Page 53

CHAPTER 53

POV: Briar

Morning light fractures through ice walls like shattered promises, casting prismatic shadows across my chambers. I trace cillae across my swollen belly, watching them pulse with four distinct rhythms. Each beat corresponds to one of the little ones growing within me—these impossible lives that shouldn't exist according to centuries of court doctrine.

That's when I notice it again—the whispering.

Since our claiming in the throne room, the Winter Palace has developed a voice. Not words exactly, but intentions that vibrate through crystalline surfaces. Warning. Welcoming. Watching. Alive in ways that defy explanation. I press my palm against the nearest wall and feel it respond like a living thing, ice warming beneath my touch in a way that contradicts natural laws.

"What are you trying to tell me?" I murmur.

The wall pulses beneath my fingers, cillae spiraling outward in response to my question. A connection I would have dismissed as impossible before Wild Magic rewrote everything I thought I knew. The patterns form a trail leading down the corridor, fading and reappearing like breadcrumbs guiding me forward.

I follow, one hand cradling my belly where the four little ones stir restlessly. Their magic mingles with mine, separate yet connected, each already showing distinct affinities that shouldn't manifest until birth. The Wild Magic flows through all of us, binding us together while simultaneously asserting their individuality.

The palace guides me through frost-adorned corridors toward the omega wing where Flora, Mira, and Nessa have been housed since their arrival yesterday. Their quarters connect to the servants' section where other awakened omegas reside—a deliberate arrangement on Cadeyrn's part. Proximity spreads the Wild Magic like a controlled contagion, each awakened omega strengthening those around them.

The ice wall pulses more insistently as I approach their chambers, cillae spiraling outward with unmistakable agitation. Something's wrong. The warning crawls across my skin, raising gooseflesh along my arms. It reminds me of the forge when metal heats beyond its tolerance point—that moment before catastrophic failure when everything goes too still.

I hesitate outside their door, pressing my ear against the surface. Silence. Too complete to be natural. The absence of sound in a palace that has recently discovered its voice feels like a void where life should exist.

"Flora?" I call, rapping my knuckles against the frame. "Mira?"

Nothing answers but the hollow echo of my own voice.

The door swings open at my touch, releasing a complex bouquet of scents that my transformed senses parse instinctively. Unfamiliar omega. Fear—acrid and sharp. Determination—a bitter undertone like burnt metal. And beneath it all, something I recognize from the Hunt—the faint, distinctive musk of a Summer Court alpha.

The common area appears meticulously ordered—beds made, personal belongings arranged with the precision of people accustomed to regular inspections. Everything placed just so, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for someone to notice what's wrong.

I move methodically through the space, checking each bedchamber in turn, muscle memory from forging complex pieces guiding my search pattern. Flora's room contains precisely folded court-provided clothing and a small notebook filled with magical theory written in an educated hand—her violet eyes translating to careful, analytical script. The organized chaos of someone who thinks deeply, connects disparate elements, and records those connections for future reference.

Mira's chamber bears witness to her youth despite everything she's endured. Childlike attempts to recreate cillae decorate scraps of paper, drawn with charcoal that's smudged her fingertips. Her innocence somehow preserved like a pressed flower between the pages of uglier truths. The Hound's claiming marks still stand livid against her throat, but she's made herself something here—a space of her own within the cold walls of the Winter Palace.

Nessa's room is different. Bare. Too bare. Like someone intentionally removed all personal traces. No sign of the practical farm girl whose strength helped her survive The Collector's brutal claiming. No sign of the omega who miscarried in that haven, her thighs painted red with blood and loss as I walked past, too caught up in my own survival to offer comfort. No sign of the woman who thanked me with tears in her eyes when I gave her an iron token in the tent before the Hunt began.

A faint shimmer catches my eye—a distortion in the air near her perfectly made bed. Most would miss it entirely, but my altered vision picks up the subtle wrongness, like heat rippling above metal fresh from the forge. I reach toward it, and my fingers encounter resistance, like pushing through congealed blood. Magic. Not just any concealment spell, but something far more sophisticated than the crude glamour I used to disguise myself as Willow.

Court-level concealment.

