die than admit such weakness.

Outside, the air carries a different weight than the rest of the Bloodmoon Forest—raw, untainted by centuries of court manipulation. The stone circle pulls at me with subtle gravity, every step deepening my awareness of power thrumming beneath the soil.

The Survivor stands waiting, as if she'd calculated my emergence to the second. Perhaps she had.

"You slept soundly," she observes, quicksilver eyes cataloging changes in my appearance that even I haven't noticed.

"Better than since this nightmare began," I admit.

"The haven recognizes its own." She motions for me to follow. "Come. Things to show you while your prince still dreams."

I bristle at her phrasing. "He's not my prince."

Her knowing smile makes my hand itch for a weapon. "The patterns connecting you suggest otherwise."

"It's not that simple," I manage, hating how defensive I sound.

"No," she agrees, leading me toward a low stone structure nestled against the largest blackthorn. "Important things rarely are."

The structure reveals an entrance with steps descending beneath the massive tree's root system. The Survivor produces a crystal that illuminates at her touch, bathing the passage in silvery light that reminds me of the protective potion she gave me days ago.

"What is this place?" I ask as we descend.

"Truth," she answers simply. "History uncorrupted by court revision."

The passage opens into a circular chamber whose walls bear thousands of intricate carvings. I halt, momentarily overwhelmed—generations of images flowing into one another, telling a story spanning centuries. The Survivor's crystal casts the reliefs in stark shadow, lending them uncanny dimension.

"The original Wild Hunt," she says, directing my attention to the most weathered section. "Before the courts perverted it."

I step closer, drawn to scenes depicting something utterly foreign to my experience. Here, omegas don't flee in terror but advance with dignity, wearing ceremonial garb. Alphas approach not as predators but as equals in some ritual exchange. The claiming isn't violent domination—instead, both figures transform together, surrounded by magic that changes them equally.

"This bears no resemblance to what I've witnessed," I say, tracing the ancient lines with my fingertip.

"No. It's what should be." The Survivor positions herself beside me. "The original ritual honored both participants. Alpha and omega, each transformed by their union, each changed in ways that strengthened the flow between realms."

My eyes track the progression of carvings, watching the ritual transform through successive generations. Gradually, mutual transformation yields to something calculated, one-sided. Court symbols emerge—stylized representations of seasonal powers dividing what was once unified.

"The courts happened," I state flatly, reading the stone narrative before me.

"Precisely." Bitterness edges her voice. "Fae nobility discovered they could harness greater power by controlling the Hunt, making it serve their ambitions rather than maintaining balance."

I study a carving showing four distinct figures—each bearing emblems I recognize from the courts—standing above a fragmented landscape. "They deliberately fractured the Wild Magic."

"Yes. What once flowed naturally through the land became compartmentalized, regulated according to court hierarchy." Her finger traces division lines etched into stone. "Winter claimed ice and preservation. Summer seized fire and transformation. Autumn took decay and wisdom. Spring grasped growth and renewal."

"And the omegas?" I ask, though their fate is clearly depicted—figures once standing proud now cowering, fleeing, their transformations warped and often brutal.

"Reduced from participants to vessels," she confirms. "The courts learned that controlling reproduction controlled the future. By determining which omegas bred with which alphas, they enhanced certain magical traits while suppressing others."

"The Wild Magic," I murmur, connecting the wall imagery to the patterns branching across my skin. The missing puzzle piece sliding into place.

"Yes. The primal power that existed before division." The Survivor's voice softens with something like reverence. "The courts fear it because they cannot control it, cannot predict its manifestations or chosen vessels."

She guides me further along the wall, where newer carvings show court structures solidifying—palaces of ice, fire, leaves, and flowers rising above increasingly regimented hunts.

"Yet it didn't die completely," I observe, noting subtle images of wild power erupting despite court suppression. "The Magic persisted."

"It couldn't perish—it's fundamental to the balance between realms." Her mercury eyes assess me. "It simply waited for suitable vessels."

I turn back to the wall, following the carvings to their conclusion—recent additions showing courts in conflict, magical strength diminishing despite increasingly desperate breeding programs.

"The courts are failing," I realize, understanding fragments of what Cadeyrn had previously implied. "Their power weakens with each generation."

