Page 45

CHAPTER 45

POV: Briar

The mountain sanctuary buys us three days of relative peace. Three days where the trees themselves keep watch, where ancient magic shimmers in the air like suspended frost, where I can almost pretend we're safe.

Almost.

On the fourth morning, I wake to find I can no longer button my stolen leather vest over my swollen abdomen. Fantastic. The quadruplets have grown again—not gradually, but in another of those unsettling overnight surges that leave my skin stretched tight and marked with new silvery lines. At this rate, I'll look like I swallowed a small cow by next week.

"You're in pain," Cadeyrn says, not a question but an observation. He stands at the entrance to our small cave, cillae pulsing across his skin in rhythm with my own.

"No, I'm dancing with joy," I reply dryly, then sigh at his concerned expression. "Yeah, it hurts. Turns out four babies doing somersaults on your internal organs isn't exactly comfortable."

I press a hand against the small of my back where a persistent ache has settled. Our claiming bond makes lying pointless anyway—he can probably feel every twinge and cramp through our connection.

"Maybe they're practicing for a career in acrobatics," I add, trying to lighten the moment.

As if on cue, a particularly vigorous movement ripples across my belly, visible even through the thin linen shirt I'm wearing. I catch Cadeyrn staring, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the movement with an intensity that sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. It's easy to forget, between moments of mortal danger and unresolved betrayal, how devastatingly handsome he is—especially now that his transformation has given him a raw, primal edge that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice.

Not helpful, biology. Really not helpful.

Cadeyrn approaches slowly, respecting the careful distance we've maintained since the blood ritual. But something's different today—a hesitation in his movement that speaks of desire carefully leashed.

"The Wild Magic is growing stronger in them," he says, his voice dropping to that low register that still makes my skin tingle despite everything between us. "I can sense it from here."

"Join the club. They're like tiny magical furnaces." I shift uncomfortably as one of them kicks directly under my ribs. "I'm starting to think they're fighting for territory in there."

The Hound materializes from the shadows at the back of the cave, his mismatched eyes reflecting the morning light. "The court forces can sense it too. Their tracking parties draw closer each day, despite the forest's interference."

Well, that kills the moment. A chill that has nothing to do with Winter Court magic settles in my bones. We've been moving steadily higher into the mountains, following ancient paths revealed by the heart-tree's magic. But we can't run forever. Not with my body changing so rapidly, not with the courts united against us.

"We need a more permanent solution," I say, struggling to my feet like an overturned turtle. Gods, when did standing become such an ordeal? "Somewhere to wait until they're born."

Cadeyrn and The Hound exchange a look I can't quite interpret. There's tension there, and something that might be reluctant agreement.

"What?" I demand, recognizing the signs of a conversation they've already had without me. "Whatever you're thinking, just say it. I'm too pregnant and too cranky for cryptic man-speak."

Cadeyrn sighs, frost briefly clouding around his lips. "I've been considering a possibility. One that carries significant risk, but might offer our best chance."

"I'm listening," I say, one hand absently soothing the restless movement beneath my skin.

"The Winter Court," he says simply.

The words hang in the air between us, simultaneously absurd and terrifying. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.

"Please tell me you've developed a sense of humor overnight," I say flatly. When his expression remains serious, I throw up my hands. "The same Winter Court that's hunting us? The one you abandoned? The one that sent assassins to end my pregnancy? That Winter Court?"

"Yes." His voice is steady, measured. "Precisely because it's the last place they would expect us to go."

"Oh fantastic, we'll just waltz in and ask if they have a spare room for the heavily pregnant omega carrying what they consider abominations. Maybe they'll throw us a baby shower."

The Hound makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh. "I've advised against this plan, but the prince makes certain points I cannot refute."

"What points could possibly justify walking into the heart of enemy territory?" My voice rises despite my efforts to remain calm. The babies respond to my agitation with increased movement, pressing uncomfortably against my ribs.

Cadeyrn steps closer, close enough that I can smell him—that intoxicating blend of winter pine and something uniquely him that still makes my traitorous body respond. His ice-blue eyes hold mine with an intensity that momentarily steals my breath.

"The Winter Palace contains birthing chambers designed specifically for fae pregnancies. Technology and magic that exist nowhere else in either realm."

I frown, processing this information. "Why would the Winter Court need special birthing chambers? I thought fae pregnancies were rare."

