Page 52
Story: Run Little Omega
CHAPTER 52
POV: Briar
I wake to the unfamiliar sensation of not hating my own skin. My transformed body hums with residual magic from last night's claiming—a pleasant resonance beneath frost-patterned flesh that finally feels like mine instead of a prison I've been trapped in for twenty-three years.
Cadeyrn sleeps beside me, face slack in a vulnerability I've never witnessed. The Winter Prince surrendering to unconsciousness. I study the changes wrought in him—broader shoulders, more powerful frame, cillae now incorporating elements from all four courts spiraling across his chest like rivers breaking through winter ice. No longer purely geometric Winter Court designs, but something fluid and alive.
Seven centuries of perfect control, and a village blacksmith's apprentice cracked him open in three months.
I trace a finger along one frost pattern trailing down his arm, feeling magic pulse beneath my touch like a second heartbeat. He stirs but doesn't wake, his body instinctively curving toward mine like iron drawn to a lodestone.
The irony cuts deep. The alpha who hunted me through the forest, who claimed me against a blackthorn tree while crimson sap rained down like sacrificial blood, now responds to my gentlest touch with complete surrender. The predator tamed—or perhaps, like me, simply reforged into something neither of us could have imagined.
My new fangs press against my lip as I smile. Still strange to have them, stranger still how right they feel—like I've spent my life using dulled tools only to finally hold properly honed steel. My tongue explores their sharp edges while my hand moves to my swollen belly, feeling the little ones shift with renewed energy after last night's magical storm.
The babes respond to my touch, four distinct movements like signatures. One always moves sharp and quick—Ember, I've named him in my mind. Another rolls slowly but with undeniable power—Alder. The third flutters like leaves in wind—Lyra. And the fourth, the gentlest, who always seems to calm the others—Willow. Names I haven't spoken aloud, not even to Cadeyrn. Names that feel more like recognitions than choices.
Less than two days until birthing, if Lysandra's estimate holds true. Four lives who shouldn't exist, carried in a body transforming beyond human, protected by a prince shattering seven centuries of court tradition. The impossible made flesh through Wild Magic that predates the courts themselves.
A sharp rap at the chamber door jolts me from my thoughts.
"Lady Briar." Lysandra's voice carries an edge that immediately sets me on alert. "Your presence is requested in the reception hall. Immediately."
Cadeyrn wakes at the sound, body tensing from sleep to alertness in a single breath—a predator's instinct never truly dormant. "What is it?" he calls, already reaching for his clothes.
"Unexpected arrivals," Lysandra replies, her voice carefully neutral in that way that tells me she's not alone in the corridor. "From the Hunt."
We exchange a look. My heart skips at the possibility—omegas I met during those brutal weeks in the forest, perhaps some I helped reach the havens. Perhaps confirmation that our transformation is spreading, affecting others who carry the potential for Wild Magic.
"We'll be there shortly," Cadeyrn says, his voice slipping into the formal register of the Winter Prince even as his eyes hold mine with unspoken questions.
I nod once, sharply. Whatever—whoever—waits downstairs, I need to see them.
Within minutes, we're dressed in the simpler court garments I've insisted on—functional rather than ornamental, allowing freedom of movement should we need to fight or flee. My hand finds his as we leave our chambers, the brief contact sending cillae cascading between us where our skin meets. No longer merely a claiming bond but something deeper, something that flows both ways.
The corridors shift subtly as we walk, widening to accommodate my pregnant form, the walls themselves seeming to exhale warmth rather than the perpetual winter chill that once defined this place. The palace has become an extension of our magic, responsive to our presence in ways that unnerve the traditional court nobility.
"You feel it too?" Cadeyrn asks quietly, noticing my gaze tracking the living patterns flowing across the ceiling.
"It's... breathing," I reply, finding no better word for how the entire structure seems to pulse with awareness around us. "Becoming something more than stone and ice."
"The Wild Magic flows through everything connected to us now," he says, cillae shifting thoughtfully across his cheekbones. "The throne room was just the beginning."
The memory of our claiming—of ancient ice shattering with color beneath our joined bodies, of walls breathing and ceilings opening to the crimson moon—sends a shiver of heat through me despite the momentary urgency. There will be time for that later. Now we have visitors to assess, potential allies to welcome—or threats to neutralize.
