Page 55

CHAPTER 55

POV: Briar

The alarm bells tear through my dreams like claws through flesh, dragging me from the momentary peace of unconsciousness into brutal reality.

I wake gasping, disoriented. The four little ones respond immediately to my spike of fear with frantic movement beneath my skin—fire pulsing erratically, earth shifting with uncharacteristic agitation, air swirling in tight, anxious patterns, water retreating as if to protect itself. These distinct beings, already showing individual responses to danger they shouldn't even comprehend yet.

Something is deeply wrong.

The darkness pressing against our windows isn't just night-dark but wrong-dark, the kind that slithers through your bones and settles like molten metal in your veins. The absence of light feels deliberate, predatory, as if shadows themselves have gained mass and purpose.

Cadeyrn is already up, cillae blazing across his transformed body as he pulls on battle armor. The blue-white light of his magic casts monstrous shadows across our chamber—clothing scattered like battlefield dead, weapons materializing from hidden caches, the walls themselves pulsing with warning rhythms I can feel in my teeth.

"They're here," he says, voice tight with controlled rage as he fastens bracers to his forearms. "Earlier than we predicted. Someone disabled the outer warning spells."

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my swollen belly making the simple movement awkward as a butcher with dull knives. The floor beneath my feet vibrates with faint but steady tremors—not natural, but magical assault testing the palace's foundations.

"Nessa," I state, her betrayal still a raw wound despite our preparations.

"Almost certainly." Cadeyrn fastens armor plates across his chest, the material expanding to accommodate his transformed physique. No longer the rigid, formal ceremonial wear of a Winter Court prince, but something wilder, integrated with cillae that pulse with his heartbeat. "We have reports of coordinated breaches from three directions. Summer Court from the south, Autumn from the east, Spring leading from the west."

The specificity freezes my blood like metal suddenly quenched. Not just an attack, but a precisely timed, multi-pronged assault designed to split our defenses across the entire palace. The kind that requires intimate knowledge of rotations, weak points, magical barriers. The kind of betrayal that cuts deeper than any blade because it comes from someone you tried to help.

My stomach churns with a mixture of fury and betrayal as I picture Nessa at the haven, blood running down her thighs from a miscarriage triggered by The Collector's claiming. Her hollow eyes, her gratitude when I showed her the way to safety. All pretense. She was gathering intelligence even then, mapping routes, vulnerabilities, strengths. Marking me.

"The throne room," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady as I dress with hands that refuse to stop trembling. I pull on the practical garments Lysandra prepared for exactly this scenario—reinforced leggings that expand to accommodate my pregnant belly, a loose tunic embedded with protective runes, soft boots that won't restrict my swollen feet but still allow me to move quickly if I have to run.

"Yes." Cadeyrn crosses to help me, his touch efficient yet tender as he fastens protective armor across my shoulders. The panels are surprisingly light, made from some material that expands and contracts with my breathing while providing surprising rigidity against impacts. "The birth chambers have already been breached. Four Spring Court warriors entered through the eastern corridor."

My blood turns to slush. All that preparation, all those visible reinforcements and deliberately obvious guard rotations. "The decoy worked, then."

"Too well." His mouth curves into a smile that carries no warmth, only the predatory satisfaction of a trap successfully set. "They expected token resistance disguising a trap but found elaborate defenses instead. It's convinced them they're targeting the right location." His ice-blue eyes meet mine, momentarily softening despite the chaos erupting around us. "You need to get to the throne room immediately. I've ordered the loyal omegas to meet you there."

"And you?" The question catches in my throat even though I already know the answer. The same way I know this moment was always coming—the inevitable separation when our enemies force us to divide our strength. Still, my hands reach for him instinctively, cillae intensifying where our skin connects.

"I need to coordinate the defense, draw their forces toward the birth chambers and away from the throne room." His hand cups my face, cillae synchronizing with mine where our skin connects. 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. "I'll join you as soon as possible."

A sharp knock at the door interrupts us before I can argue. Lysandra enters without waiting for permission, her healer's robes replaced by battle attire that hugs her lithe form in a way that emphasizes functionality over court appearance. Frost patterns pulse across her exposed forearms, far stronger than when I first met her. Another omega awakening to power long suppressed.

"We need to move now," she says, glancing between us with the efficient assessment of a battlefield medic. "The palace defenses are activating, but they're encountering resistance. Someone tainted the central ward stones."

"Nessa." I can't keep the betrayal from my voice. The farm girl I once helped, trying to save her from The Collector's brutal hands. Now repaying that kindness with poison in our sanctuary's heart. Fury rises in me, hot and bitter as burnt metal. "The birth chambers?"