"Has been for centuries." The Survivor nods. "Each breeding cycle yields diminishing returns. Court magic grows more rigid, more brittle, less adaptive."

She leads me to an alcove set apart from the main chamber. Freshly carved into stone no more than days old is an image that stops my breath—a female figure with spiral patterns radiating from a silver bracelet, connected by tendrils of magic to a male figure whose form appears caught between courtly refinement and primal power.

Us. Cadeyrn and me.

"Now," she says simply, "Wild Magic awakens again."

My fingers trace our carved forms, the stone warm beneath my touch. "Who created this?"

"The haven itself." At my skeptical expression, she elaborates. "The stones record what magic reveals. Always have."

I withdraw my hand, suddenly uneasy. "Does Cadeyrn know about this chamber?"

"The Winter Prince?" Darkness flickers across her features. "He knows it exists. Whether he accepts what it reveals about his court's history is another question entirely."

The patterns across my skin brighten in response to my disquiet. "You distrust him."

"I have my reasons." She offers nothing more, turning instead toward the chamber's center—a raised dais housing a shallow pool that reflects her crystal's light.

"Come," she says. "Time to see what the haven's magic has awakened in you."

I follow her to the pool, watching as she passes her hand over its surface. The water responds immediately, not with ripples but with luminescence that intensifies as she whispers inaudible words.

"Position your hands above the water," she instructs. "Don't touch it—just feel what rises from it."

I comply, holding my palms inches above the glowing surface. Immediately, cold power surges upward, interacting with the patterns marking my arms. Not unpleasant—more like recognition, like encountering a friend I'd forgotten I had.

"What is this?" I whisper, watching the markings on my skin illuminate in response.

"Wild Magic in its purest form," she answers. "Untainted by court interference."

Energy concentrates between my hands and the water, taking visible shape—ice crystals forming midair, hovering in defiance of natural law.

"Don't resist," the Survivor murmurs when I instinctively pull back. "Let it flow through you."

I force myself to yield rather than fight. The patterns across my skin flare brilliantly as the magic intensifies. Ice crystals form with growing complexity, no longer chaotic but structured—a miniature representation of the central haven, complete with stone circle and surrounding blackthorns.

"I'm doing this?" I breathe, astonished by the intricate creation materializing between my palms.

"You're channeling it," she corrects. "The Wild Magic works through you, not for you. There's a crucial difference."

The distinction feels significant though I can't fully articulate why. Unlike Cadeyrn's calculated ice formations—weapons and barriers crafted through centuries of practiced control—this feels cooperative, symbiotic. The magic responds to intention rather than command.

I experiment, envisioning Thornwick's forge where I apprenticed under Fergus. Immediately, the ice sculpture transforms, reproducing the building in perfect detail down to the chimney where frozen smoke rises in crystalline tendrils.

"Remarkable," the Survivor murmurs. "Such attunement without formal training."

"Not control," I realize, understanding flowing through me alongside the magic. "Partnership."

Her smile suggests I've passed some unspoken assessment. "Exactly. Courts believe magic must be dominated, forced into compliance. Wild Magic has always been about balance—giving and receiving equally."

A shadow darkens the chamber entrance, accompanied by a sudden temperature drop. I look up to find Cadeyrn standing there, his expression guarded as he surveys the scene.

"I wondered where you'd disappeared to," he says, voice deliberately neutral though the patterns across his skin pulse with agitation. "Our host has been sharing the haven's secrets, I see."

The Survivor straightens, her demeanor shifting from instructive to defensive. "Knowledge she deserves to possess, Winter Prince."

"I don't dispute that." His attention fixes on the ice structure hovering above the pool. "Impressive work, Briar. You've always been quick to learn."

I maintain the creation out of pure stubbornness. "The Survivor has explained the Hunt's original purpose," I tell him, watching for his reaction. "Before court corruption."

Something flickers in his ice-blue eyes—discomfort, perhaps guilt. "The courts have much to answer for," he says quietly, surprising me. "They've forgotten more than they've preserved."

The Survivor eyes him warily, clearly not expecting this concession. "You speak differently than court-bred alphas."

"I haven't been 'most' anything since claiming Briar." His gaze returns to the ice sculpture suspended between my hands. "Perhaps longer."