I press harder, forcing my hand through the barrier. The magic fights back, cold then scorching hot against my skin as it recognizes me as intruder. My fingertips brush something cold and metallic. I close my hand around it and pull, breaking the spell with a sound like shattering bone.

A communication token.

The size of my palm, intricately etched with Summer Court sigils—stylized rays of golden light surrounding a central crystal that pulses with warm, golden light. Court alphas use these to track their claimed omegas, to communicate across distances, to maintain control even when physically separated. I've only seen them in use once before, when a noble Summer Court alpha used one to call others to join in claiming a young girl from my village seven years ago.

The Collector's mark is unmistakable—a stylized hand clutching a small bone—etched into the metal with sickening precision. His personal signature, confirming ownership. Branding his claimed property even when it's out of sight.

"Fuck," I breathe, turning the token over in my hands.

The crystal at its center throbs with increasing urgency, as if aware it's been discovered. I close my fingers around it, feeling the heat of summer magic fight against my winter-cool skin. Like grasping a coal fresh from the forge, it burns—not with physical heat but with magical antipathy, two opposing forces recognizing their natural enemy.

Frost spreads from my fingertips across the surface of the token, fighting against its summer nature. The metal groans under the conflicting magics like stressed metal about to fracture. The quadruplets respond inside me, their magic surging in protective waves that concentrate around my hands, strengthening my frost against the Summer Court magic.

The door opens behind me. I whirl, token clutched in my fist, to find Flora standing in the doorway. Her violet eyes—marker of generations of selective breeding for visual perfection—widen at the sight of what I'm holding.

"Briar," she says, her voice carefully neutral despite the alarm flaring in her scent. "I was looking for you."

"Funny," I reply, holding up the token. "I found something interesting first."

She freezes, eyes fixed on the pulsing crystal in my hand. Her perfect composure—the result of years of specialized training to please court alphas—cracks at the edges. A muscle twitches in her jaw. Her fingers flex and curl at her sides.

"That's not mine," she says finally.

"I know. It was in Nessa's room. Hidden under a concealment spell." I step closer, watching her reaction like studying metal in a forge—looking for signs of weakness, for the moment before something yields. "What I don't know is why a supposedly escaped omega would have a fully functional communication token linked to The Collector."

Flora's careful composure fractures slightly at the name, a flicker of raw terror crossing her face before she masters herself again. Her scent spikes with momentary fear—the instinctive response of someone who understands exactly what that name means—before settling back into careful neutrality.

"She claimed he'd never found her," she says quietly. "That she'd been claimed by a minor Summer alpha, not... him."

"She lied." The words fall between us like hammer blows.

I watch fury and betrayal replace fear in Flora's expression. The violet of her eyes darkens as her pupils expand, cillae that were barely visible along her collarbones flaring to life in response to strong emotion.

She glances over her shoulder as if checking that we're alone, then closes the door behind her. "I suspected something wasn't right," she admits, her body language shifting from court-trained grace to something more defensive. "The nightmares. The way she'd go silent whenever certain courts were mentioned. How she knew details about palace architecture that shouldn't be common knowledge."

"Elaborate." The word comes out like hammer striking anvil, frost coating my fingers where they clutch the token.

"He collects things from his claimed omegas," Flora explains, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Hair, small bones, personal tokens. Arranges them in this disturbing shrine at Summer Court."

She wraps her arms around herself, a protective gesture that breaks through her careful training. "I lived there for a time, before the breeding program transferred me to the central facility. His collection chamber was off-limits, but rumors spread. Omegas who'd seen inside described display cases with hundreds of items—finger bones in crystal jars, braids of hair arranged in patterns, baby teeth set in gold."

A shudder passes through her, genuine and uncontrolled. "Omegas who especially please him contribute larger... specimens. The ones who try to escape contribute the most."

My mind conjures unwanted images based on her description—display cases of carefully preserved omega parts, arranged with aesthetic precision. The memory surfaces from whispered stories during the Hunt—The Collector moving through the forest with methodical patience, tracking omegas not through strength but through relentless, calculating pursuit.

I barely escaped him then, counting myself lucky that I didn't see him again after giving him the slip near the western stream. Now I wonder if that luck was something else entirely—if he'd found other, more accessible prey.