"In chaos," Lysandra confirms, her typically composed features tight with controlled fear. "Spring Court entered through the eastern passage, but we have reports of Summer forces approaching from the south corridor. They're coordinating in a way I've never seen before—not just allied attacks but genuinely integrated strategies. Court magics that should repel each other flowing in harmony."

Cadeyrn's face hardens into something ancient and terrible, cillae darkening to nearly black across his jaw. "Get her to the throne room. Take the servant passages. I'll create a diversion to draw attention away from your route."

"Cadeyrn—" I start, reaching for him.

He silences me with a kiss so fierce it steals my breath. Not gentle, not comforting, but claiming—a reminder of the bond that ties us across any distance. His mouth is cold fire against mine, frost magic singing along my nerves, the sensation burning away fear and leaving only determination in its wake.

"You carry our future," he says against my lips, one hand pressed protectively against my belly where the four little ones respond to his touch with synchronized movement. "Trust the Wild Magic. Trust what we've built. I will find you."

Then he's gone, striding from the chamber with the deadly grace of a predator unleashed. The door closes behind him with a finality that makes my chest ache like a punched bruise.

Lysandra doesn't waste time on sympathy. Her practical nature asserts itself as she moves directly to the wardrobe, pressing specific points on its ornate carvings. "We need to move. Now."

The servant passages are hidden behind a panel that slides open at her touch—narrow corridors originally designed for omegas to move invisibly through the palace while serving Winter Court nobility. Pathways built for the bound and broken, now serving as escape routes for their awakened descendants. There's a bitter poetry in that I don't have time to appreciate.

The passage beyond is barely wide enough for my pregnant form, the ceiling low enough that Lysandra, taller than me, must stoop slightly. Blue-white light emanates from cillae in the walls, pulsing with a rhythm that feels deliberate, like a heartbeat.

"The loyal omegas?" I ask as we hurry through dimly lit passages, our way illuminated only by our cillae casting eerie blue light against ancient ice.

"Already moving toward the throne room from different routes," Lysandra replies, her voice hushed despite the thick walls that separate us from the main corridors. Her movements are precise, practiced—she knows these hidden ways intimately, having navigated them as a court physician for decades. "Flora is leading one group through the western approach, Mira another from the north. Fourteen omegas total, all showing significant manifestation of frost abilities."

"And the evacuation?" My hand brushes the wall as we walk, feeling the subtle vibrations of magic flowing through the palace's structure. No longer inert ice but living entity, responding to threat with ancient consciousness.

"Progressing as planned. Thirty-seven omegas have already made it to the southern tunnels with supply caches." Her voice carries grim satisfaction. "Several managed to take court documents with them—evidence of the cullings, breeding programs, unauthorized experimentations. Things the courts would prefer remain buried."

Truth as weapon. Exposure as revolution. The awakened omegas aren't just fighting for survival but for justice—ensuring that even if we fail, evidence of court atrocities will spread beyond controlled borders.

The palace shudders around us, the walls themselves responding to the assault with awakened consciousness. What was once static ice architecture now pulses with living magic, corridors reshaping to block invaders while opening safe passages for those it recognizes as allies. I feel the strain through my heightened senses—the structure fighting against invasive magic seeking to corrupt or destroy.

We've barely made it halfway to the throne room when the first explosion rocks the foundations. The blast sends us staggering against the narrow walls, dust and ice crystals raining down from the ceiling like frozen tears. The sound hits a moment later—not just physical but magical impact, different types of court magic colliding with catastrophic results.

"What the hell was that?" I gasp, one hand automatically moving to protect my belly where the four little ones have gone momentarily still, as if holding their breath.

Lysandra's face tells me everything before she speaks, a healer's knowledge of destruction evident in her tightened features. "Court magic. Destructive force spells meant to collapse sections of the palace's outer defenses. They're not just trying to enter—they're willing to bring down entire wings."

"They're insane." The reality of their desperation hits me like a hammer to the chest. "They'd risk destroying everything just to prevent the little ones from being born?"

My hand moves protectively over my belly, feeling the small lives within responding once more with anxious movement. These aren't just my children but vessels of ancient power that threatens the very foundation of court authority—living proof that balanced Wild Magic is possible, that the artificial divisions maintained for centuries are exactly that: artificial. Constructed to maintain power rather than enhance it.

"They fear what they cannot control," Lysandra says grimly, urging me forward again with one hand supportive at my elbow. "And what your children represent cannot be controlled by court systems. Four elements in perfect balance, born of Winter Court lineage but carrying Wild Magic that predates the court divisions. A living challenge to everything they've built."

