Page 47

CHAPTER 47

POV: Briar

The Winter Palace reminds me of that time Fergus made me polish a steel sword for three straight days—beautiful, shiny, and about as much fun as watching ice melt. Three days after our dramatic "surprise, we're not dead" entrance into the council chamber, this impression has only deepened. The endless corridors of polished ice, the geometric precision of every archway and alcove, the eerie silence that permeates even the busiest halls—it's like they're allergic to anything resembling actual life.

Which makes the whispers that follow me all the more startling, and honestly, kind of amusing.

"There she goes," I hear as I pass a group of serving staff, their voices barely audible. "The omega who stands beside the prince."

"They say she confronted the council directly," another murmurs. "Looked Lord Frostbaine in the eye without permission."

I keep my expression neutral as I continue down the corridor, one hand resting on my swollen belly where the little ones shift restlessly. My body has continued its accelerated changes, silver threads now dominating my copper hair, cillae pulsing visibly across any exposed skin. I look about six months pregnant, though it's been less than three weeks since Cadeyrn first claimed me in the forest.

The children respond to my thoughts with a series of kicks, one of them landing directly under my ribs with enough force to make me wince.

"Easy there, little warriors," I murmur, turning down a less populated hallway. "Save your fighting for after you're born."

I'm heading toward the eastern wing where Lady Lysandra has established a makeshift sanctuary for us. Not quite the birthing chambers Cadeyrn originally planned—those remain under guard by court forces loyal to the elder council—but a suitable alternative with reinforced walls and magical protections. The perfect place to wait out what has essentially become a cold civil war within the Winter Court.

Two young omegas pass me in the corridor, their eyes downcast as protocol demands. But just as they move beyond me, one glances back, her gaze meeting mine with an intensity that startles me. In that brief moment, I notice something unexpected—cillae, barely visible but unmistakable, tracing delicate lines along her jawline.

She looks away quickly, hurrying after her companion, but the impression lingers. That wasn't a claiming mark—it was something else. Something new.

Lady Lysandra is waiting when I reach our quarters, her pale blue skin luminous in the diffuse light filtering through ice-crystal windows. Despite her formal title and obvious nobility, she's proven to be refreshingly straightforward.

"You've been wandering again," she observes, gesturing for me to sit on the examination couch. "Against medical advice."

"I get restless," I reply, lowering myself awkwardly onto the cushioned surface with all the grace of a drunken bear. "Four passengers make sitting in one place uncomfortable. They've started what feels like a competitive tumbling routine in there, and I'm pretty sure one of them is winning medals."

Her lips quirk in a slight smile as she places her hands on my abdomen. Frost patterns flow from her fingertips, mingling with my own in a diagnostic pattern I've become familiar with over the past days.

"The ancient magic continues to quicken within you," she murmurs, her brow furrowing slightly. "All four remain strong, but the power flowing through your system increases with each passing day."

"I've noticed." The fatigue has been building steadily—a bone-deep weariness that sleep doesn't touch. "How much longer can I sustain this?"

She hesitates, which is answer enough. "Two weeks at most, I believe. Perhaps less." Her hands continue their careful examination. "We need access to the proper birthing chambers soon. The magical discharge when the little ones arrive will be... significant."

That's healer-speak for "potentially catastrophic." I've gathered enough to understand that no omega has ever successfully delivered quadruplets with fae blood, let alone ones carrying Wild Magic markers from all four courts. The power released during their birth could level half the palace if not properly contained.

"Cadeyrn is working on it," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "The court situation is... complicated."

Understatement of the year. The Winter Court has essentially split into factions—younger nobles rallying to Cadeyrn's call for change, while elder council members entrench behind centuries of tradition. Neither side has enough strength for outright victory, leaving us in a precarious stalemate.

"More complicated than you know," Lady Lysandra says, withdrawing her hands. "The other courts have begun mobilizing forces at our borders. They see what's happening here as contagion that must be contained."

"Of course they do." I struggle back into a sitting position. "Heaven forbid we upset the delicate balance of oppression they've maintained for centuries."

A rare smile touches her lips. "You speak your mind freely for someone raised in border villages."

"I was a blacksmith before I was an omega," I remind her. "Hard to develop a submissive personality when you spend your days beating metal into submission instead."

The door opens, and Cadeyrn enters, his expression weary but resolute. The transformation that began during our first claiming continues to reshape him—his once-slender frame now powerfully muscled, cillae spreading across his skin in elaborate whorls, tiny flowers blooming and dying along his hairline in endless cycles. He looks nothing like the cold, controlled prince who observed the gathered omegas at the start of the Hunt.

And I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice how the new muscles shift under his skin, or how his transformed body makes my own respond in ways that are decidedly inconvenient given our complicated situation. Just because I haven't forgiven him doesn't mean I'm blind.