Guilt cuts through me, sharp and immediate. The bloodied omega in the haven—Nessa weeping silent tears while fighting through an alpha-triggered miscarriage. Her thighs painted red, her face white as bone, her eyes empty as she stared at nothing. I'd kept my distance, focused on my own survival, offering no comfort. If I'd reached out instead...

"She had nightmares," Flora continues, dragging me back to the present. "Would wake screaming about 'completing the set.' I thought it was trauma from escaping the courts."

Her violet eyes fix on the token. "Now I see she never escaped at all."

The token pulses more urgently in my grip, its golden light fighting against the frost crawling across its surface. I feel the Summer Court magic within it reaching outward, sending signals, reporting its location. Each pulse brings a fresh surge of revulsion—the feeling of being watched from afar, of The Collector sensing his property through the magical connection.

"Where is she now?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Gone. She disappeared during the night." Flora's expression hardens. "Mira is helping the awakened omegas practice their manifestations, but Nessa..." She shakes her head. "I woke and she simply wasn't here. Her bed hadn't been slept in."

Icy dread pools in my stomach, churning against the quadruplets' restless movement. This isn't just a security breach. This is active betrayal by one of the very omegas I tried to help during the Hunt. The farm girl I gave an iron token to, encouraging her to have hope, never imagining she'd end up as part of The Collector's prized possessions.

Or that she'd return as his willing instrument.

"And you didn't think to mention your suspicions yesterday? When I was deciding whether to grant you sanctuary?" My voice drops dangerously low, cillae flaring across my skin with barely controlled anger.

"Would you have turned us away?" Flora challenges, straightening her spine in a gesture that reminds me of our conversations during the Hunt—her practicality cutting through fear. "Left Mira to the court hunters? Left me? Because one of us might be compromised?"

The question lands like a hammer blow against hot metal, reshaping my anger into something else—because she's right. I wouldn't have abandoned them regardless of risk. Couldn't have. The same protective instinct that drove me to enter the Hunt disguised as Willow would never allow me to turn away omegas seeking help, even with suspicions.

"Fuck," I mutter, staring at the token still fighting against my frost-encased grip. "How much does she know?"

Flora's expression turns grim. "Everything we've seen since arriving. The palace defenses. The awakened omegas. The preparations for your labor."

My blood runs cold. "The birth chambers?"

She nods once, sharp and definitive. "She insisted on a complete tour yesterday. Said she wanted to understand the 'safeguards' in place for when our time came." Her mouth twists bitterly. "Later, I found her studying the guard rotations, memorizing them. She claimed it was to feel safer, to know when to expect patrols."

My blood turns to slush, cillae flaring along my arms as the quadruplets respond to my alarm with protective magic. The birth chambers—our elaborate decoy, the public plan designed to misdirect court spies while we prepare the throne room as the true birthing location. If Nessa has reported their defenses, their vulnerabilities...

"We need to find Cadeyrn. Now." I crush the communication token in my fist, frost magic shattering the crystal at its core.

Golden light spills between my fingers like pus from a lanced wound, dissipating in wisps of summer-warm magic that leave blisters on my winter-transformed skin. The sensation is like plunging a heated metal rod into cold water—the violent reaction of opposing elements, the release of energy as balance reasserts itself.

Flora follows as I stride from the chambers, frost trailing in my wake across the floor, walls responding to my agitation with answering patterns that pulse with warning. The palace itself seems to understand the threat, corridors reshaping subtly to speed our passage, doors opening before we reach them.

"The birth chambers were already a decoy," I explain as we hurry through corridors that seem to rearrange themselves to speed our passage. "But if she's reported their specific defenses, the allied courts will know exactly how to breach them. What counter-spells to prepare."

"The Collector wouldn't just send her for information," Flora says, her voice tight with knowledge born from generations of selective breeding for court preferences. "He never lets go of what he considers his. He sent her to find something worth adding to his collection."

The implication sends a wave of nausea through me, bile rising in my throat as instinctive protective fury surges through my blood. "Me. Or more likely, one of my children."

My hand moves to my belly where the quadruplets shift restlessly, each responding differently to my emotional state—one settling as if trying to comfort, another pushing outward as if preparing to fight, the third turning rapidly as if seeking better position, the fourth going ominously still as if hiding. Already individuals despite sharing the same womb, already developing distinct responses to threat.