---
The reception hall buzzes with nervous energy when we arrive. Court guards stand at rigid attention, cillae pulsing with subtle alarm. Nobles cluster in hushed conversation, stealing glances at three figures huddled near the enormous hearth—the only source of actual warmth in the traditionally frigid Winter Court.
Three omegas. Three survivors of the Wild Hunt.
My steps falter as recognition hits me like a hammer blow. Three faces I never expected to see again, all omegas I encountered during those desperate weeks in the Bloodmoon Forest. Each bears the unmistakable marks of court claiming—bite scars at throat and wrists, bodies swollen with pregnancies that have drained the vitality from their frames. But they're alive, against all odds, standing in the heart of the Winter Court with expressions ranging from terror to desperate hope.
"Holy shit," I breathe, forgetting court protocol entirely. "You made it."
The youngest rushes forward first, her movements impulsive yet determined. Mira—barely seventeen, taken in this year's Hunt with wildflowers still woven in her hair by siblings who didn't understand the sacrifice they decorated. Her brown curls are matted now, her frame thin yet swollen with pregnancy, but her hazel eyes light with recognition.
"Briar," she gasps, stopping just short of touching me. "It's really you. You're... different."
I laugh, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "That's one way of putting it." I gesture to my transformed appearance—the silver-streaked hair, the pointed ears, the cillae visible at my throat. "How did you survive? The last time I saw you..."
I don't finish the sentence, but the memory hangs between us—her crouched behind that fallen log as The Huntsman passed mere feet away, me helping her into the hollow log and promising to create a false trail. The terror in her eyes when she'd gripped my hand and begged me not to leave her.
"The Hound claimed me," she says, ducking her head slightly. "He was... gentler than most would have been. Gave me the choice to refuse his claim."
My eyebrows raise at this. Choice is a concept foreign to the Hunt—the entire ritual designed to strip consent from its participants. "He offered you a choice?"
"After you led that Spring Court alpha away," she explains, hands fluttering nervously. "The Hound found me near the waterfall clearing. Said he could smell your scent on me, knew you'd tried to help." Her throat works, swallowing back emotion. "He said I could accept his claim and have his protection, or continue running and hope for a haven."
"And you chose him."
She nods. "It hurt, but nothing like what happened to the others I saw claimed. And after that, the other alphas were less interested in me. Apparently his seed is hard to displace."
Flora steps forward next, her movements graceful despite obvious exhaustion. Specially bred for court preferences, her appearance remains ethereally beautiful even after everything she's endured—platinum hair and uncommonly pale skin, violet eyes that mark generations of selective breeding like prized livestock.
"You saved me from that Summer Court alpha," she says, her voice softer than I remember. "The one who said I was too... perfect. Too engineered. He wanted to see what I looked like when I broke."
The bile rises in my throat at the memory—that horrific clearing where I'd found her beneath the golden-skinned alpha who took pleasure in her pain, biting her repeatedly not for claiming but for torment. How I'd watched from the shadows, frozen in horror, until he'd sensed my presence. How seconds later, an ice formation had erupted from the ground beneath him—Cadeyrn's distant intervention marking his territory through brutal display.
"And yet here you are, claimed and survived anyway," I observe, taking in the dozens of bite scars at her throat—evidence of multiple claimings she endured even after escaping that first alpha.
"Willing submission has its advantages," she replies with a hint of her old practicality. "When I realized I carried the Raveling Brothers' seed, I found a Spring Court alpha to claim me instead. He was... not gentle, but efficient, and easy to position during knotting." Her hand rests on her swollen belly, a gesture both protective and resigned. "Now I carry his seed instead of theirs, and his magic has begun to flow through me."
Her clinical assessment strikes me anew—the product of generations bred to view their bodies as vessels, to calculate optimal positioning for successful breeding. To survive by any means necessary. I remember her careful instructions about claiming during our last night of freedom, explaining the mechanics of the Hunt with detached precision that contrasted sharply with the horror she later endured.
I turn to the third omega, who hangs back, her posture defensive, watchful. Nessa—the farm girl selected through "random" drawing, whose straightforward terror and confusion provided stark contrast to my strategic resistance during the Hunt. The last time I saw her, she was experiencing early heat symptoms by that rock outcropping, and I'd directed her toward the stream, told her to walk against the current to mask her scent. I'd created a false trail that crossed hers and doubled back, hoping any alpha catching their mixed scents would follow mine instead of hers.
