Page 54

CHAPTER 54

POV: Briar

Nightfall feels different after Nessa's betrayal. The Winter Palace no longer sleeps. Instead, it seems to breathe with renewed urgency—inhaling defensive magic, exhaling preparatory fury. Frost patterns spread across walls faster than before, brighter, like veins carrying Wild Magic through the palace's very bones. The structure itself seems to understand what's coming.

I stand at our chamber window, tracing my fingers along intricate ice formations. They respond to my touch with flares of color I couldn't have imagined when I first arrived—spring green, summer gold, autumn amber, all rushing beneath winter blue like blood through opened veins. The night sky beyond the glass hangs heavy with stars, their cold light revealing distant movement at the tree line. Court scouts. Preparing.

"You're thinking too loudly," Cadeyrn says from the bed, his bare chest illuminated by pulsing cillae that cast ghostly blue shadows across the chamber.

I don't turn, keeping my eyes fixed on the distant forest edge. "Someone has to," I reply, fingers still moving along the responding frost. "Three allied courts gathering at our borders, a spy who knows our hidden defenses, and The Collector himself hunting for trophies from my body." My hand moves instinctively to my belly, where the four little ones shift restlessly beneath my skin. "Not to mention these Wild Magic vessels who could decide to arrive at the worst possible moment."

In the frosted window glass, I catch my own reflection—a woman I barely recognize. The copper-haired blacksmith from Thornwick has transformed into something not quite human, not fully fae. Pointed ears peek through silver-threaded hair. Amber eyes now contain fractals of ice blue. My skin, once marked with forge burns and calluses, now bears intricate cillae that pulse with four distinct rhythms that match the lives growing within me.

The transformation that began during my unexpected heat has accelerated everything, leaving my skin constantly warm despite the Winter Court's perpetual chill. My newly pointed ears detect sounds that would have been impossible in my human form—the whisper of frost forming on distant windows, the subtle creaks of the palace shifting its defenses, the heartbeats of the quadruplets, each with its own distinct rhythm.

"Come to bed," Cadeyrn says, his voice gentler than I'm used to hearing from the former Winter Prince. Something has shifted between us since the throne room claiming—a vulnerability now visible in quiet moments like this, as if the Wild Magic stripped away more than just his physical form.

I stand motionless, unable to set aside the practical concerns that have kept me alive since childhood. "The escape paths for the awakened omegas?—"

"Are complete," he finishes. "Lysandra has established safe routes through the ancient tunnels. Those who choose to leave will have clear passage beyond court territories. The supplies are positioned at three-mile intervals as you suggested."

"The birth chamber defenses?—"

"Deliberately obvious, as planned." A hint of that predatory smile crosses his face, visible in the window's reflection. "The allies will find exactly the trap we've laid for them."

"And the throne room?—"

"Ready." His reflection rises from the bed, moving toward me with the fluid grace of something no longer bound by ordinary constraints. Frost patterns extend from his fingertips toward me, brilliant blue shot through with other elemental colors. "As ready as it can be. Now come to bed, Briar. Whatever tomorrow brings, we face it stronger after rest."

The logic is impeccable, and my body aches with exhaustion despite my mind's endless calculations. I turn from the window, crossing to the bed where furs and fabrics have been piled to accommodate my changing form. I sink into them with a sigh that seems to release weeks of tension, my limbs suddenly leaden with the weight of preparation and anticipation.

The little ones settle almost immediately as I lie down, as if sensing the need for these precious hours of peace before chaos descends. I curl against Cadeyrn's side, his transformed body radiating a surprising warmth that contradicts everything I once believed about the Winter Prince. Seven centuries of perfect control transformed into something wilder, more potent. Something ancient awakening after long dormancy.

"What if it doesn't work?" I whisper into the darkness, voicing the fear I've kept locked behind practical planning and strategic assessments. "What if the throne room's ancient magic isn't enough? What if the courts breach our defenses before the birth is complete?"

His arms tighten around me, cillae synchronizing where our skin meets. The familiar sensation of our bond strengthening floods through me—not the oppressive claim of an alpha over an omega, but something mutual, something we've forged together through blood and magic and stubborn survival.