Flora's silence is confirmation enough. The palace walls pulse with answering rage, cillae spiraling outward from where my fingertips brush against them, the entire structure responding to my emotional state like some massive, wounded beast preparing to defend its territory.

We find Cadeyrn in the grand strategy room surrounded by court nobles and military advisors. Maps cover the central table—detailed renderings of the palace, the surrounding territories, the positioned forces of all four courts. Intelligence reports stacked in neat piles at various points mark enemy troop movements, infiltration attempts, supply lines.

He looks up as we enter, cillae along his jaw pulsing in immediate response to my agitation. Seven centuries of perfect control still evident in how quickly he masks his initial reaction, but the bond between us transmits what his face doesn't show—alarm, protective rage, and beneath it, something I've rarely sensed from him: fear.

"What's happened?" he asks, stepping away from the war council without ceremony.

I hold out my frost-burned palm, the shattered remains of the communication token still smoking with conflicting magic. "Nessa. She was carrying this. Hidden under concealment magic in her quarters. She's gone."

His expression shifts from concern to cold, calculated rage in an instant. Frost patterns across his transformed body flare with deadly intensity, the temperature around him dropping so rapidly that nearby glasses of water freeze solid. The nobles retreat a step, unconsciously giving space to an apex predator preparing to strike.

"The Collector's mark," he observes, recognizing the stylized hand-and-bone sigil immediately. "She was his."

"And she toured the birth chambers yesterday," I add, watching the implications sink in. "Studied the guard rotations, the defenses, everything."

Instead of the explosion I half-expected, Cadeyrn's face reveals only a fleeting smile—predatory and knowing. Like a hunter watching prey walk into a perfectly laid trap.

"Good," he says, turning back to the strategy table. "Then everything proceeds as planned."

I blink, momentarily thrown by his response. "Good? She's betrayed us, revealed our defenses, potentially compromised everything we've been preparing for."

"She's revealed exactly what we wanted court spies to see," he corrects, gesturing me closer to the maps. "The elaborate defenses around birth chambers that are nothing but an attractive target, designed to draw enemy forces exactly where we want them."

He traces a finger along one map, indicating troop positions I hadn't noticed before—Winter Court forces strategically positioned in seemingly unrelated locations that suddenly form a coherent pattern when viewed in relation to the birth chambers.

"A killing field," I murmur, understanding dawning like ice forming on still water. "You were expecting this."

"I expected one," he confirms, cillae settling into more controlled rhythms. "The courts would never allow omegas to escape without at least one carrying a method to report back. Especially not The Collector, who's known for his possessiveness. What I didn't anticipate was how quickly she would make her move."

"The courts are desperate," Flora offers, keeping a respectful distance from the strategy table. "The omega awakenings are spreading faster than they can contain. Our escape was one of many in recent weeks."

She drops her gaze momentarily, a gesture of deference from court training she hasn't fully shed. "From what I overheard before escaping, the Summer Court alone has lost nearly thirty omegas in the past month. The Autumn Court closer to fifty."

Cadeyrn nods, his attention returning to the detailed map of the palace. "We need to accelerate our timeline. If Nessa has already fled with information about our defenses, the allied forces will attack sooner than we anticipated."

"How much sooner?" I ask, one hand automatically moving to my belly where the quadruplets shift with growing strength, one particularly active one—the fire-aligned one, I suspect—kicking against my palm as if eager for battle.

"Tomorrow," he says simply. "Perhaps the day after if we're fortunate."

My breath catches. The babies aren't due for another day and a half according to Lysandra's last examination. Not that Wild Magic has respected any natural timeline so far, but still—cutting it close enough to make my skin crawl with anxiety.

"Then we need to strengthen the throne room preparations," I decide, focusing on practicalities rather than fear. "And continue making the birth chambers look like our primary focus."

"Exactly." Cadeyrn turns to the assembled nobles, his voice shifting to the unmistakable command of the Winter Prince—the authority he's wielded for centuries now focused entirely on protecting what's his. "Double the visible guards at the birth chambers. Make it obvious. I want every court spy to see us reinforcing what appears to be our last defensive position."