Another explosion, closer this time. The walls around us groan as the ancient structure absorbs the magical assault. Frost patterns race across the ceiling like lightning seeking ground, the palace's own defenses activating in response to the attack.

"We need to hurry," Lysandra urges, her usual composure fracturing under the immediacy of threat. "These passages won't hold against targeted court magic for long."

We move faster, my pregnant body protesting with every step. The quadruplets shift restlessly within me, their individual magical signatures flaring in response to the chaos around us. I feel them like four distinct heartbeats beneath my skin—fire's quicksilver rhythm, earth's steady pulse, air's constant motion, water's flowing presence. Each responding differently yet somehow in harmony.

We reach a junction where the servant passage branches in three directions. Lysandra hesitates, her head cocked as if listening to something beyond physical sound. Her cillae brighten as she extends her heightened senses through the palace's structure.

"What is it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"The palace is changing its shape," she explains, cillae brightening as she reaches out to touch the wall. The ice responds to her touch, revealing patterns I can't fully interpret—older than court runes, more fluid than human writing. "The direct route to the throne room has been compromised. We need to take the western passage instead."

Before I can respond, a section of wall slides open beside us, revealing a passage that shouldn't exist according to any palace blueprint I've seen. The Wild Magic infiltrating the very architecture, creating new paths where none existed before. The opening pulses with inviting light, cillae swirling in entrancing spirals that seem to beckon specifically to me.

Instinct rises within me, powerful and inexplicable. I feel the palace's intention as clearly as if it had spoken aloud—this path is meant for me alone.

"Go," I tell Lysandra, suddenly certain. "I'll follow this route. You take the eastern passage and gather any stragglers you find. Make sure Flora and Mira reach the throne room safely."

She hesitates, clearly torn between her duty to me and the practical sense of my suggestion. The healer in her wants to protect the pregnant omega carrying four precious lives; the strategist in her recognizes the importance of ensuring all awakened omegas reach our final sanctuary.

"Lady Briar, I was ordered to?—"

"I know what Cadeyrn ordered," I interrupt, my tone hardening with the authority I've earned through suffering and survival. No longer just a village blacksmith masquerading as nobility, but someone transformed by Wild Magic and hard choices. "But we need everyone we can get for what's coming. The palace is guiding me." I gesture to the newly formed passage with its softly glowing cillae that seem to beckon like a waiting hand. "I'll be fine."

Another distant explosion punctuates my words, followed by the unmistakable sound of magical combat—the sizzle-crack of court spells colliding with Wild Magic defenses, the crystalline shatter of ice walls giving way, voices raised in battle cries and pain.

"Go," I repeat, more forcefully this time. "We have minutes, not hours."

Lysandra nods sharply, decision made. "The throne room. Don't deviate from that destination, no matter what you hear or see. The ancient magic won't work anywhere else."

Then she's gone, disappearing down the eastern passage with silent efficiency, cillae fading from view as distance swallows her form.

I enter the newly formed corridor, cillae brightening on my skin as I pass the threshold. The passage closes behind me with the soft sound of settling ice, sealing me into a route known only to the awakened palace. The finality of that quiet closure sends a momentary chill through me—I'm alone now, separated from all allies except the ancient consciousness of the palace itself.

The air feels different here—older, charged with magic that predates court divisions. My pointed ears pick up whispers that aren't quite voices, intentions rather than words flowing through the living ice around me. The palace guiding me, protecting me, creating a safe path to the throne room where ancient magic awaits activation.

I move as quickly as my pregnant body allows, one hand braced against the wall both for support and connection. The cillae beneath my fingers pulse with reassurance, the same way Cadeyrn's patterns synchronize with mine when our skin connects. The sensation is strangely intimate, as if the palace itself wants me to know I'm not truly alone.

The corridor curves gently downward, following a path that shouldn't be possible according to my understanding of palace architecture. We're moving deeper, beneath the formal levels, into foundations that must predate even the Winter Court's establishment here. The ice looks different—not the cultivated crystal clarity of upper chambers but something wilder, more organic, formed by natural processes rather than court precision.

Halfway down the corridor, the palace shudders again—more violently this time. Cracks appear in the ceiling above me, thin fissures that widen as I watch, golden light spilling through like pus from an infected wound.

Summer Court magic, burning through winter ice.

The realization sends a spike of fear through me. The courts aren't just attacking the obvious targets but methodically destroying the palace's very structure—including these hidden passages that shouldn't appear on any official blueprint. Someone with intimate knowledge guiding them. Someone who watched the awakened omegas move through these secret ways.

