Page 37

CHAPTER 37

POV: Cadeyrn

I feel her pain like a blade between my ribs.

The claiming bond stretches between us, thin but unbroken, vibrating with her fear and rage as she faces the Raveling Brothers without me. My muscles coil with the instinct to run to her, to tear apart anything that threatens what's mine. The ancient magic beneath my skin pulses in response, lines of power that spent centuries dormant now awakening to emotions I was taught to suppress.

Yet I remain where I am, beneath the ancient oak at the edge of the central haven. She needs this distance. Needs to process the truth about the cullings, about my role in her mother's death, about the court protocols I authorized for centuries without question.

The bond between us shudders with sudden, violent intensity—Briar's magic erupting in self-defense. The Wild Magic answers her call, flowing between us despite the distance, despite her rejection of me. I taste copper in the air, feel the Raveling Brothers' synchronized hunting patterns disrupted by her unexpected power.

Pride surges through me, fierce and primal. She doesn't need my protection. She never did.

And yet...

The memory rises unbidden—my first Hunt as a young prince, barely a century old. Standing beside my father at the Gathering Circle, watching as court physicians examined claimed omegas. Their clinical efficiency as they sorted the "suitable" from those deemed "incompatible." The omegas' expressions as they realized what "culling" truly meant.

I close my eyes against the memory, but it persists, sharper now after seven centuries of careful suppression. The first time I watched court executioners dispatch an omega deemed unsuitable—her eyes still haunt me, the confusion in them as she realized the breeding she'd endured would not save her life but end it.

"Necessary sacrifice for the greater good," my father had explained, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "Bloodline purity requires difficult decisions."

I had nodded, accepting his wisdom as absolute. The court's needs above individual lives. The continuation of our magic above personal morality. The lessons every Winter Prince absorbed with mother's milk and father's frost.

Another surge through the bond pulls me from memory—Briar's determination crystallizing into deadly intent. Through our connection, I catch glimpses of her battle through fractured images: ice forming at her command, blood freezing on russet hair, amber eyes widening in death.

She's killed one of the brothers. The realization hits me with strange finality. Not her first kill—she fought off alphas before I claimed her—but different. Purposeful. Powerful.

The remaining brother's grief crashes through our bond like a tidal wave, his rage at losing his other half colliding with Briar's determination to survive. I rise to my feet, unable to remain still as her pain spikes through our connection—her back torn open by claws, her breath strangling beneath his grip.

Then comes the explosion—a surge of Wild Magic so powerful it temporarily blinds my senses. When our bond clears, I feel her exhaustion, her shock, her resolution.

Both brothers dead. By her hand alone.

I lower myself back to the ground, unsure if my legs would support me regardless. The woman I claimed is becoming something the courts never anticipated, never prepared for.

So am I.

Through our stretched connection, I receive unexpected flashes of her memories—images bleeding through the bond as her depleted strength weakens her mental barriers. I see her mother, once vibrant and strong, wasting away from an illness no village healer could cure. The careful way Briar braided her hair when her mother's hands grew too weak to manage it. The shallow grave dug by a twelve-year-old girl whose tears froze on her cheeks in the winter air.

I see Fergus, the village blacksmith, discovering Briar's omega nature when she presented at thirteen. His gruff protection as he taught her to suppress her scent, to bind her developing body, to move like a beta rather than an omega. The burns on her hands as she learned his craft, each scar a testament to her determination to create a future different from the one her biology dictated.

I see Willow, gentle and resigned to her fate, choosing sacrifice over suffering as the wasting sickness claimed her bit by bit. The fierce love that drove Briar to steal her place, to enter the Hunt wearing another's face.

These memories wash over me like waves, eroding seven centuries of careful distance. For the first time, I truly comprehend what my signature on those execution orders meant. Not abstract protocols ensuring court survival, but specific, individual suffering. Real pain. Real deaths.

The guilt threatens to consume me, magic crackling across the forest floor in jagged, chaotic patterns that reflect my inner turmoil. I have lived seven centuries, overseen countless Hunts, authorized innumerable cullings.

How many mothers have I condemned to wasting deaths with my callous disposal protocols?

How many Willows have I sentenced to slow fading?

How many Briars have had their worlds shattered by my court's calculation that their lives were acceptable collateral?