"They are." His expression darkens. "But when they occur, they often end in ways that... contain significant magical discharge. The chambers were designed to harness that power rather than allow it to dissipate."

It takes me a moment to connect the dots. "Oh." The implication sits like ice in my stomach. Fae pregnancies often end in death—the omega's body unable to withstand the magical demands of carrying a child with fae blood. When that happens, the magic doesn't simply vanish. It escapes, raw and unfocused.

And the Winter Court, ever efficient, found a way to capture that power.

"Let me get this straight," I say, crossing my arms over my belly. "You're suggesting I give birth in a room designed to harvest magic from dying omegas. That's your brilliant plan?"

"I'm suggesting," he counters, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face with unexpected gentleness, "that you use a system designed to manage intense magical discharge to protect yourself and our children." His fingers linger against my cheek, sending a warmth through me that has nothing to do with Wild Magic. "No human or fae has ever successfully delivered quadruplets with Wild Magic in their blood. The magical demands alone could..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. I've felt it already—the steady drain as the babies draw more and more power from me. Even with my own awakening Wild Magic, there's a limit to what my body can provide.

"The chambers would stabilize the magical flow," Cadeyrn continues, his hand dropping reluctantly from my face. "Channel it, prevent it from overwhelming you during birth."

I pace the small cave, my mind racing through a dozen different scenarios, each more disastrous than the last. The Winter Court. The actual Winter Court. It's either the most suicidal plan I've ever heard or, possibly, the most brilliant. Which is just like Cadeyrn—reckless and calculating all at once.

"Even if we somehow reached the Winter Palace undetected," I argue, "what's to prevent the court physicians from taking the babies immediately after birth? Or simply killing all of us once we're within their walls?"

The Hound steps forward, his expression grave. "That is the true risk. Court physicians will recognize the unprecedented magical potential these children represent. They will want to study them, control them, perhaps even separate them to prevent the unification of Wild Magic."

"Great, so we're walking into a trap where the best outcome is they only torture our children for power instead of murdering us all on sight. Fantastic plan." I run a hand through my tangled copper hair, frustration and fear making me sharp.

"I have contingencies in place," Cadeyrn says, moving to stand directly in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze, close enough that I can feel the cool radiation of his power. "Potential allies who might be persuaded to assist us."

Something in his nearness steadies me despite myself. I study his face, searching for doubt or deception. I find neither—only grim determination and something deeper, something that looks almost like hope. When did his eyes start affecting me like this again? When did I stop seeing only the Winter Prince who authorized atrocities and start seeing the man who offered his blood to poisoned ground without hesitation?

"Who?" I ask, my voice softening slightly. "Who could possibly side with us against their own court?"

"Lysandra Frost," he replies. "The Winter Court healer. She has questioned court practices for centuries, though never openly enough to face consequences. And she is particularly skilled with difficult births."

The name means nothing to me, but The Hound makes a sound of grudging approval. "The ice witch with blue-tinted skin? Yes, she might help. She has old blood, older than most realize."

I turn away, staring out at the mountain landscape beyond our cave. Dawn paints the distant peaks in shades of crimson and gold, beautiful and indifferent to our plight. The quadruplets move inside me, their collective presence a constant reminder of what's at stake.

"And if your ally betrays us?" I ask, voicing the fear that gnaws at me. "If we deliver ourselves directly into their hands?"

Cadeyrn's voice is quiet but firm. "Then I will tear down the Winter Palace stone by stone before I allow harm to come to you or our children."

I believe him. Despite everything—the centuries of complicity in court atrocities, the breaking of Hunt protocols, the secrets kept—I believe this promise. Perhaps because I've seen him kill his own court physician without hesitation. Perhaps because our claiming bond carries the truth of his intentions.

Or perhaps because I have no better option.

"How soon?" I ask, turning back to face him.

Relief flickers briefly across his features. "Tonight," he says. "We'll travel through the mountain pass after sunset. Court patrols are thinnest then, and we can access the palace through passageways unknown to most of the court."

I nod, resting both hands on my swollen abdomen where four distinct lives pulse with Wild Magic. "Then we have preparations to make."

The day passes in a blur of activity. Cadeyrn sketches rough maps of the Winter Palace's layout, identifying potential safe areas and escape routes. The Hound disappears for hours, returning with supplies stolen from a mountain village—warmer clothing, dried meat, a small knife I can conceal in my boot.

"You'll need to know certain protocols," Cadeyrn tells me as the sun begins its descent behind the mountains. "Ways to move, to speak, to present yourself that will draw minimal attention."