"Then we adapt," he says simply. "We fight. We protect what's ours by any means necessary."

I shift, placing my palm against his chest where cillae trace the history of his transformation. No longer the rigid geometric designs of Winter Court precision, but whorls and spirals that incorporate all seasonal elements.

"I'm not afraid of fighting," I clarify, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath my hand. "I've been fighting since I picked up my first hammer at eight years old." My voice hardens with Thornwick iron. "I'm afraid of losing. Of The Collector getting his hands on one of our children. Of everything we've built burning to ash before it has a chance to grow."

Cadeyrn shifts, turning to face me fully. The darkness doesn't hinder my transformed sight; I see him clearly—the sharp angles of his face now softened by transformation, the ice-blue eyes now shot through with gold and green, the cillae that no longer follow rigid court designs.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you, Briar?" he asks, voice pitched low and intimate in the darkness.

"A village blacksmith who's in way over her head?" I suggest with a wry smile, deflecting as I always do when conversations veer toward uncomfortable sincerity.

He doesn't return the smile. Instead, his expression carries weight I've rarely seen, even during our most intimate moments. "I see someone who entered the most dangerous ritual in our shared history wearing another's face, determined to save her friend." His fingers trace the cillae along my collarbone. "Someone who survived claiming and transformation and betrayal. Someone who has already changed the foundations of a magical system that has stood for millennia." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing over my newly pointed ear with surprising gentleness. "If anyone can defy the impossible, it's you."

The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath more effectively than any claiming bite. Seven centuries of perfect Winter Court control, and he looks at me like I'm something miraculous rather than a vessel to be filled.

"I need you to promise me something," I say, choosing my words carefully, hands moving to cradle my swollen belly where our children grow. "If it comes down to a choice between saving me or the children?—"

"Don't," he interrupts, cillae darkening to nearly black. "I won't make that promise."

"You have to," I insist, placing my palm against his chest where his heart beats with surprising strength. "Four lives that represent everything the courts have feared and suppressed for centuries. The future of Wild Magic itself. They matter more than either of us."

"They need their mother," he counters, jaw clenched with stubborn determination that reminds me of metal resisting the forge.

"And their father," I agree, "but if forced to choose?—"

"We will find another way," he says with such absolute conviction that I almost believe him. "There is always another path for those willing to shatter expectations."

I want to argue further, to make him understand the practical necessities of worst-case scenarios, but instead I find myself surging forward to capture his mouth with mine. Something primal drives the kiss—not the biological imperative of heat but something deeper, more deliberate. A claiming of my own making.

His response is immediate and visceral, mouth claiming mine with a hunger that belies his centuries of perfect control. The kiss tastes of winter frost and something wilder—primal magic that bypasses rational thought and connects directly to instinct. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness, heat flaring beneath frost-patterned skin.

"Careful," he murmurs against my lips, one hand moving to support my lower back. "Lysandra advised against strenuous activity."

I laugh, the sound half-frustrated desire, half-genuine amusement. "Pretty sure she meant 'don't fight enemy warriors,' not 'don't touch your mate.'"

Mate. The word slips out without conscious thought, more accurate than 'alpha' or 'prince' or any other title that once defined our relationship. Whatever we've become transcends the simple dynamics of claimed and claimer. The Wild Magic transformed us both, creating something unprecedented from what began as traditional Hunt protocol.

Cadeyrn's expression softens at the term, recognition flaring in his gaze. "Even so, your condition requires... accommodation."

Before I can protest further, he shifts his position, moving down my body with deliberate intent. The bed beneath us—a recent concession to my comfort over traditional court sleeping platforms—dips slightly as he settles between my legs, his shoulders nudging my thighs apart with careful reverence.

"Oh," I breathe as his purpose becomes clear, a flush spreading across my chest that has nothing to do with pregnancy heat. "That kind of accommodation."

His laugh ghosts warm across my inner thigh, the sensation igniting nerve endings with unexpected intensity. "The Winter Court excels at adaptation when properly motivated."