The bond between us pulses with her continued survival, but the warmth that had been growing between us has cooled to wary distance. She lives, she fights, she transforms—but she does so alone now, rejecting the protection I would offer.

As she should.

"My Prince." The formal address breaks through my reverie. Three Winter Court messengers have approached without my notice—a testament to how deeply Briar's memories have affected me. They kneel at a respectful distance, eyes carefully averted from my transformed appearance.

"What?" My voice emerges as a growl, permanently altered by days of rutting sounds torn from my throat.

The lead messenger—Lady Frost, a distant cousin whose political ambitions I've long been aware of—speaks with careful deference. "The Council demands your immediate return. The courts have reached an unprecedented alliance against..." she hesitates, searching for diplomatic phrasing, "against the threat your actions represent."

"Threat." I taste the word, finding bitter amusement in it. "And what threat would that be, exactly?"

Lady Frost's composure cracks slightly, her scent betraying genuine fear beneath court politeness. "The revival of Wild Magic, my Prince. Your claiming bond with the copper-haired omega has awakened something the courts have spent centuries suppressing."

So they know. Of course they know. Court spies are everywhere, even in the deepest parts of the Bloodmoon Forest.

"The Council has convened an emergency session," she continues. "All four courts represented. They invoke the ancient protocols—your presence is not requested but required."

I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Required? By whose authority?"

The messengers exchange nervous glances, clearly unprepared for direct challenge. For seven centuries, I have been the perfect Winter Prince—cold, controlled, unquestioningly loyal to court protocols. Until Briar. Until now.

"The combined authority of the seasonal courts, my Prince." Lady Frost's voice firms slightly. "They speak with one voice on this matter. The omega must be brought in for examination. The Wild Magic must be contained before it spreads."

Another flash through our bond—Briar, collapsed against a tree, blood seeping from the wounds on her back as the forest responds to her need, roots shifting to create shelter, branches bending to hide her from searching eyes.

The Wild Magic protects her now, answering her need rather than court command.

"And if I refuse?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Then the Council will have no choice but to invoke succession protocols." Lady Frost's eyes finally meet mine, clinical assessment replacing diplomacy. "The court has already prepared the ritual freezing. Your essence will be preserved in the Winter Throne until a more suitable heir can be?—"

Her words cut off abruptly as ice erupts around her feet, climbing her legs with merciless intent. The other messengers scramble backward, protective magic flaring across their skin.

"Seven centuries," I say conversationally as the ice reaches Lady Frost's waist, her face contorted with shock rather than pain. "Seven centuries I've served the Winter Court without question. Denied my nature. Controlled my impulses. Signed whatever orders they placed before me."

The ice continues its upward journey, crystallizing around her torso. I could stop it with a thought, but I don't. The symbolism matters.

"I followed every protocol. I approved every culling. I authorized every disposal—even when court physicians quietly confirmed that contaminated runoff was poisoning border villages." My voice drops lower. "Even when they told me the wasting sickness in humans was a direct result of our waste management practices."

Lady Frost's eyes widen with genuine fear now, the ice reaching her shoulders. The other messengers have retreated to the edge of the clearing, unwilling to challenge me directly but equally unwilling to abandon their companion.

"I told myself it was necessary," I continue, rising to my feet in a fluid motion that belies my transformed size. "I told myself the court's survival justified any cost. I believed that for seven centuries."

I step closer to Lady Frost, watching her body instinctively try to defend against my magic. Too little, too late.

"And then I claimed her." The words emerge reverent, almost tender. "And everything changed."

Through our bond, I sense Briar's exhaustion deepening into unconsciousness, her body finally surrendering to the wounds she's sustained. The forest cradles her, Wild Magic flowing through ancient roots to offer protection I cannot provide while respecting her need for distance.

"Tell the Council this," I say, stopping the ice just as it reaches Lady Frost's chin. "The Winter Prince they knew is gone. The protocols they depend on are broken. The Wild Magic they've suppressed for generations has awakened, and no court alliance will contain it now."

With a gesture, I release her from the ice, letting it shatter around her feet in a cascade of crystalline shards. She gasps, collapsing to her knees as circulation returns to her frozen limbs.

