Page 46

CHAPTER 46

POV: Briar

The Winter Palace looms before us, a monument to cold precision cut from living ice and ancient stone. Its spires catch the crimson moonlight, fracturing it into bloody shards that scatter across the pristine snow. Beautiful and merciless, just like its creators.

"Remember," Cadeyrn murmurs as we approach the servant's entrance, "keep your eyes down, speak only when directly addressed, and let me do most of the talking."

"Because I'm so naturally submissive and quiet," I mutter, adjusting the hood of my cloak to better conceal my copper-and-silver hair. "Should I curtsy after every sentence too?"

His mouth quirks in that not-quite-smile. "Your defiance is one of your most compelling qualities, but perhaps save it for after we're safely inside."

The children stir beneath my heart, as if sensing my anxiety. I place a steadying hand over them, feeling their movement through the thick wool of my stolen dress. Four impossible lives, each carrying magic that threatens centuries of court power. No pressure or anything.

Surprisingly, we make it through the servant's entrance without challenge. The masked guard barely glances at us, his frost-rimed eyes skimming over my hooded figure with the casual disinterest of someone viewing furniture rather than a person. Court alphas, it seems, truly don't register omegas as worthy of attention unless they're in heat. Small mercies.

Cadeyrn guides me through a labyrinth of narrow corridors, each identical to the last—polished ice floors, pale blue walls etched with geometric patterns, ceilings that curve gracefully overhead. The air carries the sharp scent of winter herbs and something less definable—power, perhaps, ancient and rigid as the ice itself.

"We need to move quickly," Cadeyrn says, his voice low. "The council gathers at the midnight hour. If we time this right, we can use the assembled nobility to our advantage."

"How exactly does walking into a room full of powerful fae who want us dead work to our advantage?" I ask, one hand braced against my lower back where the ache has become constant. "Is this one of those 'so stupid it might work' plans or just regular suicide?"

"Because public execution would be inelegant, and the Winter Court values aesthetics above almost everything." His hand settles at the small of my back, cool and steadying. "And because the Frost Throne has final authority, even over the council."

We pause at an intersection, and Cadeyrn cocks his head, listening to something beyond my human hearing. "Change of plans," he says abruptly. "The council has already convened. They're discussing candidates for the Winter Crown."

"Your replacement," I realize. "They think you're not coming back."

"Good. Let them think that for about five more minutes." His cillae briefly flare beneath the masking salve, betraying excitement or anxiety—perhaps both. "Are you ready?"

"Am I ready to waddle into a den of hostile fae nobility while carrying quadruplets that threaten their entire power structure?" I laugh, the sound carrying more nerves than humor. "Absolutely not. But let's do it anyway."

He studies me for a long moment, ice-blue eyes searching my face as if memorizing its details. Then, without warning, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine—a kiss both fierce and gentle, claiming and offering.

"For luck," he murmurs against my mouth, then straightens. "Now, follow three steps behind me, eyes lowered, hands clasped before you. Don't react, no matter what you see or hear."

Stunned by the unexpected kiss, I can only nod. The taste of him lingers on my lips—cool and sharp, like winter berries—as he turns and strides toward a set of massive doors at the corridor's end.

The council chamber explodes with sound as the doors swing open. I keep my eyes downcast as instructed, but peripherally, I can see dozens of elaborately dressed fae nobles turning in shock at our entrance. The babble of voices rises, then falls to expectant silence as Cadeyrn advances without hesitation toward the center of the chamber.

I follow precisely three steps behind, my heart hammering against my ribs. The four children have gone utterly still, as if sensing the danger surrounding us. Smart kids.

"Esteemed council," Cadeyrn's voice carries effortlessly through the vast chamber, cool and commanding. "I see you've begun discussions without me. How... presumptuous."

A female voice breaks the stunned silence. "Prince Cadeyrn." The words are clipped with barely restrained fury. "Your return is... unexpected."

"Clearly." Dry amusement colors his tone. "Yet here I stand, before my council and my throne." He moves aside slightly, revealing me to the assembled nobility. "And I bring with me something unprecedented."

This is my cue. With a deep breath, I raise my head and meet the gaze of the Winter Court council.

They're beautiful in the way natural disasters are beautiful—remote, perfect, deadly. Each noble bears the hallmarks of Winter bloodlines—pale skin that gleams like fresh snow, hair in shades of white or platinum, eyes in various hues of blue from palest ice to deepest midnight. Their clothing follows the same aesthetic—elaborate robes in white, silver, and pale blue, adorned with geometric patterns that echo the palace architecture. Fashion tip: if you can't decide what to wear, just pick "variations on ice" and you'll fit right in.

