Page 57

CHAPTER 57

POV: Cadeyrn

Blood freezes on my face in delicate patterns, each crimson droplet transforming into lethal art where it touches my skin. Not my blood. Not yet. Though at this rate, it's only a matter of time before I'm adding my own to the gallery.

I move through the Winter Court's grand entryway like a storm given flesh, frost magic spiraling from my transformed body in concentric rings that shatter and reform with each ragged breath. The magic no longer obeys Winter Court's rigid geometry—instead of perfect fractals and symmetrical crystals, my power now flows in wild, organic patterns that mirror the cillae spreading across my skin.

Ahead, three Summer Court alphas fall beneath waves of ice that erupt from my outstretched hands, their golden armor cracking like thin ice on a spring pond as they freeze from within. The sound—like branches breaking under winter's first heavy snow—echoes through the fractured hall. Their flesh blackens with frostbite, eyes widening in the horrified realization that their specialized training against Winter Court magic offers no protection against what I've become.

"Secure the eastern corridor," I command the nearest Winter Guard captain, my voice carrying harmonic undertones that vibrate through the crystalline air. "No one approaches the throne room."

He salutes sharply, cillae brightening across his ceremonial armor as he barks orders to his squad. The detached part of my mind—the Prince who ruled dispassionately for seven centuries—notes the fear mingling with his obedience. Not fear of the enemy, but of me—of what I've transformed into since claiming Briar in the Bloodmoon Forest.

I don't wait to confirm their compliance, already moving toward the next wave of attackers—Autumn Court this time, their organic camouflage magic rendered useless against a palace that whispers their locations directly to my consciousness. I feel their positions through the transformed ice of the palace floor—heartbeats vibrating through ancient foundations that have awakened to my command.

The Winter Palace has become an extension of my will, ice walls shifting to trap invaders, corridors rearranging to confuse enemy formations, ceilings collapsing with strategic precision to divide attacking forces. Seven centuries of rigid, unchanging architecture now fluid and responsive, transformed by the Wild Magic that has awakened within these ancient walls.

The palace remembers what it once was, before the courts decided magic needed to be caged and labeled.

"My Prince!" A Winter Court guard calls from a side passage. "The Spring Court breaches the western wall. Their blossom-bearers dissolve our outer defenses."

I acknowledge with a sharp nod, already redirecting my strategy. Spring Court specializes in growth magic—vines that crack foundations, roots that undermine walls, blossoms that release spores to melt ice barriers. Their natural counter to Winter's frozen stillness.

But I am no longer purely Winter Court. The Wild Magic flowing through me carries aspects of all four seasons, just as the children Briar carries combine all elemental aspects into balanced whole.

Briar.

I reach through our claiming bond, seeking her distinctive magical signature amid the chaos. Her presence flickers—distant, muffled, but unmistakably alive. Fear pulses through our connection, not for herself but for the lives growing within her. She's moving rapidly through the palace depths, each pulse of her panic driving daggers of ice through my chest.

They hunt our children, I send through our bond, unsure if she receives the message through interference and distance. The vessels that might return balance to what the courts fractured.

The bond stretches thin between us, distance and magical interference weakening what should be unbreakable. I push raw determination through the connection, hoping she feels my resolve even as the divide between us grows. I sense her captured, then escaping again—the second attempt to take her from me failing as the first did. Her resilience burns bright through our bond despite the interference.

An explosion rocks the northern wing, magic that smells of spring blossoms and fresh soil billowing through shattered ice walls. Spring Court's elite hunters, using specialized breaching spells designed to counter Winter Court defenses. The very air weeps as ancient ice dissolves into mist, leaving century-old protections in ruins.

I race toward the breach, frost trailing in my wake like a winter storm. Three Autumn Court elites block my path, their leaf-pattern camouflage shifting to match the corridor's crystalline surfaces. They move with perfect synchronization—trained specifically to counter Winter Court fighting techniques.

"Winter Prince," their leader acknowledges, ritual scarring across his amber-hued face marking him as a veteran of many Hunts. "The Council of Nine has deemed your actions treasonous against court balance. Surrender now, and we'll allow your mate to birth the vessels before extraction."

Vessels. The word ignites something primal in my chest—rage so cold it burns. Seven centuries ago, I might have used the same clinical term, viewing unborn children as mere containers for magical power. Now, the dehumanization in their language fuels the Wild Magic surging beneath my skin.

"You've forgotten what balance truly means," I reply, cillae darkening across my transformed flesh until they appear almost black against my skin. "What the courts divided was meant to be whole."

The Autumn Court leader's eyes narrow, autumn-gold magic gathering around his fingertips. "Sentimental attachment to breeding stock has compromised your judgment. The Council will cleanse this corruption from your system once the vessels are secured."

They attack as one, moving with the synchronization that makes Autumn Court so deadly in combination. Amber magic weaves between them in complex patterns designed to entangle and immobilize Winter fae. Under normal circumstances, against a normal Winter Prince adhering to court-separated magic, their techniques would prove effective.

But I am no longer bound by Winter Court limitations.

Wild Magic erupts from my transformed body not as precise frost weaponry but as primal force—raw winter fury untamed by protocol or tradition. The corridor temperature plummets so dramatically that moisture in the air solidifies instantly, forming diamond dust that slices through the Autumn Court's protective magic like countless tiny blades.