His eyes meet mine across the room, and something warm flickers through our claiming bond. Not forgiveness—too much lies between us for that—but perhaps understanding. Recognition of what we've become together, what we're creating, what we're fighting for. And underneath it all, that same heat that's been building between us since the blood ritual, when something started to shift in ways neither of us expected.

"The birth chambers remain contested," he says without preamble. "Elder Iris Bloom has arrived as emissary from the Spring Court, ostensibly to negotiate terms but actually to assess our defenses."

"Elder Iris," Lady Lysandra's serene demeanor falters slightly. "She predates all three of us combined. If the Spring Court has sent her, they consider this situation grave indeed."

"Grave enough to form a unified front with Summer and Autumn," Cadeyrn confirms. "Their forces gather at our borders, while their spies infiltrate our court. They fear what the little ones represent."

The way he says "the little ones" still sounds strange coming from him, the seven-century-old Winter Prince who never planned to sire offspring, who entered his first rut because something in my scent triggered what his court physicians had deemed impossible.

"Have they made specific demands?" I ask, sliding carefully off the examination couch.

"The usual." Cadeyrn's mouth twists in bitter amusement. "Your termination, the disposal of the 'heirs of the original Hunt,' my rehabilitation once the Wild Magic has been 'purged' from my system." He moves closer, cillae brightening as he approaches. "I declined their generous offer."

He steps close enough that I can smell him—that intoxicating blend of winter pine and something uniquely him that still makes my insides do a little flip. Without warning, he brushes a strand of silver-streaked copper hair from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek in a way that sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with cold.

"How diplomatic of you," I say, unable to suppress a smile as I lean slightly into his touch. "I assume you used more ice daggers than words."

"Actually, I was remarkably restrained," he replies, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Lady Lysandra will confirm I didn't freeze a single emissary, despite ample provocation."

Lady Lysandra clears her throat pointedly, reminding us we're not alone. I reluctantly step back, but not before noticing how Cadeyrn's eyes darken with something that makes me wonder what would happen if we had a moment truly alone for the first time since the haven.

"True," she acknowledges with dry amusement. "Though Lord Frostbaine may never recover from your verbal evisceration."

Something in their easy banter surprises me. These past days have revealed a side of Cadeyrn I never glimpsed during our time in the forest—a dry wit, a precise intelligence, a capacity for strategic thinking that balances his newfound primal nature. I'm still figuring out how to reconcile these aspects with the man who authorized atrocities without question for centuries. The man whose signature condemned my mother to a slow death by poisoned water.

A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts. A young alpha guard enters, his cillae marking him as one of those loyal to Cadeyrn's faction.

"My prince," he says, bowing slightly. "Forgive the interruption, but there's a situation in the lower quarters. The omega servants..." He hesitates, glancing uncertainly at me. "They're displaying unusual magical manifestations. The steward requests your immediate presence."

Cadeyrn and Lady Lysandra exchange a significant look. "It's spreading faster than we anticipated," she murmurs.

"What's spreading?" I ask, placing a protective hand over my belly where the little ones have gone suspiciously still, as if listening.

"Come and see," Cadeyrn says, offering his arm. "This concerns you directly."

---

The lower quarters of the Winter Palace are markedly different from the austere grandeur of the upper levels. Here, the ice walls are unadorned, the corridors narrower, the ceilings lower. Servant omegas live segregated from the general population, accessible when needed but otherwise invisible to court society.

At least, that was the intention.

What we find is something else entirely.

The central gathering hall where omegas take their meals has been transformed. Frost patterns cover every surface—walls, tables, floor, ceiling—in elaborate spirals and whorls that pulse with soft blue-white light. And at the center of it all, a dozen omegas stand in a loose circle, their hands linked, cillae flowing visibly across their skin.

Not claiming marks. Something new. Something wild.

The steward, a severe-looking beta with traditional Winter Court coloring, wrings his hands as we enter. "It started this morning, my prince. One of the kitchen omegas developed these... markings. By midday, it had spread to three others. Now..." He gestures helplessly to the gathered omegas, who haven't acknowledged our presence at all, their eyes closed in what appears to be deep concentration.

I move closer, drawn by something I can't quite name. The cillae covering these omegas are unmistakably similar to my own—not identical, but echoing the same wild, untamed quality that appeared after Cadeyrn's claiming.

"What are they doing?" I ask softly.

As if in response, the cillae brighten, and a shimmering apparition forms above the circle—a three-dimensional map of the Winter Palace, rendered in light and ice crystals. Every corridor, chamber, and passageway appears in perfect detail, including several I'm certain aren't on any official palace schematic.

"Impossible," the steward breathes. "Omegas cannot perform collective magic. It's forbidden. It's?—"

"Not forbidden," Lady Lysandra corrects quietly. "Forgotten. Deliberately erased from court memory."