Any clever retort dies in my throat as his mouth finds my pussy with practiced precision. Three months of claiming have taught him exactly how to unravel me with strategic application of tongue and subtle frost magic. The coolness of his mouth against my heat creates a contrast that sends lightning through my core, my back arching as much as my swollen belly allows.

"Gods, yes," I gasp, the feel of his tongue against my sensitive flesh sending sparks of pleasure through my transformed body. "Right there."

I surrender to the sensation, hands fisting in his midnight-black hair as pleasure builds with shocking speed. My transformed body responds with heightened sensitivity, cillae flaring brighter with each expert stroke. The little ones have mercifully settled, as if understanding their mother's need for this connection before the chaos tomorrow will bring.

The pressure builds faster, tighter than I remember—another unexpected gift of my transformation, this new body with its heightened senses and magically enhanced responses. Where his tongue meets my clit, frost magic mingles with heat in a contrast that intensifies everything. The tension coils impossibly tight, my thighs trembling on either side of his head.

"Don't stop," I gasp, hips rising to meet his mouth despite my ungainly form. "Fuck, don't you dare stop. I'm so close."

I feel the curve of his smile against my wet flesh before he redoubles his efforts, one hand sliding up to cup my breast through the thin fabric of my nightclothes, the other sliding two fingers inside me with expert precision. The dual stimulation sends me crashing over the edge, release washing through me with staggering intensity.

"That's it," he growls against my inner thigh, voice rough with desire as his fingers continue working inside me, drawing out my pleasure. "Let me taste how sweet you are when you come for me."

Magic discharges with my climax—no longer just Winter Court frost but elemental magic exploding outward from where our bodies connect. The chamber walls bloom with elaborate patterns: vines of spring green intertwining with summer gold flames, autumn amber leaves floating through currents of winter blue ice. The magic responds to our connection, manifesting the balanced elements our children represent.

As I descend from the peak, struggling to catch my breath, Cadeyrn makes his way back up my body. His expression carries equal parts tenderness and unmistakable hunger, his own arousal evident in the hard length of his cock pressing against my thigh. I taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, along with the distinctive flavor of his winter magic now infused with wilder elements.

"My turn," I say, already pushing at his shoulders. His obvious confusion as I maneuver him onto his back would be comical if I weren't so intent on my goal.

"Briar, you don't need to?—"

"Shut up and let me have this," I interrupt, positioning myself above him with determined awkwardness. My enormous belly makes the logistics challenging, but I'm nothing if not resourceful. "Before tomorrow, before everything changes—I want to remember what this feels like. What we feel like."

Understanding dawns in his expression, along with something deeper that makes my chest tighten with emotion I still struggle to name despite acknowledging its presence. He helps me settle into position, his hands steady on my hips as I take his cock in my hand, positioning him at my entrance.

"You're still so wet for me," he murmurs, pupils dilating as I lower myself onto him with excruciating slowness. "So perfect."

The feeling of him stretching me, filling me inch by inch, steals my breath—not just the physical joining, though that sensation alone would be enough to make my nerves sing with renewed pleasure. His cock slides deep inside me, hitting places that make stars burst behind my eyes. It's the magical circuit completed between us, elemental patterns humming where our bodies meet, energy flowing in absolute harmony. It feels nothing like the claimings in the forest—those desperate, biology-driven encounters that marked the beginning of our journey. This connection carries intention, choice, mutual desire beyond mere instinct.

"Perfect," I breathe, adjusting to the fullness before beginning to move. "Gods, how did I ever hate you?"

His laugh rumbles through both our bodies, the vibration adding yet another layer of sensation as his cock throbs inside me. "As I recall, you had excellent reasons. I hunted you through a forest and claimed you against a tree."

"And now look at us," I say, finding a rhythm that builds delicious friction despite my awkward positioning. "You beneath me, at my mercy."

His eyes darken, pupils expanding until the ice-blue is nearly swallowed by midnight. "Always," he agrees, the simple word carrying weight beyond this moment, beyond the physical connection between us.