The nobles snap into motion, cillae brightening across ceremonial armor and formal attire as they rush to execute his orders. I watch them move with military precision—these aristocrats who once would have viewed me as nothing but breeding stock now responding to strategies designed to protect me and my unborn children.

Life is fucking strange sometimes.

"What about the other omegas?" Flora asks, her practical mind already calculating ripple effects. "Those awakening throughout the palace? And Mira?"

"They need to know what's coming," I say before Cadeyrn can answer. "They deserve the chance to choose whether to stay and fight or seek safety."

He studies me for a moment, something like pride flickering behind his ice-blue eyes. "I agree. Lady Lysandra has prepared evacuation routes through the ancient tunnels beneath the palace. Those who wish to leave can be guided to sanctuary beyond court territories."

"And those who stay?" Flora presses, her violet eyes reflecting genuine concern for her fellow omegas.

"Will be given whatever protection we can offer," Cadeyrn promises, "and whatever training can be compressed into the time remaining." He glances toward a set of maps on the far side of the table—older, hand-drawn renderings showing tunnels that don't appear on the official palace plans. "No omega who wishes to escape will be forcibly kept here for defense."

Flora nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "I'll help spread the word through the servant networks. The awakened omegas have already established their own communication channels through the palace." She hesitates, then adds with quiet fury, "And I'll make sure they know to watch for The Collector specifically."

As she departs on this mission, I turn my attention back to the shattered remains of the communication token in my palm. My skin has already begun healing from the summer magic burns, cillae knitting together damaged tissue with visible efficiency. Another gift of my transformation—accelerated healing that would have been useful during my blacksmith days when burns and cuts were daily currency.

"Do you think destroying this was enough?" I ask Cadeyrn, closing my fingers around the token's remains. "Or has the damage already been done?"

"The damage was inevitable," he replies with the pragmatism born from seven centuries of court strategy. "But now we control when and where it manifests."

I can't argue with his assessment, though it does little to ease the knot of anxiety taking up permanent residence between my ribs. The quadruplets respond to my emotional state with increased movement, four distinct magical signatures flaring beneath my skin—warmth, solidity, lightness, and flowing coolness intertwining as they mirror ancient elements.

"The Collector doesn't just want information," I say quietly, voicing the fear Flora's words planted. "He wants a trophy. Something for his collection."

Cadeyrn's cillae darken to nearly black at my words, temperature around him dropping so rapidly that ice crystals form in the air, floating like deadly stars. "He will never touch you or our children," he promises, his voice carrying the same deadly certainty I heard when he executed Lord Frostbaine before the entire court. "If he attempts it, what I did to the Raveling Brothers will seem merciful by comparison."

The memory of what he did to those Autumn Court twins during the Hunt—their dismembered remains arranged in a warning pattern—should disturb me. Instead, I find dark comfort in the promise of violence against anyone who would threaten our children. Something primal and protective in me responds to his vow with savage agreement.

"Come," Cadeyrn says, offering his hand. "Let's see what progress has been made in the throne room."

The throne room has continued its transformation since our claiming two days ago. What was once the perfect expression of Winter Court isolation—all precise angles and sterile surfaces—now pulses with vibrant life. The walls breathe. The ceiling opens partially to the sky above, revealing an expanse of arctic blue pierced by sunlight that wouldn't have penetrated the original structure. The floor ripples subtly with magic that responds to our footsteps like thin ice over deep water.

I feel the transformation in my bones, the resonance between my altered body and this awakening space. The ancient magic that flows through me—enhanced by the four distinct signatures of the children I carry—reaches outward to connect with the palace's awakening consciousness.

The throne itself has changed most dramatically. No longer the stark symbol of singular Winter power, but something wilder, truer. Ice veined with living color that shifts like slow lightning beneath the surface—spring green, summer gold, autumn amber all flowing through winter frost in perfect balance. The manifestation of what our children represent—the unification of magic that hasn't occurred in millennia.

Lysandra meets us at the entrance, her formal healer's robes replaced by more practical attire that allows freedom of movement. The traditionalist court physician I first met has gone, replaced by someone who moves with newfound purpose, cillae visible along her temples where none existed before.