"But I will attend their meeting," I add, watching their expressions shift from terror to wary hope. "Not because they demand it, but because it's time they understood what they've done. What we've all done."

Lady Frost struggles to her feet, dignity reasserting itself despite her ordeal. "When will you return to court, my Prince?"

I look to the east, where the bond between Briar and me stretches like a luminous thread across the forest. She sleeps now, her body healing with the help of the Wild Magic flowing through her veins. Magic that responds to her need rather than court command. Magic that connects us despite her rejection of me.

"Three days," I decide. "I will address the Council in three days."

"And the omega?" Lady Frost asks, unable to hide her distaste for the term. "Will you bring her for examination?"

Rage surges through me at the thought of Briar subjected to court physicians' cold assessment, their clinical violation dressed as medical necessity. Winter magic explodes outward from my feet, coating the clearing in jagged formations.

"Her name is Briar," I say, voice deadly quiet. "And she goes nowhere against her will. Not to the courts. Not even to me."

The messengers retreat another step at the naked emotion in my voice—emotion no Winter Prince has displayed in generations. Emotion I was taught from birth to suppress as weakness, as unfitting for the heir to the Frost Throne.

"The Council will not accept—" Lady Frost begins.

"The Council will accept whatever I decide they will accept," I interrupt, power crackling visibly around my transformed body. "Or they will learn exactly what seven centuries of controlled power looks like when finally unleashed."

The threat hangs in the air between us, crystalline in its clarity. For the first time in my long existence, I am prepared to bring down the very institutions I've served without question. For her. For Briar. For the truth her memories have forced me to confront.

The messengers leave without further argument, white cloaks disappearing into the forest like retreating ghosts. I remain standing in the clearing, ice melting around my feet as my thoughts turn inward.

The claiming bond pulses steadily between us, carrying Briar's unconscious sensations—pain, exhaustion, but also determination even in sleep. Her body fights to heal itself, Wild Magic flowing through her veins in patterns that echo the marks I placed on her skin.

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of seven centuries pressing down upon me. How many decisions have I made without questioning? How many lives have I sacrificed to court protocols? How many omegas have I condemned with my elegant signature, never bothering to witness their culling personally?

Briar's memories have torn away the careful distance I maintained—the clinical detachment that allowed me to authorize horrors without feeling their weight. For the first time in centuries, I truly see what I've done. What the courts have done. What we've become in our desperate attempt to control magic rather than flow with it.

The guilt threatens to consume me, but beneath it burns a new emotion—unfamiliar, uncomfortable, yet undeniable.

Hope.

Not for forgiveness—I deserve none after centuries of calculated cruelty disguised as necessity. But for change. For transformation. For the chance to unmake what the courts have created, to rediscover what Wild Magic truly means when freed from protocols and politics.

I sink to my knees in the clearing, pressing my palms against the forest floor. The Bloodmoon Forest responds immediately, roots surfacing beneath my hands, connecting me to its ancient network that spans both human and fae realms.

"Show me," I whisper to the sentient wood. "Show me where she sleeps."

The forest doesn't answer with images but with sensations—Briar's steady heartbeat transmitted through living roots, her breath synchronizing with silver leaves that rustle miles away, her blood mingling with red sap as the forest aids her healing.

She lives. She transforms. She becomes something new.

As do I.

Seven centuries of Winter Prince. Seven centuries of perfect control and unquestioning obedience. Seven centuries of signing death warrants with elegant script and never witnessing the consequences.

Ended with a single claiming. With copper hair and amber eyes and defiance that awoke something I thought long dead.

My conscience.

I will not follow her now. Will not impose my presence when she has rejected it so clearly. The bond between us remains—damaged but unbroken—a testament to what we've begun together, whether she chooses to continue it or not.

But I will address the Council. Will confront the courts with truths they've suppressed for generations. Will dismantle, if necessary, the very systems I've helped maintain.

For her. For the memory of her mother. For Willow and all the others condemned by protocols I authorized without question.

The forest around me stirs with ancient awareness, responding to my silent oath. Wild Magic flows through roots and branches, acknowledging my transformation—not just physical but moral.

The Winter Prince who entered this Hunt no longer exists. What emerges from this forest in three days will be something else entirely.

Something the courts have never faced before.