Nessa. The betrayal burns fresh again, even as I quicken my pace. Fear pushes exhaustion aside, sending fresh energy coursing through my system. The quadruplets respond with synchronized movement, almost as if they're bracing themselves for what's coming, small lives already prepared for battle they haven't been born into yet.

The fissures spread faster, golden light intensifying as Summer Court magic melts through layer after layer of palace defenses. I can feel the heat now, unnaturally focused, burning through ice that should take centuries to melt. The palace responds with its own defenses, cillae brightening to combat the invasion, but the golden light pushes inexorably downward.

I'm twenty feet from the end of the passage when the ceiling finally gives way entirely, collapsing in a shower of ice shards and blinding golden light. I throw myself forward, frost magic instinctively forming a protective shield over my belly as I fall. The impact jars every bone in my body, but I manage to land on my side rather than my stomach, protecting the little ones from the worst of the fall.

Pain flares through my hip and shoulder, dazing me momentarily. When my vision clears, I find myself sprawled in a widened section of corridor, surrounded by glittering ice fragments that reflect golden light from the hole above. I struggle to push myself upright, one hand automatically moving to my belly where the quadruplets respond with reassuring movement. Still safe, still protected.

Before I can fully recover, a figure drops through the newly created hole above me. The movement is graceful, controlled—not a fall but a deliberate descent. Tall and imposing with skin that seems perpetually sun-bronzed, as if summer itself had been captured and bound within flesh. Amber eyes containing flecks of actual gold catch the light like predatory jewels. Black hair grown in unnatural patterns forms whorls resembling ritual markings across a face of such perfect symmetry it approaches the uncanny.

The Collector.

My blood freezes in recognition. This is no random encounter, no coincidental breach. He has been hunting specifically for me, tracking my path through the palace with the precision of a predator who never loses his chosen prey.

"Little copper wolf," he says, his voice warm and terrifying in its gentleness. No rage, no snarling domination—just cultured appreciation, as if encountering a particularly fine artwork in an unexpected location. "How marvelously you've changed since our brief chase in the forest."

I scramble backward, frost magic gathering at my fingertips as I try to put distance between us. The narrow passage works against me, limiting my movement while allowing him to approach with unhurried confidence. Each backward shuffle feels painfully slow, my pregnant body uncooperative in its ungainliness.

"Those ears," he continues, gaze fixed on the pointed tips that mark my transformation. His appreciation feels worse than any threat—the patient assessment of someone selecting precisely which parts to remove and preserve. "Those lovely fangs. And your scent... extraordinary how it's evolved. More complex now, layered with Wild Magic and the Winter Prince's mark and those remarkable vessels you carry within you."

His assessment makes my skin crawl worse than any threat. He studies me like an interesting specimen, head tilted with genuine curiosity as he notes each change in my appearance. The kind of detached interest that allows one to dissect a living creature without malice, which is somehow more monstrous than outright hatred.

"My collection has never included anything quite like you," he says, taking another step forward. Light from above catches on a slender knife secured at his belt—not a weapon for combat but for precise, delicate cuts. A collector's tool. "I've claimed copper-haired omegas before, of course. Even a few with frost affinities. But never one carrying four vessels of ancient magic."

I bare my newly sharpened teeth, frost exploding from my fingertips to form jagged barriers between us. The magic flows easiest when fueled by protective instinct, my transformation enhancing abilities that should have taken years to master. "You'll never touch my children."

He smiles, the expression reaching his eyes with disturbing sincerity. "Oh, I don't want all four. Just one. Preferably the fire-blessed vessel—a perfect counterpoint to my winter-born treasures. Balance in all things, you understand."

The casual way he discusses taking one of my children sends rage coursing through me hot enough to melt the ice beneath my feet. He speaks of them not as lives but as specimens to be catalogued and displayed, objects to be possessed rather than beings to be nurtured. Everything the courts truly represent beneath their veneer of tradition and protocol.

Frost patterns flare across my skin with blinding intensity, the four little ones responding to my fury with synchronized magical pulses that actually create visible waves beneath my tunic. I feel their individual signatures merging in shared purpose—fire's heat, earth's solidity, air's movement, water's flow combining into something greater than their separate elements.

"The only thing you'll collect today is scars," I snarl, channeling wild magic through my transformed body in a way I've never attempted before. Ice spikes erupt from the floor between us, not with winter's geometric precision but with feral, chaotic patterns that incorporate elements from all four courts. The constructs surge upward with lethal intent, aiming for vulnerable points with uncanny precision.

The Collector doesn't flinch. He simply waves one hand in a dismissive gesture, and the magical constructs shatter like glass, falling to the ground in useless fragments. The display of power is disturbingly casual, centuries of experience overwhelming raw talent without apparent effort.

