Page 50

CHAPTER 50

POV: Briar

Court gatherings make me want to claw my own skin off. Even before I became a vessel for ancient magic with four lives quickening within me. Now, standing beside Cadeyrn in the Winter Court throne room, I'm fighting the urge to shatter something—or someone—just to end this parade of cold formality.

"The Summer Court has positioned three battalions along our southern border," drones a frost-patterned noble whose name I've already forgotten. His voice carries the practiced detachment of someone discussing weather patterns rather than impending slaughter. "Their emissaries claim it's merely a protective measure following recent... incidents."

Incidents. Such a bloodless word for Cadeyrn tearing Lord Frostbaine apart with magic that shouldn't exist in a single body. The immortal bastards have perfected the art of reducing brutality to polite terminology when faced with their own extinction.

Cadeyrn stands before the Winter Throne rather than sitting, his posture carrying centuries of command while rejecting its symbols. His body hasn't returned to its original form since our first claiming in the forest—when his rut transformed him into something new, something that makes these ancient nobles avoid direct eye contact.

"And the Spring Court?" he asks, cillae shifting beneath his skin like living constellations. Not pure winter geometry anymore—his markings blend all four seasons now. Delicate spring vines intertwined with summer's molten rivers, autumn's spiraling leaves all flowing through dominant winter stars. His transformation displayed whether they can stomach it or not.

Another noble steps forward, clad in ceremonial armor that's probably never tasted battle. "Elder Iris Bloom oversees their forces herself. They've brought specialized containment equipment—the type used for capturing rather than killing."

My hand moves to my swollen belly without thought, feeling the little ones shift in response to the spike of fear I can't quite suppress. Not fear for myself—I've faced death since the moment I swapped places with Willow. Fear for what grows inside me, what these predators want to cut out and examine like rare specimens.

"How thoughtful," I mutter. "They want to keep us as pets."

Several courtiers shoot me scandalized looks. I'm supposed to stand silently at court proceedings—a pretty vessel on display. Three months ago, they'd have presented me as property, not as having opinions about military strategy.

Cadeyrn doesn't silence me. Instead, he nods. "Lady Briar's assessment is accurate, if bluntly stated. The courts want to study what they cannot understand and control what they cannot predict."

The throne room itself seems to agree. What was once perfect geometric ice—precise angles and sterile surfaces—now pulses like something alive. The walls ripple with subtle movement, cillae similar to those marking my skin spreading across floors and columns, growing more intricate by the day. The building itself is waking up, just like everything else touched by Wild Magic.

"The Autumn Court approaches from the east," continues a third noble, an older female with silver streaks in her frost-white hair. "They've brought their diviners. We've detected attempts to scry our defenses, particularly..."

She hesitates, eyes flickering toward my belly as though looking at it directly might summon what grows within.

"Particularly the birth chambers," Cadeyrn finishes for her. "They seek to predict when Lady Briar will be most vulnerable."

The blatant discussion of my impending labor makes my teeth clench. These fae have spent centuries viewing omegas as elegant breeding vessels, and old habits die hard—even among those who've aligned with our cause.

"Do they think I'll just lie down and wait for them to carve me open like a solstice feast?" I ask, voice carrying further than intended in the throne room's crystalline acoustics.

The female noble blanches. "My lady, I didn't mean to suggest?—"

"I know exactly what you meant," I snap, cillae brightening across my skin as heat rises in my chest. "I'm the vessel. The container. The temporary housing for what they really want."

A tense silence falls over the gathering. Even Cadeyrn turns to me with mild surprise. The little ones respond to my emotional state with synchronized movement, four distinct magical signatures pulsing beneath my skin like embers catching fire.

"All four courts underestimate Lady Briar," Lysandra says, stepping forward from where she's been observing. "A mistake they've been making since she entered the Hunt wearing another's face."

The reminder of my deception—entering the Hunt disguised as Willow—makes several nobles shift uncomfortably. Good. Let them remember I wasn't born to court protocol or bound by their expectations. Let them remember I survived their Hunt through cunning while they lounged in safety.

"Our defensive strategy must account for all possibilities," Cadeyrn redirects, his voice carrying the weight of seven centuries of command. "The birth chambers have been prepared according to ancient specifications, with additional protections added by our loyal mages."