The pace increases as my need builds, my transformed body responding to his with a sensitivity that borders on overwhelming. Each thrust of his cock inside me sends waves of pleasure radiating outward, drawing whimpers from my throat that I would have been embarrassed by months ago.

"You feel so good around me," he groans, hands guiding my hips as I ride him, his voice raw with a vulnerability I'd never have believed possible from the Winter Prince. "So tight, so warm. Like you were made for me."

"Maybe I was," I gasp, surprising myself with the admission as I rotate my hips, taking him deeper. "Maybe we were made for each other."

Our cillae flare and pulse, colors mixing where our skin connects. Spring green spirals emerge where his winter blue touches my skin, summer gold streaks appear where my fingers trace his chest, autumn amber blooms where our thighs press together.

The Wild Magic flows between us, enhancing physical sensation until I can barely tell where my pleasure ends and his begins. Every movement, every thrust of his cock inside my pussy creates cascading waves of magic that ripple outward, transforming the chamber around us. Ice formations grow across the ceiling in intricate patterns, responding to our joined energy.

"Tell me what you need," he demands, his thumb finding my clit as I ride him, adding precise pressure that makes my inner walls clench around his length. "Tell me how to make you come again."

"Just like that," I moan, the dual stimulation building pressure impossibly fast. "Don't stop. I want to feel you when I come."

When his knot begins to swell, catching slightly with each movement, I feel a primal satisfaction. My body, changing to accommodate the quadruplets, responds to his with instinctive recognition—the lock that fits his key perfectly, despite all the transformations we've both undergone.

"After," I gasp as his knot grows, each thrust requiring more effort, more delicious stretching. "After the birth, when these little ones are safely here—we'll have this again. Properly."

He groans at the promise, hands tightening on my hips with careful restraint. "Your new body," he manages, voice strained with the effort of maintaining control as his cock throbs inside me. "Stronger. More resilient."

"No more careful handling," I agree, understanding exactly what he means, what he's been holding back since my pregnancy advanced. "I'll be able to take everything you've got for me."

The thought sends us both closer to the edge—the future possibilities beyond tomorrow's battle, the promise of survival and connection. His knot swells fully, locking us together as another climax tears through me. The sensation of being completely filled, stretched to my limit, triggers an orgasm more intense than the first, my inner walls clenching rhythmically around his knot.

"Fuck, Briar," he growls, hands gripping my hips as his own release overtakes him. "Taking me so perfectly. I'm going to fill you up."

I feel the pulse of his cock as he comes inside me, each wave of his release triggering aftershocks of pleasure through my oversensitive body. Magic explodes around us in a spectacular display, patterns rippling across the room in gorgeous designs that incorporate all four seasonal elements in perfect harmony.

I collapse forward as far as my belly allows, boneless with satisfaction and temporarily unworried about the precarious position of our court. Cadeyrn's arms encircle me, supporting my weight even as we remain physically connected.

"That," I say when I can form coherent thoughts again, "was considerably better than strategic planning."

His chest rumbles with quiet laughter beneath my cheek. "I concede your tactical approach superior to mine in this instance."

We shift carefully to our sides, still joined, my pregnant belly nestled against him. The position is surprisingly comfortable, a momentary island of peace before tomorrow's inevitable chaos. His hand rests protectively over the swell where the four little ones now rest quietly, their distinct magical signatures pulsing in gentle rhythm.

"They're quiet now," he observes, cillae on his fingers synchronizing with the movement beneath my skin. "Their magic growing stronger each hour."

I nod, feeling the subtle differences between them more clearly now that I'm relaxed. "The fire one is always most active when I'm worried or angry," I say, recognizing patterns I've observed over recent weeks. "The earth one settles when you're near, like it recognizes your presence. The air one never stops moving completely, just changes rhythms. And the water one..." I smile faintly. "The water one responds to music, to Mira's singing especially."

"Already individuals," Cadeyrn murmurs, wonder evident in his voice. "Already choosing their own paths."