"Untrained," he observes, almost disappointed. "Raw power without proper shaping. Fascinating, but ultimately ineffective." His gaze sharpens, focusing on my belly where the little ones still pulse with agitated magic. "The vessels, however, are developing quite nicely. I can sense their individual signatures already distinctive. The fire one is particularly strong—takes after his father in that regard."

His intimate knowledge of my children sends a wave of nausea through me. Has he been watching us all along? Monitoring my pregnancy's progress through Nessa's reports? The thought of his attention focused on my unborn children makes my skin crawl with revulsion.

Before I can attempt another attack, the passage behind me collapses in an explosion of ice and stone. I'm thrown forward by the blast, landing painfully on my hands and knees. Dust and ice fragments swirl through the air, momentarily obscuring vision with a glittering cloud that reflects golden and green light in disturbing combinations.

When I look up, coughing against the crystalline dust, the route to the throne room is completely blocked by rubble. My only escape path cut off with deliberate precision.

And through the newly created opening behind me comes another figure—this one wearing Spring Court colors, her movements graceful despite the destruction around her. Elder Iris Bloom. The Spring Court emissary who has participated in Hunt ceremonies across generations, her seemingly youthful features belying centuries of careful political maneuvering.

Where The Collector exudes predatory appreciation, Elder Iris radiates cold calculation. Her placid expression and soft features disguise a mind that has engineered countless diplomatic accords and breeding programs. Gentle in appearance only, like poisonous flowers that kill with exquisite beauty.

"You've damaged palace property, Lord Collector," she observes mildly, as if discussing a minor social faux pas rather than the systematic destruction of ancient architecture. Her voice carries the cultivated softness of someone accustomed to being listened to without needing to raise her volume. "The agreed approach was capture without structural compromise."

The Collector shrugs, massive shoulders rising and falling with elegant indifference. "The little wolf was escaping down a passage that shouldn't exist. Improvisation became necessary."

Elder Iris turns her attention to me, those deceptively gentle eyes studying my transformed appearance with clinical detachment. Not a person evaluating another person, but a scientist examining an unexpected mutation in an experiment.

"How remarkable," she murmurs, approaching with measured steps that make no sound against the ice-strewn floor. "The Wild Magic has progressed further than our reports indicated. The pointed ears, the fangs... and the cillae incorporate elements from all four courts." Her gaze lingers on the swirling designs visible on my exposed forearms, where spring green and summer gold twist through winter blue and autumn amber in ever-changing configurations. "Full integration rather than mere surface adoption. Fascinating."

I push myself back to my feet, one hand automatically moving to support my belly. The quadruplets have gone ominously still, as if sensing danger and instinctively trying to remain undetected. Their absence of movement frightens me more than their earlier agitation.

"What do you want?" I demand, though I already know the answer. The courts want what they've always wanted—control, containment, continuation of systems that benefit those in power at the expense of those deemed lesser.

"Balance," Elder Iris replies simply, as if the concept itself justifies any action. "Order. The continuation of systems that have maintained peace between the courts for millennia."

"You mean control," I correct, fury giving me strength despite my vulnerable position. "The suppression of Wild Magic. The breeding rituals that treat omegas as vessels rather than equals. The cullings that murdered thousands when they proved inconvenient to your precious balance."

"Such a limited perspective," she sighs, genuine regret coloring her tone. Not for the atrocities themselves but for my inability to appreciate their necessity. "You see only cruelty where we've created stability. Only oppression where we've established necessary order."

She approaches with the confidence of someone who has never needed to fear physical retaliation, her delicate features arranged in an expression of professional concern. "The Winter Prince has filled your head with simplified versions of complex realities. The court system preserved magic when it might have died out entirely. Created clear channels when chaos threatened to overwhelm both realms."

"I've seen the Vale of Culling," I spit back, the memory of mass graves rising in my mind with sickening clarity. "The burial sites of omegas deemed unsuitable. The poisoned rivers that caused the wasting sickness in border villages. Don't talk to me about your damned order when I watched my mother die from your 'necessary sacrifices.'"

Something flickers across her perfect features—not shame or guilt, but irritation. Like I'm a child who's misunderstood an important lesson rather than a woman who's witnessed atrocities done in the name of their precious stability.

"Necessary sacrifices," she says, voice hardening slightly though her expression remains placid. "For the greater good of both realms. Do you imagine magic would flourish without proper management? That power without direction leads anywhere but destruction?"

She gestures to the damaged passage around us. "This is what happens when Wild Magic awakens without discipline. Structural instability. Unpredictable manifestations. Emotions driving power rather than controlled intent."