I study his face, trying to reconcile this Cadeyrn with the Winter Prince who commanded messengers with such natural authority. "You knew about this," I realize. "About Wild Magic. About what the courts did to suppress it."

"I suspected." He advances into the chamber, each footstep leaving crystalline traces. "Winter Court archives contain texts, heavily redacted, that hint at what preceded seasonal divisions. But suspicion differs from concrete evidence." He gestures to the wall carvings. "From truth carved in stone."

The Survivor watches him like a predator assessing prey. "And what does the Winter Prince think of this truth?"

"That the courts' desperate control has produced precisely what they feared." His voice carries an unfamiliar bitterness. "Each generation grows more rigid in their magic. The bloodlines weaken despite all efforts to strengthen them."

"Yet you've helped maintain that system," she counters, accusation hanging between them like a blade.

Cadeyrn doesn't deny it. The patterns across his skin dim slightly, responding to emotions carefully concealed from his expression. "We all have parts to play," he says finally. "Some less defensible than others."

His phrasing sends cold dread spreading through my abdomen. Something lies beneath their exchange—history beyond political disagreement, something personal that the Survivor knows and Cadeyrn avoids acknowledging.

"The Wild Magic has chosen you both," the Survivor states after weighted silence. "Despite everything. Despite the Winter Court's... practices."

The way she says "practices" chills me more thoroughly than any ice magic could.

"We should prepare to move on," Cadeyrn says abruptly. "Our sanctuary is temporary, and court hunting parties close in."

"Convenient deflection," I observe, refusing diversion. "What practices exactly?"

He stiffens visibly. "Court politics are complex?—"

"That's not an answer," I interrupt. The ice structure between my hands responds to my frustration, edges sharpening, growing jagged.

The Survivor observes my magic react, satisfaction glinting in her mercurial eyes. "The Winter Prince excels at evading uncomfortable truths. It's how he's survived seven centuries of court intrigue."

"Briar," Cadeyrn says, voice softening as he notices ice spreading from my feet across the chamber floor. "Your power responds to emotion here. Center yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap, though I recognize the truth in his warning. Ice advances further, climbing the walls in delicate formations that mirror my internal turbulence.

He approaches carefully, the patterns across his skin synchronizing with mine despite the tension between us. "Not everything can be explained in a single conversation," he says quietly. "Some truths require time."

"And some require courage," the Survivor adds pointedly.

Cadeyrn's jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait. Instead, he turns to me. "What you're learning here—what you're experiencing—is precisely why the courts view us as a threat. Wild Magic resists control or direction. It responds to emotion, intention, balance. Everything the courts have worked centuries to eliminate."

"We need to leave," he continues, addressing the Survivor instead of meeting my eyes. "Court hunting parties approach the haven's boundary."

"They cannot enter without permission," she replies, though concern shadows her weathered features. "The ancient protections hold."

"For now," he agrees, "but we've been here nearly a full day. Even ancient magic has limits when four courts' worth of enraged alphas hammer at it."

I struggle to focus on this immediate danger, watching the patterns on my skin pulse erratically with conflicting emotions.

"Go," the Survivor tells us, her urgency surprising me. "Passages beneath the haven connect to the forest beyond. The Wild Magic will guide you if you permit it."

Cadeyrn nods once. "Thank you for the sanctuary," he says formally, "however brief."

"Don't thank me, Winter Prince." Her quicksilver eyes fix on him with undisguised contempt. "I do this for her, and for what you both represent despite everything else. The Magic has chosen its vessels, whatever my personal feelings about one of them might be."

He accepts this with unexpected grace, turning to me with a question in his gaze. Despite my growing suspicion, the threat of pursuing court parties forces practical decision.

"Let's go," I say, though I make no move to take his offered hand. "But this conversation isn't finished."

As we leave the chamber, I glance back at the carving showing us connected by tendrils of Wild Magic. Whatever secrets Cadeyrn withholds, whatever history lies between him and the Survivor, our bond remains undeniable—a physical connection written in silver-blue across our skin.

The Wild Magic has chosen us for reasons beyond our understanding. The question now is whether I can trust the man it's bound me to, and what price we'll both pay for the power awakening between us.