The omegas finally seem to notice our presence. Their circle opens, and a tall, slender woman with silver-streaked black hair steps forward. Unlike the others, her clothing marks her as a personal attendant rather than a kitchen or cleaning omega. Her cillae are more pronounced, spiraling across her face and neck in elaborate designs that pulse with blue-white light.

"Prince Cadeyrn," she acknowledges with a slight bow, then turns to me. Her eyes widen slightly, cillae brightening as they recognize mine. "And Lady Briar. We've been waiting for you."

"You know my name," I say, surprised. We haven't been formally introduced to the servant staff.

"Everyone knows your name," she replies with a small smile. "The human omega who carries four lives within her. The one who walks beside the prince instead of behind him. The catalyst."

The word sends a shiver through me. "Catalyst for what?"

Instead of answering directly, she gestures to the shimmering map above them. "We've been mapping the palace—all of it, including the sections hidden from most. The birth chambers you seek aren't just contested; they're being modified by court physicians loyal to Lord Frostbaine."

Cadeyrn steps forward, his expression darkening. "Modified how?"

"To contain and redirect the ancient power," another omega explains, her cillae flaring with apparent anger. "To channel the Wild Magic from the births into containers for court use. The little ones would be... drained."

Ice forms at Cadeyrn's fingertips, crackling with barely contained fury. "Show me exactly where these modifications are being made."

The map shifts, focusing on a section of the palace I haven't visited—deep below the main structure, where the walls are thickest and the magic oldest. Glowing points indicate specific locations where alterations are underway.

"We discovered this through the servant passages," the first omega explains. "Court physicians don't notice omegas coming and going—we're furniture to them, not people. But we see everything."

"How many of you have developed these abilities?" Lady Lysandra asks, gesturing to their cillae.

"Thirty-four as of this morning," she replies. "More awakening each day. It started after Lady Briar arrived, but accelerated when she addressed the council directly. When she touched the Frost Throne."

I remember that moment—the throne responding to my touch, cillae spreading across its crystalline surface and throughout the chamber. Apparently, its effects reached further than anyone realized.

"The Wild Magic recognizes itself," Lady Lysandra murmurs, looking at me with new understanding. "What was dormant awakens in proximity to its own kind."

"It's not just here," another omega adds, a slight woman with delicate features. "We have connections to the border villages through the supply chains. Reports are coming in of omegas there developing similar manifestations. Particularly in Thornwick."

Thornwick. My village. Willow. The name sends a jolt through me. "Is there news of specific omegas? A woman named Willow Ambrose?"

The omegas exchange glances, then the leader nods. "The apothecary's daughter. Yes, she features prominently in the reports. Her wasting illness has reversed completely, and she now leads a circle of awakened omegas in the village."

Relief washes through me so powerfully I have to brace myself against a nearby table. Willow lives. Not just lives but thrives, healed by the Wild Magic now flowing freely through the borderlands.

The little ones respond to my emotional surge with enthusiastic movement, one of them shifting with enough force to be visible through my dress. The gathered omegas notice, their cillae brightening in synchronized pulses.

"They recognize the little ones," the leader explains, smiling. "Wild Magic calls to its own kind."

Cadeyrn places a protective hand on the small of my back, his touch sending a rush of warmth through my body. He pulls me slightly closer than strictly necessary, and I find myself leaning into his solid presence without thinking. It's becoming a dangerous habit, this gravitating toward each other despite everything between us.

His expression turns thoughtful. "You've organized quickly," he observes, studying the omega gathering with new respect while his thumb traces small circles against my lower back that are definitely not helping my concentration. "How long has this network existed?"

"The network? Always. Centuries. Omegas have always communicated through our own channels." She straightens slightly, cillae glowing with quiet pride. "The magic is new, yes. But our connections, our whispers, our secret communications—those are ancient."

Cadeyrn nods slowly, as if pieces of a puzzle are falling into place. "And how widely has word spread of what's happening here? Of my mate and the little ones she carries?"

"Throughout all four court territories," she replies without hesitation. "From the Winter Palace to the farthest border villages. Omegas everywhere know that something unprecedented has awakened. That change comes, whether the courts welcome it or not."

His mouth quirks in recognition of his own words thrown back at him. "And what do they make of this change? These omegas in distant territories?"

"Some are frightened," she acknowledges. "Generations of court conditioning run deep. But others..." Her cillae pulse brighter. "Others have begun to remember what they never personally knew. The original purpose of the Hunt. The balanced transformation it once offered. The power that was taken from us."

The world remakes itself around us, patterns shifting, possibilities expanding.

"We need access to those birth chambers," Cadeyrn says, turning to the gathered omegas. "Properly prepared, without the modifications Lord Frostbaine has ordered."

The leader nods. "We've already begun planning for that. The servant passages can get you past most of the guards, and there are omegas within the medical staff who can ensure the chambers are properly configured." Her gaze shifts to me. "When the time comes—and it approaches quickly—we will be ready."