"Our loyal forces are outnumbered," admits the guard captain, cillae mirroring military insignia across his temples. "But the palace defenses have strengthened beyond anything in recorded history. The walls themselves reject those whose intentions threaten the Wild Magic."

This much is true. The Winter Palace has developed consciousness since our claiming in the throne room—corridors rearranging themselves to create barriers against threats, doors refusing to open for those harboring betrayal. Like a massive body developing an immune system against disease.

"What of the awakened omegas?" asks a younger noble, one of the few who've embraced change rather than merely tolerating it. "Their cillae grow stronger daily. Many have begun manifesting actual abilities."

Another topic that makes the traditional court squirm. Since the solstice ritual, omegas throughout the palace have developed cillae similar to mine, dormant magic awakening after centuries of suppression through careful breeding programs. The Winter Court has never had to consider omegas as anything but vessels before. The idea of them wielding actual power disrupts everything these bastards have built for millennia.

"The omegas will defend what is theirs," I answer before anyone else can speak. "Their freedom. Their potential. Their right to be more than breeding stock."

My words hit like hammer blows on heated metal, ripples of discomfort spreading visibly across noble faces. But I spot several servants along the walls—omegas with newly manifested cillae partially hidden beneath formal attire—standing straighter, eyes brightening with something like hope.

"Reports from the border villages suggest similar awakenings," adds another noble, this one younger with less rigid posture than his elders. "Particularly in Thornwick, where the Wild Magic has apparently accelerated healing of the wasting sickness."

Willow. My heart constricts at the mention of my friend, the one whose place I took in the Hunt. The purification plants spreading from the Vale of Culling must have reached the village water supply, reversing the contamination that caused her illness. At least something good has come from all this blood and magic.

"What of our evacuation routes?" Cadeyrn asks, returning to practical matters. "If the defenses fail, we must have contingencies for the most vulnerable."

"Prepared as ordered, my prince," confirms a court mage with elaborate cillae spiraling down both arms. "The ancient tunnels have been cleared and provisioned. Guides have been assigned to each group, with priority given to the awakened omegas and children."

I watch the proceedings with growing weariness. My body feels simultaneously weightless and impossibly heavy, the little ones draining my energy faster than I can replenish it. Lysandra estimates less than two days until the birthing, the Wild Magic accelerating what should have been a nine-month cycle into just over three.

A wave of discomfort washes through me, different from the magical surges I've grown accustomed to. Something sharper, hotter. I shift my weight, trying to focus on the military reports while a tingling sensation spreads from my core outward.

"The specialized containment equipment concerns me most," Cadeyrn is saying, his attention fixed on the elaborate model of our territories spread across the central table. "These are designed for capturing rather than killing. For study rather than execution."

"They want to understand the Wild Magic," says an elderly noble, his cillae faded with age. "To learn how to control what they now fear."

"Wild Magic cannot be controlled," Lysandra interjects, her formal healer's robes replaced by more practical attire that allows freedom of movement. "That is precisely what they refuse to understand. It can be channeled, directed, harmonized with—but never dominated or contained."

The heat building beneath my skin intensifies, sweat beading along my hairline despite the perpetual winter chill of the palace. What the hell is happening to me? The little ones have settled somewhat, their movements less frantic than before, yet my temperature continues to rise like a forge coming to life.

"Lady Briar?" Lysandra's attention shifts to me, her healer's instincts noting my discomfort before I've voiced it. "Are you well?"

All eyes turn toward me. I resist the urge to shrink from their scrutiny, standing taller despite the considerable effort it requires.

"I'm fine," I lie, though the heat building beneath my skin tells a different story. "Continue."

Cadeyrn studies me with narrowed eyes, perceiving what others cannot through our claiming bond. "Perhaps we should conclude for today. Lady Briar requires rest before?—"

"I don't require coddling," I snap, then immediately regret my sharpness. These mood shifts—another gift of carrying four lives that shouldn't exist. "I apologize. The weight of our situation affects us all."

A diplomatic save that seems to satisfy the court, though Cadeyrn's expression remains skeptical. The meeting continues, discussions shifting to resource allocation and communication protocols. I try to focus, to contribute meaningfully to plans that might mean life or death for everyone in this room, but the sensations intensify—heat pooling low in my belly that has nothing to do with the babes and everything to do with something I'd thought impossible during pregnancy.