The walls around us pulse with answering fury, cillae flaring across the ice in violent bursts of multi-colored light. The palace itself resonating with my rage, responding to emotional truth with awakened consciousness.

"This is precisely what we feared," Elder Iris observes, gesturing to the responsive architecture with a teacher's disapproving frown. "Wild Magic untethered from proper constraints. Responding to emotion rather than discipline. Chaotic rather than controlled."

"Alive rather than enslaved," I counter, channeling years of working stubborn metal into each word. "Balanced rather than dominated. The difference between a forge that shapes with purpose and a machine that stamps out identical pieces with no understanding of what it creates."

The Collector steps forward, apparently tired of philosophical debate. His amber eyes have sharpened with predatory focus, the casual appreciation giving way to more purposeful intent.

"This accomplishes nothing," he states, practical efficiency cutting through Elder Iris's academic tone. "We need to secure her before the Winter Prince returns. I've fulfilled my part by locating her. The binding falls to your specialists."

Binding. The word slithers down my spine like a cold, wet finger. Images of silver chains and magical containment crawl through my mind. They don't just want to capture me—they want to cut the little ones out, steal them before they can be born naturally with the full force of Wild Magic flowing through them.

"You'll have your prize, Lord Collector," Elder Iris assures him with the casual certainty of someone brokering a political alliance. "Once we've stabilized the vessels and determined which shows the strongest affinity for each court element."

The way she discusses my children—not as lives but as magical components to be evaluated and distributed—ignites fury deep within my core. The same rage that once drove me to enter the Hunt in Willow's place burns even hotter now, fueled by maternal instinct and awakened Wild Magic.

As they speak, I assess my options with growing desperation. The passage ahead completely blocked. Two powerful court representatives between me and any retreat. My untrained magic proven useless against The Collector's centuries of experience. The throne room—our one safe haven with the ancient protection—seemingly cut off from any approach.

Then I feel it—a subtle shift beneath my feet. The floor itself moving, responding to my desperate need. Frost patterns spread outward from where I stand, forming a spiraling design that neither of my captors appears to notice, too engaged in their discussion of which child The Collector will be permitted to claim as if dividing up meat at a butcher's block.

"Traditionalists in all four courts will need appeasement," Elder Iris is explaining, her voice cool and reasonable as she discusses the distribution of my unborn children. "The autumn-aligned vessel will likely go to the Raveling Brothers' lineage as compensation for their losses. The water-blessed one shows strong Winter Court markers—the council may demand its return as royal property."

"As long as the flame-bearer comes to me," The Collector states, his tone allowing no argument. "The summer alignment is unmistakable, and my collection requires symmetry."

"And the air vessel?" Elder Iris inquires, one elegant eyebrow raised.

The Collector shrugs. "Spring Court has always valued the ephemeral. Your nurseries can shape it into whatever you require."

I listen to them discuss my children's fates with growing horror and rage. Not people, not even animals to them—just resources to be allocated according to political necessity and personal preference. Property to be claimed, shaped, controlled.

But the palace hasn't abandoned me. The Wild Magic flowing through the ancient structure still recognizes me, still works to protect what I carry. The spiral beneath my feet glows brighter, responding to my emotional state with increasing urgency.

I just need to trust it.

"—will require special handling during transport," Elder Iris is saying, practical details following political allocation with administrative precision. "Particularly if labor has already begun." She directs this last question to me, her attention returning to my silent assessment. "Has it, little wolf? Are the vessels preparing to emerge?"

Instead of answering, I slam my foot down on the center of the frost spiral beneath me. The impact sends magical reverberations through the floor, activating whatever enchantment the palace has prepared.

For one suspended moment, nothing happens. Elder Iris's expression shifts from clinical observation to dawning alarm as she recognizes something in the pattern beneath me. The Collector lunges forward, golden magic gathering at his fingertips as he attempts to counter whatever I've triggered.

Too late.

The floor dissolves beneath me, ice transforming to water in an instant. I plunge downward into darkness, the startled shouts of Elder Iris and The Collector fading above me as the passage reseals itself almost instantly, cutting off pursuit.

I fall through midnight-dark, surrounded by the rush of freezing water that somehow doesn't wet my clothes or skin. The sensation is disorienting—liquid that behaves like air, supporting rather than drowning. A controlled descent rather than a chaotic plummet, as if the palace itself cradles me in magical currents designed for exactly this purpose.