"You survived," I say, genuine amazement in my voice. Nessa was always the embodiment of the standard omega experience—no specialized skills or knowledge to protect her, just an ordinary village girl thrown to the wolves of court breeding programs.
"Barely," she answers, her tone carefully neutral. Her dirty blonde hair is bound in the same practical braid she wore during the Hunt, her blue eyes now carrying a wariness that borders on suspicion as they dart between me and Cadeyrn. "A minor Autumn Court alpha claimed me first. I survived a second claiming by a Summer Court alpha when he decided he wanted me instead. His heir... didn't survive the birthing."
Something flickers behind her eyes that makes my hackles rise. I don't press—survival in the courts demands whatever lies are necessary. If she birthed the Collector's infant before arriving here, she's truly lucky to be alive, as I can only imagine what he does to his failed breeding stock.
The three of them stand before me like ghosts from another life—women who faced the same Hunt, the same brutal claimings, yet somehow survived to reach this moment. And now they've found their way to the Winter Court, to me, as if drawn by some force beyond coincidence.
"How did you find us?" Cadeyrn asks, his tone warm even as his posture remains subtly alert. I recognize the tension in his shoulders—he's scanning for threats, assessing these survivors with the instincts of a ruler who has survived seven centuries of court intrigue.
Flora answers, her hands making explanatory gestures I remember from our conversations in the forest. "The Wild Magic leaves traces. The forest itself guided us, reshaping paths to lead here rather than deeper into Summer territories."
"The trees whispered your name," Mira adds, her words tumbling out with childlike wonder that somehow survived everything she's endured. "They called you 'the vessel of balance' and showed us the way. It was like the forest itself wanted us to find you."
A chill traces my spine that has nothing to do with the Winter Court's perpetual cold. The forest guided them—the same ancient woodland that responded to our claiming, that bent branches to protect us during the Hunt, that seemed to breathe with awareness each time Wild Magic surged between Cadeyrn and me.
"You're different," Nessa observes, her gaze fixed on my transformation. "More like them now."
"Becoming something new," I correct, holding her gaze steadily. "Something neither human nor fae, but what both were meant to be before the division."
Silence falls over the reception hall, court nobles shifting uncomfortably at this explicit acknowledgment of my transformation. The three omegas exchange glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"Can we talk somewhere less... observed?" Flora asks, her violet eyes darting toward the watching nobles whose curiosity barely masks their unease.
Cadeyrn nods, a slight gesture that sends court staff into immediate motion. Within moments, the reception hall clears except for us, Lysandra, and two guards at the far entrance—too distant to overhear but present enough to respond if needed.
"Tell me everything," I say once we're alone. "How did you actually escape? The courts don't just let claimed omegas walk away. Especially those carrying new heirs."
The three share a glance, and Flora takes the lead. "The Wild Magic started spreading after the solstice. Something changed in the air, in the earth itself. Omegas throughout all four territories began developing cillae where none should exist. Abilities awakening that court breeding programs have suppressed for generations."
She extends her arm, pushing back her sleeve to reveal faint cillae spiraling beneath her skin. Not as vivid as mine, but unmistakably similar—and impossible according to court doctrine. The patterns hold elements of Spring magic—spiraling vines and unfurling leaves intermixed with Winter's geometric precision.
"I was being held in the Spring Court's breeding facility," she continues. "They had plans for my next cycle—specific alphas selected for 'genetic optimization.'" The clinical term falls from her lips with practiced ease, the vocabulary of her captors. "Then one morning, I woke up with these." She traces the floral patterns with a fingertip. "By nightfall, three other omegas in my section had developed similar markings."
"The courts panicked," Mira interjects, leaning forward with sudden animation. "Started locking down anyone showing patterns, running these awful tests with containment crystals that felt like being flayed alive, like they were trying to peel the magic out from under our skin."
Her voice carries the raw edge of personal experience, and I find myself reaching for her hand without thinking. The moment our skin connects, her elemental patterns brighten noticeably, spreading further up her arm in delicate spirals that echo my own but with distinctly spring-like qualities—gentle curves like unfurling leaves rather than winter's geometric precision.
"Holy shit," she gasps, staring at her arm. "That's never happened before."