"The preparations advance well," she reports, leading us toward the dais where the throne awaits. "The ancient containment patterns have been restored according to the original specifications we found in the archives."

I can see what she means. The floor surrounding the throne bears elaborate cillae that weren't there yesterday—concentric circles of magical formulae etched into the ice itself, spiraling outward from the central seat of power. These aren't the rigid geometric designs of Winter Court magic, but something older, more organic in form. Circles that resemble the rings of ancient trees, spirals that echo patterns found in nature, flowing lines that suggest movement like rivers returning to their source.

"Will it work?" I ask, unable to keep the doubt from my voice as I study the complex patterns. "The failsafe hasn't been tested in what—centuries? Millennia?"

"Wild Magic remembers," Lysandra answers with surprising confidence for a woman trained in court medicine. "The patterns respond to your presence already. See how they brighten as you approach?"

She's right. The frost designs pulse with increasing luminosity as I step closer to the throne, responding to the quadruplets' magical signatures like a predator scenting prey. With each step, the patterns grow more defined, colors deepening within the ice—green, gold, amber, and blue intertwining in fractals that mimic the patterns spreading across my skin.

"And Cadeyrn's blood will activate the stasis field," she continues, gesturing to specific symbols within the larger pattern. "Creating a protective bubble around you and the children during the most vulnerable moments of birth. The magical discharge will be contained and channeled rather than exploding outward destructively."

It sounds perfect in theory. In practice...well, magic rarely follows neat theoretical models, especially Wild Magic that exists specifically to counter court control. The last time Wild Magic surged uncontrolled was during our first claiming beneath the blackthorn tree, when reality itself seemed to warp around us, flowers blooming out of season and the forest bending to impossible shapes.

"And if something goes wrong?" I press, needing to hear contingencies spoken aloud. "If The Collector makes it past our defenses? If the courts attack before labor begins?"

Lysandra and Cadeyrn exchange a glance that does nothing for my confidence.

"Then we improvise," he says finally, cillae pulsing along his jaw. "The Wild Magic has guided us this far. We trust it will continue to do so."

Trust. Such a small word for such an enormous leap of faith. I trace one hand over my swollen belly, feeling the quadruplets respond with gentle movement. Four lives depending on ancient magic, untested theories, and our desperate hope that we've interpreted everything correctly.

"There's something else you should see," Lysandra says, guiding us toward a side chamber that opens directly off the throne room—a space I hadn't noticed during previous visits.

Inside, I find something unexpected. Omegas—at least a dozen of them, palace servants judging by their attire—practicing. Not serving or cleaning or any of the tasks traditionally assigned to their caste, but actually practicing magic. Frost patterns spiral across their skin as they concentrate, some managing to crystallize air into small ice formations, others creating protected spaces with defensive frost barriers.

"They've been training since the solstice," Lysandra explains, watching my stunned expression with satisfaction. "Those who showed the strongest awakening responses. They've volunteered to help defend the throne room during your labor."

My throat tightens as I watch a young woman—barely more than a girl—create a perfect sphere of protective frost around herself, her expression intent with concentration. The effortless authority with which she manifests what should be impossible according to court doctrine makes something flutter in my chest—hope, mixed with fierce pride.

"This is..." Words fail me as I struggle to articulate what I'm witnessing.

"Revolution," Cadeyrn finishes for me, his voice carrying a note of wonder I've rarely heard from him. "The beginning of what the courts have feared for centuries. Omegas reclaiming power that was rightfully theirs."

I move among them, watching their practice with growing amazement. Their cillae brighten noticeably as I approach, Wild Magic recognizing itself across vessels, strengthening through proximity. Several demonstrate abilities that would have been considered impossible according to court doctrine—frost shields capable of deflecting magical attacks, controlled ice formations that respond to emotional direction rather than rigid formulas.

One creates frost daggers that dissolve and reform at will. Another weaves a complex barrier that ripples like silk while remaining hard as steel. A third—perhaps the most impressive—manipulates a sphere of pure crystalline ice between her palms, compressing and expanding it without a word or gesture, controlled by thought alone.

Mira stands among them, her hazel eyes brightening when she spots me. Unlike the other omegas whose affinity aligns with winter, her cillae incorporate hints of spring green—her natural court alignment showing through even as she works with borrowed magic.