Cadeyrn reaches back and pulls my hood down in a single fluid motion. Gasps ripple through the chamber as my copper hair with its pronounced silver streaks is revealed. Then, with ceremonial deliberation, he removes the masking salve from my face and hands with a cloth pulled from his sleeve.

The cillae bloom across my skin, luminous and unmistakable. The children choose this moment to move, creating a visible ripple across the taut fabric of my dress.

"Impossible," someone whispers, the word echoing in the sudden hush.

"Abomination," hisses another, louder.

Cadeyrn's hand settles possessively at the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking once along my pulse point. "This is Briar Ellis of Thornwick," he announces. "My claimed mate, carrying the future of the Winter Court within her."

A tall, severe-looking fae with frost-white hair styled in an elaborate crown of braids steps forward, his long silver robe trailing behind him. "Prince Cadeyrn," he says, voice dripping with false concern, "your extended absence has clearly affected your judgment. This... omega shows signs of Wild Magic contamination. The council cannot possibly recognize such a claim."

"Lord Frostbaine," Cadeyrn acknowledges with a slight incline of his head. "Your concern is noted. And irrelevant."

I recognize the name from whispered conversations during the Hunt. Lord Frostbaine—the Winter Court enforcer specifically bred for Hunt participation, his bloodline ruthlessly culled over generations to produce the perfect stud specimen. Once Cadeyrn's lieutenant, now clearly positioning himself as replacement. Great. Just what we need—an alpha who considers genetic superiority a personality trait.

Without releasing his hold on me, Cadeyrn turns toward the far end of the chamber where an enormous throne sits on a raised dais. The Frost Throne is nothing like I imagined—not an ornate seat of power but something more primal. It appears to have been grown rather than crafted, crystalline formations spiraling upward to form a high back and sweeping arms, the entire structure glowing with a faint blue-white luminescence.

"The Frost Throne recognizes blood and birthright above council opinions," Cadeyrn continues, guiding me forward. "Shall we test its judgment?"

The nobles part before us like a reluctant sea, their faces masks of horror and fascination. I feel their stares like physical touches—some calculating, some disgusted, a few merely curious. And throughout it all, I maintain the dignity Cadeyrn instructed, neither cowering nor challenging, simply existing as if I have every right to be here. I've never felt more like a blacksmith's apprentice playing dress-up in my life.

As we approach the dais, I notice subtle patterns etched into the ice floor—frost whorls almost identical to those that mark my skin since Cadeyrn's claiming. The children grow restless again, squirming as if responding to something in the air.

"Prince Cadeyrn," a new voice interrupts, feminine but carrying unmistakable authority. "The throne has remained dormant since your departure. What makes you believe it will awaken for a human omega carrying contaminated offspring?"

I turn toward the voice and find myself facing a woman of such ethereal beauty it momentarily steals my breath. Her skin has the translucent quality of the finest ice, her hair falls in perfect platinum waves to her waist, and her eyes are the pale blue of a winter sky at dawn. Unlike the other nobles, she wears a simple gown of unadorned white, its only embellishment a silver chain bearing a snowflake pendant.

"Lady Lysandra," Cadeyrn greets her, and I recognize the name of his potential ally. "The throne awakens for Wild Magic, not contamination. Or have you forgotten the origin of our court's power?"

Something flickers in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or confirmation of a long-held suspicion. "The council has not forgotten," she replies carefully. "Merely... reinterpreted certain historical records for modern sensibilities."

"A diplomatic way of saying they've buried truths that don't suit current politics," Cadeyrn counters, then turns back to the assembled nobles. "The Winter Court was founded on Wild Magic—untamed, unbroken, flowing freely between realms. The seasonal divisions came later, a political convenience that has weakened us all."

The temperature in the chamber drops noticeably, frost creeping across the floor from several of the more powerful nobles. I shiver despite myself, and Cadeyrn steps slightly closer, his body shielding mine from the worst of the cold.

"Heresy," Lord Frostbaine declares, frost gathering at his fingertips. "The prince has clearly been corrupted by prolonged exposure to Wild Magic. The contamination has spread to his mind."

From the shadows near the western entrance, another figure emerges—a female alpha with skin so pale it's nearly translucent, her veins visible beneath like frozen rivers. "Perhaps," she says, her voice melodic yet cold, "we should remember what happened to those who challenged Prince Cadeyrn during this Hunt cycle."

A ripple of unease passes through the gathering. The news of Cadeyrn's unprecedented violence during the Hunt—his methodical execution of Lord Varen Halvesbain and other pursuing alphas—has clearly reached the court.