I raise an eyebrow, gesturing to my obviously pregnant form. "I rather think I'll stand out regardless."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Pregnant omegas are not unknown in the Winter Court, though they're typically kept away from public areas. If we're stopped, you'll be my claimed property, being transported to the breeding chambers for assessment."

The words send an involuntary shiver down my spine—a reminder of the world we're about to enter, where omegas remain possessions rather than people. A world Cadeyrn was part of for centuries.

"And how should your 'property' behave?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

His expression sobers. "Head bowed. Eyes down. Speak only when directly addressed, and then with formal deference." He hesitates, then adds, "I know what I'm asking. I know how it counters everything you are. But it may be necessary for survival."

I want to argue, to rail against the humiliation of such performance. But the stakes are too high for pride. Four lives depend on my ability to navigate this hostile territory.

"Teach me," I say simply.

For the next hour, he demonstrates court gestures and phrases, the precise angle at which an omega keeps their head in the presence of Winter nobility, the formal responses to different ranks of address. I practice until the movements become fluid, though I can't help adding my own commentary.

"So basically, I'm supposed to act like I have no thoughts in my head beyond 'Yes, Alpha' and 'No, Alpha'?" I ask, demonstrating the proper way to accept a command with downcast eyes.

"Essentially, yes." There's a slight quirk to his mouth that might almost be amusement. "Think of it as a performance. A role you play to survive."

"A terrible role in a terrible play," I mutter, but continue practicing. When I misstep during a particularly complex greeting sequence, Cadeyrn's hands settle on my waist to correct my posture. The touch lingers longer than necessary, his thumbs making small circles against the small of my back where the ache is worst.

"Better," he murmurs, his breath cool against my ear. "But relax your shoulders. Court omegas are trained to move with fluid grace, not tension."

"Hard to be graceful when you're carrying four bowling balls," I grumble, but I let him guide my movements, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. The babies choose that moment to shift enthusiastically, and Cadeyrn's hands still against my sides.

"They're active today," he says, wonder creeping into his voice.

Before I can think better of it, I take his hand and press it directly against the spot where the most vigorous movement centers. "This one's the troublemaker. Always punching my kidneys."

His palm spreads wide against the curve of my belly, cillae briefly visible beneath the masking salve as he connects with the tiny lives inside. For a moment, something shifts in our claiming bond—a surge of protectiveness and possessiveness so intense it steals my breath. His eyes meet mine, and the air between us charges with something I'm not ready to name.

"The effect lasts approximately six hours," Cadeyrn says. "We'll need to reapply regularly once inside the palace."

The Hound returns from a final scouting expedition, his expression unusually somber. "The main court forces have withdrawn from the mountains," he reports. "They're consolidating around the Winter Palace."

Cadeyrn and I exchange a glance. "They know," I say.

"They suspect," he corrects. "They've likely realized we're no longer in the heart-tree sanctuary, but they can't be certain of our destination."

"Or they're setting a trap," The Hound counters.

The possibility hangs between us, undeniable and terrifying. We could be walking directly into an ambush, delivering ourselves into the hands of those who would kill or dissect our children for their unprecedented magical potential.

Yet we have no better option. My body cannot sustain this pregnancy indefinitely. The magical drain increases daily as the quadruplets grow, their combined power already testing the limits of what I can provide.

"We proceed as planned," Cadeyrn decides. "But with additional caution. I know the Winter Palace better than anyone living—its secrets, its weaknesses, its hidden paths."

The Hound inclines his head in reluctant agreement. "I will guide you to the northern approach, but I cannot enter the palace itself. My... history with the Winter Court would make me too recognizable."

I hadn't considered that The Hound wouldn't accompany us all the way. The realization leaves me unexpectedly bereft. Despite his strangeness, his divided loyalties, he has been a constant presence since I fled the Central Haven.

"Thank you," I tell him, meaning it. "For everything."

He studies me with those mismatched eyes—one brown, one fae-blue. "You carry hope," he says simply. "For both realms. Remember that when the path grows darkest."

As the last light fades from the sky, we make final preparations. I dress in the stolen clothes—a long woolen dress in Winter Court blue, a cloak with a deep hood to shadow my face, soft boots that accommodate my swollen feet. Cadeyrn applies the masking salve to all visible cillae, his touch careful and impersonal.