The simple observation reminds me of everything at stake tomorrow—not just our survival, but the future these children represent. A future where Wild Magic flows freely rather than being locked in court-controlled channels, where omegas might wield power rather than merely serving as vessels.

"Do you think they know?" I ask after a comfortable silence, my mind returning to practical concerns despite our intimate position. "The allied courts—do you think they've guessed our true plan with the throne room?"

His fingers trace idle patterns along my spine, frost magic trailing in pleasant tingles. "Their spies have reported exactly what we wanted them to see—all preparations focused on the birth chambers. Visible reinforcements, supplies delivered, protective spells openly cast."

"While the throne room appears abandoned after our claiming transformed it," I finish, remembering the elaborate misdirection we've constructed. "Everything of value supposedly moved to the birth chambers for better protection."

"Elder Bloom is clever," he acknowledges, his knot still firmly joining us together, "but even she is predictable. The courts have spent centuries creating and enforcing rulebooks they themselves cannot think beyond."

"And we've burned the rulebook," I murmur, feeling the four little ones stir gently within me, as if responding to the mention of their potential enemies.

"Incinerated it," he agrees, hand moving to cover my belly where our children grow. "The allied courts expect defense of the birth chambers because that's what their own protocols would dictate. They cannot conceive of using the throne itself as protection rather than symbol."

I consider the ancient magic Cadeyrn discovered within the transformed throne—protection magic designed before the courts divided, meant to shield royal offspring during moments of greatest vulnerability. Magic that responded specifically to balanced elemental signatures rather than single-court bloodlines. Our secret weapon against the combined might of three allied courts.

"And if it doesn't work?" I voice the fear that's been growing alongside my pregnancy. "If the ancient magic fails, or only works for pure-blooded royalty?"

His arms tighten around me, protective even as the knot begins to subside. "Then we fight until we can't. We protect our children with every weapon at our disposal. We trust the Wild Magic that's transformed us both beyond what should be possible."

The practical assessment should terrify me, but instead I find it oddly comforting. No false reassurances, no empty promises—just honest evaluation and shared determination.

The knot softens, though neither of us moves to break the connection immediately. These quiet moments—intimate and honest amid the gathering storm—feel increasingly precious as tomorrow approaches.

"I love you," he says, the words still new enough to catch me off guard. Seven centuries of Winter Court protocol, and these simple words seem to cost him more effort than elaborate battle strategies.

I meet his gaze in the soft glow of our synchronized cillae. "And I love you. Not because of magical transformation or biological imperative or court protocol. Just because you're you, beneath all the Winter Prince nonsense."

His smile transforms features I once thought incapable of genuine warmth. "Such reverence for your mate's royal status."

"Earned through detailed assessment," I assure him with mock solemnity, finally shifting to find a more comfortable position as our bodies separate. "Seven centuries of perfect control hiding a surprisingly decent person beneath the ice."

As we settle into more comfortable positions for what little sleep we might manage before tomorrow's challenges, I feel the continued movements throughout the palace. Awakened omegas maintain vigilant watch, their cillae visible even through walls to my transformed senses. Loyal guards positioned at strategic intervals move with synchronized precision, their training evident in every practiced step. Most remarkable of all, the walls themselves shift subtly, creating additional barriers around our chambers, the palace responding to the threat like a living organism preparing its defenses.

The Wild Magic flows through ice formations that once knew only winter's touch, preparing for what tomorrow will bring. In the darkness, I sense fracture lines spreading through centuries of rigid tradition. The court system trembles on the edge of transformation more profound than mere political realignment. Magic itself remembers what the fae have spent generations forgetting—that true power comes from balance, not dominance; from connection, not control.

Tomorrow, those fracture lines will either shatter the courts completely or force them to rebuild along patterns the Wild Magic remembers but court hierarchy rejected. The thought should terrify me, and part of me still fears what's coming—the violence, the potential for loss, the high stakes of our gamble.

But as I drift toward sleep, Cadeyrn's protective warmth surrounding me, the quadruplets' gentle movements beneath my hands, I find myself strangely calm. At the center of the breaking stands a blacksmith who once faked her way into the Wild Hunt and a prince who abandoned perfect control for messy, complicated love. Between us grow four lives who shouldn't exist according to centuries of court doctrine.