The darkness gives way to blue-white light as I land on my feet in a corridor I've never seen before—one far deeper than any palace blueprint ever showed. Ancient ice that hasn't seen light in centuries surrounds me, its patterns different from anything in the upper chambers. Not the controlled geometry of Winter Court design but organic, flowing formations that resemble natural processes more than constructed spaces.

Frost patterns across the walls pulse in welcome as I take my first hesitant steps. This place knows me, recognizes the Wild Magic flowing through my transformed body and the four lives I carry. The air feels charged with ancient power, magic that predates court divisions altogether.

And ahead, a faint golden glow that pulls at my instincts like a beacon. Not the invasive burn of Summer Court magic but something purer, older—light from the throne room, accessible from beneath rather than above, through passages known only to the oldest magic woven into the palace foundations.

I press forward, one hand braced against the wall for both support and connection. The quadruplets stir again, their magical signatures pulsing beneath my skin as if encouraging my advance. Relief floods through me at their resumed movement, the brief stillness apparently a response to immediate danger rather than any harm.

Behind me, I hear the first impacts as Spring and Summer Court magic begins attempting to breach the passage I just escaped through. They know where I've gone, if not exactly how to follow. It's only a matter of time before they find another route.

I need to reach the throne room before they breach these ancient defenses. Before Cadeyrn realizes I'm separated from Lysandra and diverts precious forces to search for me. Before the allies we've gathered lose hope at the overwhelming assault crashing against the palace walls.

The golden light grows stronger as I approach what must be an entrance to the throne room from below—some ancient access point designed for emergencies exactly like this one. The Wild Magic flows more strongly here, untainted by centuries of court manipulation, responding to my approach with welcoming pulses that seem to strengthen with each step.

I reach the end of the passage where crude steps lead upward toward a trapdoor glowing with cillae identical to those covering my skin. As I place my hand against it, the patterns brighten in recognition, the ancient magic responding to the quadruplets' combined signatures pulsing beneath my palm.

The door swings upward silently, revealing the throne room from a vantage point I've never seen before—an opening directly behind the transformed Winter Throne itself. From this angle, I can see the entire chamber prepared for what's coming. The protective enchantments etched into the floor in concentric circles of power. The loyal omegas positioned strategically around the perimeter, frost glowing across their skin as they maintain vigilant watch. Flora directing defensive preparations with calm efficiency, her bred-for-perfection features set in lines of determination rather than submission. Mira creating ice flowers that somehow strengthen the magical barriers rather than merely decorating them, her young face showing concentration beyond her years.

Everyone in position as planned, with one critical absence. Cadeyrn, still fighting somewhere in the palace, drawing enemy forces away from this final sanctuary, unaware that I've been separated from my escort and nearly captured.

As I emerge through the trapdoor, all eyes turn toward me. Relief washes across faces strained with tension and fear. The gathered omegas had been expecting me, but the delay had clearly begun to foster concern.

"Lady Briar!" Flora rushes forward, helping me up the last few steps. Her voice carries genuine relief rather than the calm efficiency I've come to expect from her court-trained persona. "We feared—when Lysandra arrived without you?—"

"The Collector found me," I explain, my voice rougher than intended, the fall and subsequent chase having taken more out of me than I realized. "And Elder Iris Bloom. They collapsed the passage, but the palace created another route."

A murmur runs through the gathered omegas—some fearful, others determined. The names carry weight, reputation, threat. The Collector's particularly sends visible shivers through several who bear his claiming marks, his reputation for brutal possessiveness well-established among those who survived his attention.

"The birth chambers have been completely overrun," Flora informs me, guiding me toward the throne. Her practical nature reasserts itself as she focuses on immediate tactical concerns. "But the decoy worked. The bulk of their forces concentrated there, giving us time to prepare here."

I survey the throne room as we approach the dais, noting the defensive positions established exactly as we'd planned. Fourteen awakened omegas, each showing varying levels of Wild Magic manifestation through cillae visible on exposed skin. Some maintain ice barriers across vulnerable entry points, others prepare healing stations for potential injuries, still others work to activate the ancient protection patterns etched into the floor—concentric circles of magical formulae that pulse with increasing brightness as the quadruplets approach.

"And Cadeyrn?" I can't keep the worry from my voice, our claiming bond stretched thin by the chaos between us. I still sense him—alive, fighting—but the connection feels tenuous, like trying to hold smoke between cupped palms.

Flora's expression tightens slightly. "Leading the defense at the north junction. Drawing Summer Court forces away from direct paths to the throne room."

Separated by necessity, by strategy, by the cruel logic of warfare that divides strength to survive. My chest aches with the physical distance between us, our claiming bond stretched thin by the chaos of battle and the magic being thrown against palace defenses.