"Lady Midnight," Cadeyrn acknowledges with a slight nod. "Always the voice of practical consideration."

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "The Winter Court values survival above sentiment. A fact some seem to have forgotten."

Lord Frostbaine's jaw clenches visibly, but he offers no further challenge. The memory of his predecessor's fate—frozen from the inside out, his heart burst within his chest—seems to have dampened his immediate enthusiasm for confrontation.

"Test me, then," Cadeyrn challenges, gesturing toward the Frost Throne. "Let the seat of Winter Court power judge whether I speak truth or heresy."

Before anyone can object further, he guides me up the steps of the dais until we stand directly before the throne. This close, I can see that the crystalline structure is not static but subtly shifting, like ice in the first moments of melt.

"Watch," Cadeyrn murmurs to the assembled court, then places my hand directly on the arm of the throne.

The effect is immediate and spectacular. Frost patterns identical to those on my skin bloom across the entire throne, spreading outward in intricate spirals that pulse with blue-white light. The chamber fills with the sound of ice cracking, not destructively but like a glacier shifting after centuries of stasis.

The nobles fall back, expressions ranging from awe to terror. Only Lady Lysandra remains where she stands, her pale eyes wide with what might be recognition.

"The throne acknowledges her," she says, her voice carrying clearly through the stunned silence. "It responds to the Wild Magic in her blood."

"Not just in her blood," Cadeyrn corrects. "In the blood of the children she carries. Children with markers from all four courts, reuniting what was divided."

The uproar is immediate and chaotic—voices raised in denial, in outrage, in confusion. Through it all, the throne continues to pulse with light that matches the rhythm of my heartbeat and the cillae across my skin.

A young attendant approaches through the tumult, bearing a silver tray with a single crystal goblet. "Refreshment for the omega," he announces, eyes carefully lowered. "As tradition demands for those recognized by the throne."

I reach for the goblet automatically, parched after our long journey, but Cadeyrn's hand closes around my wrist with gentle restraint. He takes the goblet himself and raises it slightly, appearing to study the liquid within. His nostrils flare once, subtly, then his cillae flare bright beneath his skin.

In a movement too swift for most to follow, he seizes the attendant by the back of the neck and presses the goblet to his lips. "Drink," he commands, voice hard as midwinter ice.

The attendant struggles briefly, then goes still as Cadeyrn's grip tightens. "My prince, I?—"

"Drink the wine you offered my mate, or I will force it down your throat," Cadeyrn says, each word precisely enunciated. "Show the court the hospitality you intended for her."

The chamber has gone deathly silent, every eye fixed on the unfolding drama. The attendant's face has lost what little color it possessed, his eyes darting frantically to someone in the crowd—Lord Frostbaine, I notice, who has gone similarly pale.

"I was only following—" the attendant begins.

"Drink," Cadeyrn repeats, pressing the goblet more firmly against his lips.

With trembling hands, the attendant takes the goblet and swallows a single sip. The effect is almost instantaneous. He drops the crystal, which shatters on the ice floor, dark red liquid spreading like blood. His hands fly to his throat as his face contorts in agony. Frost spreads rapidly from his lips across his skin, blackening as it travels through his veins. Within seconds, he collapses, his body already stiffening with unnatural frost.

Cadeyrn steps over him without a second glance, addressing the shocked assembly. "Poison at a formal council gathering," he says, his voice deceptively mild. "How... uncivilized. One might almost call it heresy against court protocols."

His gaze fixes on Lord Frostbaine, who has edged toward the chamber doors. "Stand fast, my lord," Cadeyrn commands. "We have much to discuss regarding court hospitality. And other matters."

The children shift violently within me, responding to the surge of power that radiates from Cadeyrn. I place a steadying hand over them, acutely aware of how exposed we are despite the throne's apparent recognition.

Cadeyrn turns to face the entire council, one hand resting possessively at the small of my back. "Let me be perfectly clear," he says, frost gathering around him like a visible manifestation of his authority. "The traditional practices of the Hunt have been corrupted. The culling of omegas and their offspring will cease, effective immediately."

Murmurs of protest rise from several quarters, but fall silent as Cadeyrn's power flares visibly around him.

"I have seen the Vale of Culling," he continues, his voice hardening. "I have witnessed what was done in the name of bloodline purity. The disposal of omegas deemed unsuitable. The termination of viable offspring for political convenience. The deliberate contamination of human water sources with magical waste."

The chamber temperature plummets further as he speaks, ice crackling along the walls. Several of the older nobles exchange alarmed glances, while others look merely confused—the younger generation, perhaps, kept ignorant of the court's darkest practices.