Not the traditional fairy tale ending, but perhaps the beginning of something far more interesting.

I wake to darkness and the sensation of something wrong.

The palace walls pulse with urgent warning, cillae flaring with unprecedented brightness. Beside me, Cadeyrn is already rising, his movements precise despite being woken from deep sleep. The synchronization of our responses speaks to how much we've both transformed these past months—no longer separate entities but parts of a whole, moving in instinctive harmony.

"They're coming," I say, feeling the truth in the palace's warning pulse. "Earlier than we expected."

"Yes." He's already reaching for the clothing we laid out in preparation, his movements economical, focused. "The eastern perimeter has been breached. Summer Court forces leading the vanguard."

I stand, my body feeling strangely light despite the advanced pregnancy. Another gift of the transformation—where human omegas would be bedridden and weak, my altered physiology grants strength and mobility even in this late stage. As I dress in the specially prepared garments Lysandra designed—fabrics that stretch to accommodate my form while providing surprising protection—I feel the quadruplets responding to the tension with increased activity.

"How much time do we have?" I ask, focusing on practical matters rather than fear.

"Less than an hour before they reach the palace proper." Cadeyrn fastens ceremonial armor modified to accommodate his transformed body—pieces that once symbolized Winter Court authority now reinvented as practical protection. "The diversion at the birth chambers will buy us perhaps another twenty minutes after that."

Not enough time. We needed at least another day for the throne room preparations to be completed. I feel momentary panic before forcing it down, replacing fear with determination forged in Thornwick's fires.

"Then we work with what we have," I say, checking the small emergency pack we prepared for exactly this contingency. "The evacuation?"

"Already underway." Frost patterns pulse along Cadeyrn's jaw as he extends his senses throughout the palace. "Lysandra is guiding the first group through the eastern tunnels. The awakened omegas who chose to stay are moving into defensive positions."

I shoulder the pack, placing one hand against the nearest wall. The palace responds immediately, cillae spiraling outward from my touch, the structure's awareness recognizing and responding to my intent.

"Show me the safest path to the throne room," I instruct, feeling the Wild Magic flow between my transformed body and the palace's awakening consciousness.

The wall before us shifts, ice formations reconfiguring to reveal a passage that wasn't visible before—an ancient servant's corridor, bypassing the main hallways where enemy forces will likely concentrate once they breach the outer defenses.

"The palace is choosing sides," Cadeyrn observes, studying the newly revealed passage with something like wonder.

"Smart palace." I move forward, steps surprisingly steady despite my unwieldy form. "Let's hope it made the right choice."

We make our way through narrow corridors that expand subtly as we approach, the palace literally reshaping itself to accommodate my pregnant form. The transformation I've witnessed over the past weeks continues to accelerate, centuries of rigid Winter Court architecture melting into something more organic, more responsive.

As we move deeper into the palace core, I sense other movements around us—the awakened omegas taking up their chosen positions, loyal guards establishing defensive perimeters, evacuees making their way through ancient tunnels toward safety. Beneath it all, the steady thrum of approaching enemy forces—a pressure against my heightened senses like approaching storm clouds.

"Cadeyrn—" I begin, needing to say something, to acknowledge what might happen if our plan fails.

His hand finds mine, cillae synchronizing where our skin meets. "I know," he says simply. "Whatever comes, we face it together."

The walls pulse in agreement, the entire palace seeming to rally around this simple truth. As we approach the throne room—transformed beyond recognition after our claiming—I feel the Wild Magic gathering, preparing for what's coming.

Four lives within me, representing elements that have been divided for centuries. A transformed prince who abandoned court protocol for love. A blacksmith-turned-vessel who refuses to be merely used. A palace awakening to consciousness after centuries of rigid control.

The breaking point approaches. And we stand at its center, ready to fight for the future we've glimpsed in the patterns of Wild Magic's return.

Battle is coming. Birth is coming.

And with them, the chance for everything to change.