The patterns continue to spread, growing more vivid where our skin touches. I feel something flowing between us—not power being drained or given, but somehow resonating, amplifying each other like striking similar notes on different instruments.
"The Wild Magic recognizes itself," Lysandra observes from where she stands near the door. "It awakens more fully in proximity to evolved vessels."
"That's why we found each other," Flora explains, excitement pushing through her usual careful reserve. "Somehow, we could sense others like us—omegas with emerging patterns. We started passing messages through the servant networks, sharing information about the changes, techniques for hiding the manifestations from court physicians."
"And escaping," I finish, understanding dawning like a blacksmith's hammer striking hot iron. "Finding each other and making a run for it."
The image of Lira flashes briefly in my mind—the musician omega I'd rescued from the Raveling Brothers with her bone flute that disrupted their synchronicity. I wonder if she made it to another sanctuary, if she's part of this emerging omega resistance.
"Seven of us made it out initially," Nessa adds, her voice neutral despite the implications of her words. "Following the forest's guidance and each other's emerging magic. Four were recaptured at the borders. The courts have tracking alphas trained specifically for reclaiming escaped omegas."
Something in her tone makes me study her more closely. There's an undertone to her voice that doesn't quite match her words—a note of... what? Regret? Hesitation? Calculation? Her gaze meets mine briefly before sliding away, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve like someone trying not to reveal a tell.
"Why here?" Cadeyrn asks, cillae shifting thoughtfully across his skin. "Why seek sanctuary with the Winter Court rather than hiding in the human villages?"
"Because of her," Mira says immediately, gesturing toward me. "The forest showed us glimpses—cillae glowing through ice walls, a throne transformed by wild colors, a woman with copper-and-silver hair carrying four lives filled with ancient magic."
The description sends a shiver through me like ice water down my spine. The forest showed them visions? The same ancient woodland that guided Cadeyrn and me through the Hunt, that created safe passages when court alphas pursued us, somehow projecting images to guide these escaped omegas?
"What exactly did you see?" I ask, hands unconsciously moving to protect my belly, the little ones shifting as if sensing my unease.
"Flashes, mostly," Mira explains, her brow furrowing with concentration. "Like dreams but while we were awake. A throne room transforming, ice melting into living color. You standing before a Winter Court noble, your hair part copper, part silver, cillae covering your skin."
"And four lights within you," Flora adds, her violet eyes dropping to my pregnant belly. "Four distinct magical signatures unlike anything the courts have seen before."
"Like the four elements," Nessa elaborates unexpectedly. "Fire, earth, air, water—all balanced within a single vessel."
The precision of her description chills me. Not even Lysandra has identified the distinct elemental nature of each quadruplet. How could these escaped omegas know what I've only begun to suspect myself?
"And the other courts?" I ask, pushing past my unease. "What do they know about these awakenings?"
"Everything," Flora answers grimly. "They're coordinating for the first time in centuries. Sharing information about affected omegas, pooling resources to develop new containment spells, sending joint hunting parties after escapees."
"The Autumn Court has developed specialized crystals that can detect emerging cillae even when they're not visible," Mira adds, hugging herself as if remembering pain. "The Summer Court has breeding facilities dedicated to studying omegas who show the earliest signs of awakening."
"And the Winter Court was supposed to be leading the research," Nessa says, eyes flicking to Cadeyrn. "Until Prince Cadeyrn broke with tradition and claimed you in the forest."
My gaze snaps to her at this detail—specific knowledge of our first claiming, something no ordinary escaped omega should possess. Cadeyrn tenses beside me, his cillae shifting into more defensive configurations.
I recall Lord Ember Farren confronting Cadeyrn on the ridge, accusing him of violating the Hunt's fundamental purpose through his exclusive claiming. The courts have been watching us, studying us, fearing what we represent since the beginning.
"Our group was nearly captured twice," Mira continues, oblivious to the sudden tension, placing her hand on her pregnant belly in an unconsciously protective gesture. "We only got away because the forest itself intervened—paths appearing where none existed before, branches entangling our pursuers."
"What do you want from us?" I ask, cutting to the heart of the matter. "Beyond immediate sanctuary."
"Help," Mira answers immediately, her hazel eyes meeting mine with surprising directness. "I keep setting things on fire when I'm scared. Flora's patterns actually make things grow sometimes. We don't know how to control any of this."