A broad-shouldered alpha with unusually fluid movement steps forward from the eastern alcove. "Bold declarations from one who authorized these very practices for centuries," he says, his reflective eyes catching the light strangely. "Did your conscience only awaken when it became convenient, Prince Cadeyrn?"

I recognize him immediately from descriptions whispered among the omegas during the Hunt—The Hound's sire, a fae alpha born to a human omega during a previous Hunt who somehow survived childbirth. His features reflect perfect fae beauty tempered by something almost human in expression. Around him, the air seems to shift and ripple, as though reality itself bends slightly in his presence.

"Lord Huntsman," Cadeyrn acknowledges. "My conscience awoke when I finally witnessed what I had authorized. An oversight I intend to correct."

"These atrocities end now," Cadeyrn declares. "Any who continue such practices will answer directly to me. Not as your prince, but as something the courts have forgotten how to recognize."

As if responding to his words, the cillae covering the throne pulse once, brilliantly, illuminating the chamber with blinding blue-white light. When it fades, the patterns have spread beyond the throne to the floor and walls, creating a network of luminous lines that seem to beat in time with my heart.

"The Wild Hunt returns," Cadeyrn says into the stunned silence. "Not as a breeding program, not as entertainment for court alphas, but as it was meant to be—transformation for both realms."

Lady Lysandra steps forward, her gaze moving between Cadeyrn and me with new understanding. "The prophecy," she says softly. "The return of unified magic through blood freely given rather than forcibly taken."

"What prophecy?" Lord Frostbaine demands, his voice shrill with fear or outrage.

"One the court has worked very hard to suppress," she replies, a faint smile touching her lips. "Along with much else."

She approaches the dais slowly, her movements deliberately non-threatening, and kneels before me. The gesture sends shock rippling through the assembly—a court noble kneeling to a human omega.

"I offer my services for the birthing," she says formally. "As healer and witness to what comes."

Before I can respond, the massive doors at the chamber's entrance crash open. Court guards pour in, their armor gleaming with Winter Court insignia, weapons at the ready.

"Perfect timing," Cadeyrn remarks dryly, turning to face this new threat without releasing his protective hold on me. "We were just discussing the future of the Winter Court. Care to participate constructively, or shall we continue with tedious posturing?"

The guard captain advances, his helmet concealing all but his eyes, which remain fixed on Cadeyrn. "Prince Cadeyrn," he acknowledges with minimal deference. "The High Council of the Four Courts demands your immediate surrender and the termination of the abomination you harbor."

Cadeyrn's laugh holds no humor. "The High Council is welcome to make demands. From a safe distance, preferably. Those who approach my mate with harmful intent tend to meet unfortunate ends."

His words carry undeniable weight after the displays of brutality during the Hunt. The systematic execution of Lord Varen Halvesbain, frozen from within until his heart burst. The Summer Court alpha Lords whose shadows he consumed with winter light. The way he'd turned Lord Klairs Thorn into a crystalline warning display that sent even the most hardened alphas fleeing. Each kill more elaborate than the last, each body arranged as territorial markers that even the most ancient alphas recognized with instinctive dread.

As if to emphasize his point, frost spreads from his feet across the floor, encircling the guard captain's boots. The man looks down, then back at Cadeyrn, calculation visible in his narrowed eyes.

"Consider your position, Prince Cadeyrn," he says. "You are outnumbered. The Wild Magic you've awakened is unpredictable, dangerous. Surrender now, and the omega will be treated humanely."

"You misunderstand," Cadeyrn replies, cillae brightening across his skin as the masking salve fades entirely. "I am not negotiating. I am informing you of how things will proceed. The Winter Court returns to its origins. The cullings end. My mate and our children will be accorded every protection due royal blood."

He turns slightly, addressing the nobles who have drawn back toward the walls. "Those who accept these terms may remain and serve the renewed court. Those who object are free to seek residence with Summer, Spring, or Autumn—assuming they'll have you."

For a long moment, the chamber hangs in perfect stillness, balanced on the knife-edge of violence. Then Lady Lysandra rises gracefully from her kneeling position.

"The healer's guild stands with the prince," she announces. "And with his mate."

One by one, other nobles step forward—fewer than half, but more than I expected. The rest cluster behind the guards, faces tight with fear or calculation.

Lord Frostbaine pushes through the crowd, his thin face twisted with loathing. "This is treason against all four courts," he spits. "Wild Magic was contained for good reason. It's chaotic, uncontrollable. It will destroy everything we've built."

"Perhaps," Cadeyrn acknowledges with surprising calm. "Or perhaps it will transform it into something better. Either way, change comes, whether you welcome it or not."