"There are nobles who might support us," he tells me as we prepare to leave our mountain sanctuary. "Those who remember the old ways, before the courts became so rigid. Lady Lysandra is our best hope, but there are others."

"And how do we find these potential allies without exposing ourselves?" I ask.

"We don't," he replies. "We make our way directly to the birthing chambers. They're located in the oldest section of the palace, where the walls are thickest and magical containment strongest."

"And if we're discovered before we reach them?"

His cillae briefly flare beneath the masking salve. "Then we improvise."

The mountain air bites with approaching winter as we emerge from our cave. Stars crowd the night sky, cold and distant, while the crimson moon hangs low on the horizon—a reminder that the Hunter's Moon cycle that began this journey continues its inexorable progression.

The Hound leads us down a narrow path that winds between jagged rocks, his movements as silent and fluid as his namesake. Cadeyrn follows, occasionally extending a hand to help me navigate the more treacherous sections. I accept his assistance without comment, secretly grateful for the steadying touch of his fingers around mine.

It's a strange thing, this pull between us that refuses to die despite everything. When his arm circles my waist to help me across a particularly narrow ledge, I find myself leaning into his strength more than strictly necessary. His body radiates cool power, solid and reassuring against mine.

"Careful," he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. "The stones are loose here."

"I was a blacksmith before I was a broodmare," I remind him, but there's no heat in the words. "I know how to keep my footing."

The corner of his mouth lifts in that almost-smile I'm starting to look for. "Of course you do. I'm merely being..."

"Overprotective?" I suggest.

"Prudent," he corrects, but his hand remains at the small of my back even after we've passed the dangerous section. I don't ask him to remove it.

We travel mostly in silence after that, the only sounds our breathing and the occasional distant cry of a night bird. The quadruplets are unusually still, as though they too understand the need for stealth. Only when we pause for brief rest do they resume their restless movements, pressing against my ribs and bladder with typical disregard for my comfort.

During one such pause, Cadeyrn kneels before me, pressing his ear directly to my belly. The intimacy of the gesture catches me off guard—his face level with my swollen abdomen, his hands resting lightly on my hips.

"What are you doing?" I whisper, hyper-aware of the warmth spreading through me at his touch.

"Listening," he replies simply. "Each has a distinct heartbeat. Different rhythms."

"You can hear that?"

He nods, his eyes closing in concentration. "This one," he says, touching a spot on the lower right side of my belly, "has the strongest beat. Steady, commanding. And this one," his hand shifts higher, "beats in a pattern like rainfall. Gentle but persistent."

Something in me softens at the wonder in his voice. For all that he's done, for all the blood on his hands, this moment contains a purity I can't deny. Four lives we created together, hearts beating beneath his ear.

As the night deepens, the landscape changes. The rugged mountain terrain gradually gives way to more cultivated lands—forests with suspiciously precise spacing between trees, meadows too perfectly proportioned to be natural. Winter Court territory, shaped by centuries of controlled magic.

"We're close," Cadeyrn murmurs, cillae briefly visible beneath the masking salve. "Another hour at most."

The Hound pauses atop a ridge, his profile sharp against the star-filled sky. "This is where we part ways," he says. "The northern approach lies through that ravine." He points to a narrow cut between two hills ahead. "Follow it to the frozen falls, then look for the ice-carved steps behind the second cascade."

I study his strange, not-quite-human face, wondering if we'll ever see him again. "Where will you go?"

"There are others who need guidance," he replies cryptically. "Other paths that must be prepared."

Cadeyrn clasps forearms with him in warrior fashion. "Your debt is paid in full," he says formally. "Whatever happens next, you bear no obligation."

The Hound's mouth twists in what might be a smile. "The debt was never to you, Winter Prince." His mismatched eyes shift to me. "Remember what I said. You carry hope."

With that, he melts into the shadows, his departure so swift and silent it seems almost like magic itself. One moment present, the next gone, leaving Cadeyrn and me alone on the threshold of Winter Court territory.

"Ready?" Cadeyrn asks, offering his hand.

I take it, feeling the strength in his fingers as they close around mine. Whatever lies between us—the betrayal, the hurt, the slow rebuilding of something that might eventually become trust—matters less than what awaits ahead.

"Ready," I reply.

Together we descend toward the ravine, toward the frozen falls, toward the Winter Palace with its birthing chambers and potential allies and countless dangers. Toward the place where four impossible lives might find safe passage into a world unprepared for their existence.

The Winter Court awaits, and with it, our most desperate gambit yet.