As if to demonstrate, she holds out her palm. A small flame flickers to life, dancing above her skin without burning her. "It just... happens. Especially when I'm frightened."
"Guidance," Flora elaborates more carefully. "Your transformation is the most advanced, the most complete. If there's a way to channel these abilities rather than being overwhelmed by them?—"
"And you?" I turn to Nessa, whose watchful silence concerns me more than the others' requests.
Her blue eyes hold mine for a long moment before she answers. "My alpha was... kinder than most. Said the other courts were wrong about Wild Magic, that it wasn't evil, just different." She glances at her hands, which show the faintest trace of emerging Summer Court patterns—golden whorls like heat signatures. "I want to believe him. I need to know what's happening to us—to me."
Something in her careful phrasing rings false, like metal with a hidden crack that will shatter under pressure. But her fear—that seems genuine enough. Not every omega would welcome these changes, especially after generations of court conditioning that taught us power isn't meant for our kind.
I exchange a look with Cadeyrn, a silent question passing between us. His cillae shift in response, a subtle language we've developed that speaks of caution mixed with possibility. Three more omegas showing signs of Wild Magic awakening could be valuable allies—or potentially dangerous liabilities.
"You can stay," I tell all three, making the decision despite the risks. Maybe it's reckless, maybe it's dangerous, but these women are me in another life—omegas trapped in a system designed to use them until they break. "All of you. For as long as you need."
Flora's violet eyes widen with undisguised relief. Mira launches herself at me in an impulsive hug that I return without thinking, feeling her cillae brighten further at the contact. Nessa simply nods once, sharp and assessing, her gaze still calculating behind her mask of gratitude.
"I'll see that quarters are prepared," Lysandra offers, already moving toward the door.
"Near the omega servants' wing," I specify, thinking of the cillae I've glimpsed on palace staff during court gatherings. "Where others like them are awakening."
As Lysandra departs to make arrangements, I step closer to the three omegas, close enough to speak without fear of the distant guards overhearing.
"The magic you're experiencing isn't accidental," I tell them, keeping my voice low. "It's returning to what it should have been all along, before the courts divided and controlled it. Before omegas were reduced to vessels rather than equal participants in the Wild Hunt."
"The original purpose," Flora murmurs, recognition lighting her violet eyes. "Not a breeding program but a balanced ritual that transformed both alpha and omega."
"Yes," I confirm, a surge of unexpected emotion rising within me. Here are three women who might actually understand what's happening—who are experiencing their own versions of the transformation that has reshaped me from village blacksmith to something ancient and new. "The Wild Magic remembers what the courts have spent centuries making us forget—that true power comes from balance, not dominance; from connection, not control."
Mira's hand finds mine again, her patterns brightening with each passing moment. "So it's not dangerous? We're not becoming monsters?"
The naked fear in her young voice breaks something in me. How thoroughly the courts have poisoned even their victims against their own potential.
"The only monsters are the ones who made you believe that power in an omega's hands is unnatural," I tell her, squeezing her fingers gently. "What's happening to you—to all of us—is our birthright reclaiming itself."
As I speak, I notice Nessa watching our exchange with an intensity that seems deeper than mere interest. Her gaze keeps shifting to Cadeyrn, assessing, calculating, as if measuring something only she can see.
"You should rest," I tell them, suddenly aware of how truly exhausted they appear beneath the excitement of discovery. "You're safe here. Tomorrow we can start figuring out how to control these new abilities."
As they follow a returned Lysandra toward their assigned quarters, I catch Nessa looking back over her shoulder, her expression unreadable in the shifting light of the reception hall. Something about her gaze leaves me uneasy, a sensation like a knife hovering at my back.
Later, in our private chambers, Cadeyrn paces while I sit by the window, watching cillae form and dissolve across the glass in response to my proximity.
"We should have questioned them more thoroughly," he says, cillae shifting restlessly across his skin. "Especially the farm girl. Her story doesn't align with what we know of the Summer Court's treatment of failed breeding stock."
"Nessa," I correct him, unwilling to strip her identity even while acknowledging my own suspicions. "And yes, something's off. But we couldn't exactly interrogate them after they came seeking sanctuary."