"Briar! Look what I can do now!" she calls, creating a tiny ice blossom that actually maintains its form rather than immediately dissolving. "The other omegas have been teaching me. I'm not very good yet, but?—"

"You're doing beautifully," I tell her, genuinely impressed by her progress in just one day. Her natural spring affinity should make working with winter magic more difficult, yet the delicate ice flower in her palm shows remarkable control. "Have you seen Flora?"

Her expression clouds slightly. "She came by earlier, said something about Nessa being gone. Is everything okay?"

I hesitate, torn between protecting her innocence—what little remains after everything she's endured—and being honest about the danger we face. She notices my hesitation, straightening her spine with determined dignity despite her youth.

"I'm not a child, Briar," she says, the flower in her palm crystallizing into something sharper, more defined. "Not anymore. Not since The Hound claimed me."

My chest tightens at her words—the truth in them, the resignation and hard-won maturity they contain. She deserves honesty, not protective lies.

"Nessa wasn't who she claimed to be," I say finally, watching understanding dawn in her young eyes. "She was still connected to her alpha. The Collector."

Fear flashes across her face—the terror of every omega who's heard whispers of his obsessive trophy-taking, his elaborate collection of items from claimed omegas arranged in disturbing shrine at Summer Court. Then her expression hardens, cillae along her arms brightening with defensive magic.

"He's coming, isn't he?" she asks, her voice suddenly small despite her attempt at bravery. "For us. For you."

"The courts are coming," I correct, not wanting to focus on just one threat when we face so many. "But we're preparing. That's what all this is for." I gesture to the practicing omegas around us.

Her fear transforms into something harder, more determined. "Then I need to practice more," she says, her cillae brightening with renewed purpose. "I want to help protect the little ones."

Her simple courage humbles me. This girl—barely seventeen, pregnant with an alpha's child she never asked for, powers awakening she never expected—thinks not of her own safety but of protecting my children.

"Will it be enough?" I ask quietly, returning to Cadeyrn's side as we watch the practicing omegas.

"Against the combined might of three allied courts?" He doesn't sugarcoat the reality. "No. But it doesn't need to be. We only need to hold long enough for the failsafe to activate, for the birth to complete."

"And after?"

His hand finds mine, cillae synchronizing where our skin connects. The familiar sensation of our bond strengthening floods through me—the warmth beneath the cold, the undercurrent of belonging that even my anger at the Vale of Culling couldn't permanently sever.

"After, everything changes. One way or another."

We return to the throne room proper, where preparations continue with increasing urgency. The ancient patterns etched into the floor glow brighter as more magic is channeled into them. The throne itself seems to pulse with anticipation, responding to the quadruplets' magical signatures as if recognizing its own purpose after centuries of dormancy.

"It's really going to happen," I murmur, the reality finally settling into my bones. "Tomorrow or the next day."

Four lives entering a world that has spent centuries trying to prevent their existence. Birth amidst battle, new life emerging while enemies attempt to destroy everything we've built. The weight of it should crush me, should drive me to my knees with fear and uncertainty.

"Yes," Cadeyrn agrees, his transformed frame radiating controlled power beside me. "Everything we've prepared for. Everything the courts have feared."

I should be terrified. Should be overcome with anxiety about all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong. Instead, a strange calm settles over me as I watch the preparations unfold. The awakened omegas practicing their newfound abilities. The ancient patterns glowing with increasing strength. The throne transformed beyond recognition by our claiming.

We've done everything possible to prepare. Created elaborate decoys to misdirect enemy forces. Restored ancient protections designed specifically for royal births during times of crisis. Awakened allies the courts never anticipated.

If Nessa's betrayal leads to attack sooner than expected, we'll face it. If The Collector comes seeking trophies for his disturbing collection, he'll find I'm not so easily added to his shrine. If the allied courts bring weapons designed specifically to combat Wild Magic, we'll counter them. If the birth triggers magical discharge beyond what the failsafe can contain...well, we'll deal with that too.

For now, watching cillae spread across the floor in elaborate designs that pulse with the combined heartbeats of the four lives within me, I allow myself to believe.

We might actually pull this off.