Heat. I'm going into heat.

Panic rises alongside desire, twin flames consuming rational thought. How is this possible? I'm already nurturing four lives. My body shouldn't be capable of triggering another cycle, especially not with less than two days until birthing.

Unless this isn't a normal heat at all.

The Wild Magic has been transforming me for months—silver streaking my copper hair, cillae covering my skin, magical abilities manifesting without training. This feels like another transformation pushing through, something fundamental changing at a primal level.

A sharp pain lances through my gums, momentarily stealing my breath. I raise my hand to my mouth, fingers encountering unexpected sharpness where my canine teeth should be.

Fangs. I'm growing fucking fangs.

The court discussion fades to background noise as I probe the newly elongated teeth with my tongue. They're unmistakably predatory—sharp points that could easily break skin. Another change reveals itself as intense pressure at my ears, the cartilage reshaping itself beneath my touch into delicate points.

Wild Magic isn't just enhancing my capabilities—it's physically transforming me into something beyond human. Something more fae than omega. The blacksmith's apprentice who entered the Hunt on borrowed time is being reforged entirely.

The heat intensifies, liquid warmth pooling between my thighs. Despite the physical impossibility of it, my body is preparing itself for claiming—demanding it with the same biological imperative that drove me during the Hunt. But this is different. Focused. There's only one alpha my transformed body wants, and he stands less than three feet away.

My body temperature rises visibly, the usual coolness of my cillae now underlaid with a warmth that radiates outward. The conflicting sensations—ice and fire simultaneously—make my skin hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against my flesh almost painfully intense.

I try to maintain my composure, to focus on the guard captain's report about defense rotations and weapon distributions. But my newly pointed ears pick up sounds I couldn't hear before—the quickened heartbeat of the omega servant standing nearest the wall, the subtle crackle of frost forming where Cadeyrn's emotions affect the air around him, the whispered currents of magic flowing through the throne room itself.

My scent must have changed, because Cadeyrn freezes mid-sentence, nostrils flaring as he inhales sharply. His cillae flare in immediate response, ice-blue eyes darkening as pupils dilate. The atmosphere in the throne room shifts instantly, courtiers sensing the change before they understand it.

"Leave us," Cadeyrn commands, his voice dropping to a rumbling register that sends shivers down my spine.

No one moves for a suspended moment, shock overriding court protocol.

"NOW." The single word contains enough power to crack the nearest ice column. Frost explodes outward from his feet, coating the floor in jagged patterns that pulse with dangerous energy.

The court erupts into motion, nobles scrambling toward exits with barely maintained dignity. The few who hesitate—either from curiosity or political calculation—find themselves physically pushed toward the doors by a wave of magical force that brooks no resistance.

As the massive doors swing closed, leaving us alone in the cavernous throne room, Cadeyrn turns to me fully. The control he's maintained—even through his transformation—slips visibly, his breathing changing to the shallow pants of an alpha scenting an omega in heat.

"Briar," he says, my name half-question, half-growl. "You're?—"

"In heat," I confirm, hands moving to steady myself against a nearby column. "And growing fangs. And pointed ears. The Wild Magic is—" I gasp as another wave of sensation washes through me, "—transforming me again."

He crosses the distance between us in three long strides, hands grasping my shoulders while his eyes devour the visible changes. One finger traces the newly pointed tip of my ear, the gentle touch contrasting with the predatory focus in his gaze.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, inspecting the fangs when I bare them. "You're becoming what you were always meant to be."

The heat surges higher, my scent changing with it—growing richer, more complex—no longer just fertile omega but something wilder. Cadeyrn's response is immediate and intense, his body pressing mine against the column as a growl builds in his chest.

The Wild Magic races through me in waves of impossible heat, my skin burning everywhere—not feverish sick-heat but primal furnace-heat, as if my bones might melt through my flesh at any moment. The cillae covering me pulse so bright I have to squint against my own glow, my shadow dancing wild across walls that no longer stand still beneath our combined magic.

We stand on the precipice of something inevitable, something transformative. The next phase of whatever we're becoming together.

Whatever happens beyond this moment—war with the allied courts, the birthing of children who shouldn't exist, the transformation of an entire realm's magic—begins here, now, with fire and ice merging in the last place anyone would expect to find heat: the heart of the Winter Court itself.