"Why?" I ask suddenly. "Why help us? I'm an outsider. Cadeyrn enforced the very systems that oppressed you for centuries."

She studies me for a long moment, cillae pulsing thoughtfully. "Because something in you called to something in us. Because the Wild Magic you carry demands balance rather than dominance. Because the four lives within you represent the world as it should have been—courts united rather than divided, magic flowing freely rather than constrained."

Her hand reaches out, hovering near my belly without quite touching. "May I?"

I nod, and she places her palm gently against the swell where the little ones are most active. The contact sends a shock of recognition through me—not threatening but familiar, like greeting a relative I didn't know existed. Her cillae synchronize with mine, pulsing in matching rhythm.

"Four elements united in four children," she murmurs. "The circle completes itself."

A commotion at the entrance breaks the moment. Another guard hurries in, his expression urgent. "Prince Cadeyrn, Elder Iris Bloom has called an emergency council session. Lord Frostbaine claims to have evidence of omega insurrection and demands immediate action."

Cadeyrn's expression hardens. "It seems we've been discovered sooner than expected."

"Not discovered," the omega leader corrects, withdrawing her hand from my belly. "Betrayed. There's a spy in the upper household staff—a beta who reports directly to Lord Frostbaine."

"You know this with certainty?" Cadeyrn asks.

She gestures to the shimmering map still hovering above them. "We see everything, my prince. Even what you do not."

The implications of this underground omega network with its own intelligence and now its own magic sink in fully. What we're witnessing isn't just a few servants developing unexpected abilities—it's the beginning of a fundamental power shift within court society.

"We need to move up our timeline," Cadeyrn decides, turning to Lady Lysandra. "How soon can the birthing chambers be secured?"

She considers this, calculating. "With omega assistance through the servant passages... perhaps tonight. But the preparations require at least twelve hours to complete properly."

"Tonight, then," Cadeyrn agrees. "I'll attend this council session to keep Elder Iris and Lord Frostbaine occupied while preparations are made." He turns to me, cillae brightening as our eyes meet. "Stay with Lady Lysandra. Do not leave these quarters for any reason until I return."

I bristle slightly at being ordered about, then recognize the fear beneath his commanding tone. He's not controlling me; he's protecting what we've created together.

"I'll be here," I promise. "Try not to freeze anyone important."

A small smile touches his lips. "No promises."

Before I realize what's happening, he pulls me against him—careful of my protruding belly—and his mouth finds mine in a kiss that's nothing like the quick one before we faced the council chamber. This one is hungry, desperate, filled with everything we haven't said. His tongue brushes mine, and I respond with embarrassing eagerness, my body remembering every claiming in the forest, every moment of connection we've shared.

When we break apart, I'm breathless, and his eyes have darkened to midnight blue. "When this is over," he murmurs against my ear, "we need to talk about what's happening between us."

"Talk?" I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "Is that what you call it?"

He laughs, a sound I'm still getting used to hearing from him. "Among other things." His hand travels down my side in a caress that promises considerably more than conversation. "When you're ready—if you're ever ready—I'll be waiting."

With one last lingering kiss that makes my knees actually wobble (ridiculous omega biology), he's gone, following the guard back toward the upper palace.

I press my fingers to my tingling lips, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions his touch evokes. Desire, confusion, lingering anger, and something else I'm not ready to name.

The omega leader watches him leave, then turns back to me with a knowing smile. "He has changed greatly," she observes. "The Winter Prince who returned is not the one who left for the Hunt."

"No kidding," I reply, still feeling the ghost of his lips on mine. "He used to be all icy control and court protocol. Now he's..." I trail off, remembering the heat in his eyes, the possessive touch of his hands. "Well, definitely not that anymore."

She tilts her head, studying me with unexpected perception. "And you? Have your feelings toward him changed as well?"

I consider denying it, deflecting with humor as I usually do. Instead, I find myself answering honestly. "It's complicated. He's responsible for terrible things, things that affected me personally. But he's also..." I rest my hands on my belly, feeling the little ones shift beneath my palms. "He's trying to make amends. And sometimes, when he looks at me like he just did, I can almost imagine a future where we're more than just two people thrown together by circumstance and biology."

"The Wild Magic changes more than just abilities," she says gently. "It transforms hearts as well."

"Maybe," I say, watching cillae spiral across my hands, matching the rhythm of four tiny heartbeats beneath my own. "Neither of us is what we were. I'm just not sure what we're becoming."

The rebellion grows within me, within the palace, within border villages across four territories. Wild Magic awakens from centuries of slumber, recognizing itself across distances and boundaries. And somewhere in the heart of the Winter Court, ancient birth chambers await four impossible lives that will either transform two worlds or tear them apart entirely.

Tonight, we find out which.