I reach through the bond instinctively, sending wordless reassurance that I've reached the throne room safely. Whether he receives the message is impossible to know, but the attempt itself strengthens my resolve. We've prepared for this moment—planned, strategized, accepted the necessity of temporary separation to ensure the quadruplets' safe arrival.

Another explosion rocks the foundations, this one close enough to send dust raining from the ceiling. The loyal omegas look upward with alarm, cillae flaring across skin in protective response. Small fragments of ice dislodge from ornate fixtures, falling like deadly snow across the ancient patterns etched into the floor.

"They're breaking through faster than we anticipated," Flora observes, her practical nature asserting itself despite the fear evident in her violet eyes. "We need to begin the ancient protection ritual."

"We can't," I remind her, one hand automatically moving to my belly where the quadruplets respond to the magical turbulence around us. "Not without Cadeyrn's blood to trigger the protective field."

Flora's expression turns grim. "Then we hold as long as we can. And hope he reaches us before they break through."

I turn toward the throne—transformed beyond recognition by our claiming just days ago. No longer the stark symbol of Winter Court isolation, 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 blue in perfect balance. A physical manifestation of what our children represent—the reunification of elements that should never have been divided.

If Cadeyrn can't reach us in time... if the allied courts breach our final defenses before he returns...

I push the thought away, focusing instead on what I can control. The loyal omegas need leadership, certainty, conviction. Not the fear clawing at my insides or the desperate longing for my mate's return.

"Strengthen the eastern approach," I command, settling onto the throne despite the way it makes me feel like an imposter. Ice shaped to honor royalty, now supporting a village blacksmith transformed by Wild Magic and stubborn survival. "That's where Elder Iris will focus her attack. Mira, your ice flowers seem to reinforce the protection patterns—create more along the perimeter."

They move with immediate purpose, cillae brightening with renewed determination. I watch them position themselves around the chamber, these omegas who should have been nothing but breeding vessels according to court doctrine, now wielding awakened magic with growing confidence.

Another blast shakes the foundation, closer this time. Small fragments of ice dislodge from the ceiling, drifting down like snow across the ancient patterns etched into the floor. Cracks appear in the western wall, golden light seeping through like infection spreading through damaged flesh.

We're running out of time.

I close my eyes, reaching through our claiming bond for any sense of Cadeyrn's location. The connection stretches thin across the chaos-filled palace, like trying to hear a whisper during a thunderstorm. Distance and magical interference distort the bond, making it difficult to sense anything beyond his continued existence.

I need you, I push through the bond, pouring every ounce of emotion into the sending. Every memory of connection, every moment of trust built since that first claiming beneath the blackthorn tree. They've found me. The throne room. Hurry.

Whether he receives the message is impossible to know. The bond pulses once in response, but whether that's genuine connection or just wishful thinking, I can't tell through the magical static created by colliding court magic and defensive spells.

A third explosion, violent enough to crack one of the ice pillars supporting the western arch. The loyal omegas respond immediately, frost magic flowing from their hands to reinforce the damaged structure. The collaborative working impresses me—spontaneous coordination without verbal commands, cillae synchronizing automatically between practitioners with different ability levels.

"They're getting closer," Flora observes, taking position at my right hand. The practical assessment carries no panic, just strategic recognition of worsening odds. "The palace defenses are falling faster than predicted."

"We hold," I tell her, straightening on the throne despite the fear threatening to swallow me whole. The four lives within me deserve nothing less than absolute conviction, even if it's mostly performance. "As long as necessary. Until Cadeyrn arrives."

Or until the allied courts break through and take what they've come for.

I place both hands on my belly, feeling the quadruplets respond with synchronized movement. Four lives that shouldn't exist according to court doctrine. Four vessels carrying magic that could either save or destroy the rigid systems that have dominated both realms for millennia.

The throne pulses beneath me in response to their movement, ancient magic recognizing what I carry. But without Cadeyrn's blood to activate the protection ritual, we remain vulnerable despite all our preparations. The throne room is our final sanctuary, but without the ritual, it's just another chamber in a palace under assault.

"We hold," I repeat, as much to convince myself as anyone else. "We hold until he comes."

But as the walls around us shudder with another magical assault, the painful truth settles into my bones: Cadeyrn may not reach us in time. And if he doesn't, everything we've built together, everything we've sacrificed for, everything we've become, may end before it truly has a chance to begin.

The Wild Magic strengthens around us in defiant response to my fear, cillae brightening across loyal omega skin, the floor pulsing with ancient power. The throne itself seems to embrace me, the transformed ice molding to support my pregnant form with perfect comfort.

We hold. For as long as necessary, we hold.