"Why not?" His eyes flash, momentarily more predator than prince. "These are dangerous times, Briar. The courts unite against us, our allies are few, and suddenly three omegas appear with tales of forest guidance and magical visions?"
"Omegas I knew from the Hunt," I remind him. "Omegas I helped."
"Which makes them perfect tools to use against you." He stops pacing, cillae stabilizing as he brings himself under control. "Your compassion is both your greatest strength and your most exploitable weakness."
The assessment stings because it's true. I've survived by calculation and strategic thinking, yet I've always risked everything to help others—disguising myself as Willow to save my dying friend, creating diversions to help other omegas escape during the Hunt, even returning to the Vale of Culling to confront the horror of what Cadeyrn authorized.
"What would you have me do?" I ask. "Turn them away? Execute them based on suspicion?"
"No." He comes to sit beside me, cillae reaching toward mine where our skin nearly touches. "But we can be vigilant. We can watch without seeming to watch. Especially now, with the babes so close to arrival."
His hand rests on my belly, where the little ones shift in response to his touch. Four distinct movements, four elements seeking balance. Through our bond, I sense his fierce protective instinct, an alpha preparing to defend his offspring—but tempered now with the strategic mind of a prince who has survived centuries of court intrigue.
"Flora and Mira seem genuine," I say, covering his hand with mine. "Their reactions, their awakening patterns—I can feel the Wild Magic responding in them."
"And Nessa?"
I hesitate. "There's something she's not telling us. Whether it's danger or simply fear, I can't be certain."
"Then we watch her most carefully." His fingers thread through mine, cillae merging where our skin meets. "While we prepare for what's coming."
What's coming. The allied courts gathering at our borders. The birth of our children. The next phase of transformation for the Wild Magic that flows through us both.
I lean against him, drawing strength from his solidity beside me. "Something bigger is happening, isn't it? Beyond just us and our transformation?"
"Yes." His voice is thoughtful, his gaze distant as if seeing beyond the chamber walls. "The awakening omegas, the forest's intervention, the courts' unprecedented alliance against us. The Wild Magic isn't just returning to us—it's spreading, reclaiming what was divided centuries ago."
"And we're the catalyst." The realization settles in my bones like molten metal taking shape. "The blacksmith's apprentice who refused to be a victim. The Winter Prince who broke seven centuries of control."
"The vessels for something ancient returning." His arm slides around me, protective yet acknowledging my strength rather than attempting to shield it. "Something the courts have feared since they first divided the magic and enslaved omegas to control it."
Through the window, the crimson moon rises over the Winter Court. Two days until the babes arrive, according to Lysandra. Two days to prepare for a birth that will either destroy everything—or remake it entirely.
"We should have Lysandra examine them," I say, practical instincts surfacing through uncertainty. "Assess their abilities, verify their pregnancies, ensure they aren't carrying anything... unexpected into the palace."
"Agreed." Cadeyrn nods, his tactical mind aligning with mine. "And I'll have the guards watch their movements, disguised as protection rather than surveillance."
"The palace itself might help us," I add, watching cillae shift across the ceiling in response to our conversation. "It seems... aware of threats now."
As if confirming my observation, the very walls of our chamber pulse with subtle patterns, frost configurations becoming more intricate, more alert. The stone beneath us feels alive, responsive to our presence in ways that both comfort and unsettle.
"Two days," Cadeyrn murmurs, fingers tracing patterns across my belly where the little ones move beneath his touch. "Two days until everything changes."
"Again," I add with a wry smile. "Seems like everything's been changing since I swapped places with Willow and entered the Hunt wearing someone else's face."
His answering smile carries both pride and wonder. "The omega who refused her fate, who hunted back, who awakened Wild Magic from seven centuries of slumber." His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. "Who remade a Winter Prince in her image."
"Remade us both," I correct him, leaning into his touch. "Into something neither of us could have imagined."
Outside our window, the crimson moon bathes the Winter Court in blood-red light—the same moon that witnessed our first claiming in the forest, that has watched over each transformation since. Two days until our children arrive. Two days to prepare for whatever comes next.
And somewhere in the palace, three awakening omegas whose arrival might herald ally or threat—or both. But for tonight, in this moment, I allow myself to lean into Cadeyrn's strength, to draw comfort from the Wild Magic flowing between us, binding us together against whatever comes.
For tonight, at least, we are not alone.
Table of Contents
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