The three elites stagger back, blood welling from a thousand minuscule cuts across exposed skin. For the first time, genuine fear replaces calculated confidence in their eyes. They face not a Winter Prince bound by court limitations, but something older, more dangerous—a vessel for magic that predates their training and protocols.

"What are you becoming?" the leader gasps, amber magic flickering weakly as he attempts to stem the bleeding.

"What I always should have been." I advance, each step leaving frozen footprints that spread outward in living patterns. "What the courts have suppressed for centuries."

I don't waste energy on elaborate combat. These elites deserve warrior's respect under normal circumstances, but nothing about this day remains normal. My mate labors somewhere in the palace depths, our children—bearers of Wild Magic that might restore balance to fractured realms—hunted before they've drawn first breath.

Frost explodes from my outstretched hands, encasing all three in ice that preserves their expressions of horrified recognition. They'll live—suspended in magical hibernation rather than killed outright. Despite the Wild Magic transforming me, I retain enough of my former self to avoid unnecessary death.

Through our bond, Briar's terror spikes suddenly—a wave of pure, animal panic that staggers me mid-stride. Not battle fear but something deeper, more primal. The sacred chamber. Forced labor. The collar's suppression. The connection between us stretches painfully thin, distance and magical interference muffling what should be crystal clear.

"My Prince!" A voice cuts through the cacophony—Lady Lysandra, her healer's robes discarded for practical battle attire, cillae spiraling down both arms as she fights her way toward me. "The northeastern defenses have fallen. Court hunters approach the inner sanctum."

"Numbers?" I ask, already calculating counterstrategies as I slice an attacking Spring Court hunter from shoulder to hip, his blood steaming where it spills across freezing floors.

"At least thirty hunters. They carry iron nets and suppression collars. The Collector leads them personally." Her voice drops lower. "They speak of extracting the vessels before natural birth."

Specific tools for capturing rather than killing. For taking Briar. For stealing our children from her womb through unnatural magic. My mate has already endured one capture and escape today—I will not allow a third attempt to succeed.

Rage crystallizes within me, cillae darkening across my transformed body until they appear almost black against my skin. The temperature around me plummets so drastically that the very air solidifies, falling as diamond dust that slices exposed skin of friend and foe alike.

"My Prince," Lysandra warns, raising a protective barrier of frost around herself. "Control. Remember what we discussed. Wild Magic responds to emotion, but unchecked?—"

"I know the risks," I cut her off, reining in the deadly cold with effort that makes my transformed frame tremble. Wild Magic thrives on primal emotion, draws strength from unleashed instinct, but unconstrained, it consumes its vessel as readily as its targets. Seven centuries of perfect control now fights against instinct screaming to protect my mate and unborn children.

"The throne room," I tell her, cillae stabilizing as I bring the Wild Magic back under tenuous control. "Make certain it's prepared according to our contingency. The birthing chamber may be compromised."

Her eyes widen slightly. "The ancient protection hasn't been used in?—"

"I know precisely how long," I interrupt, the weight of seven centuries pressing against my shoulders. "I was there when it was sealed."

Lysandra nods once, sharp and efficient. "I'll ensure the throne room is prepared. But you?—"

"I need to reach Briar," I say, already turning toward the interior passageways. "She carries Wild Magic that could remake everything the courts have twisted. They will kill her to prevent the transformation."

"Then go," Lysandra replies, cillae brightening across her skin as she draws on her own awakening abilities. "We'll hold the approaches to the throne room."

I move deeper into the palace, each step carrying me closer to where I feel Briar's presence through our strained bond. The palace responds to my urgency, walls flowing like liquid ice to create the most direct path to the sacred chamber where I sense she's been taken.

Another explosion, closer this time. Through a gaping wound in the palace wall, I glimpse the battle raging in the courtyard beyond—hundreds of allied court forces clashing with my loyal Winter Guard. The snow-covered grounds run red and gold and green and amber, blood of four courts mingling as they tear each other apart for power they don't understand.

Among the defenders, awakened omegas fight alongside trained soldiers, their cillae gleaming in the crimson moonlight. Untrained but fierce, channeling Wild Magic through sheer will rather than formal technique. One creates a shield of ice that deflects a Summer Court fireball. Another freezes an attacking alpha in mid-leap, her face set in grim determination as she protects younger omegas retreating toward the palace interior.

Through our bond, Briar's terror spikes suddenly—a wave of pure, animal panic that staggers me mid-stride. Not battle fear but something deeper, more primal. The sacred chamber. Forced labor. The collar's suppression. The connection between us stretches painfully thin, distance and magical interference muffling what should be crystal clear.

I spin toward the inner palace, abandoning the courtyard battle without hesitation. Nothing matters but reaching her. Not the palace. Not the court. Not seven centuries of duty and tradition and control. Nothing.

"My Prince!" Lysandra calls after me, but I'm already gone, frost trailing in my wake as I race through corridors that reshape themselves to speed my passage. The palace responds to my desperation, walls flowing like liquid to create the most direct path to wherever Briar has been taken.

I'm halfway there when our bond flickers—like a candle in wind, guttering momentarily before stabilizing. Something—or someone—actively interferes with the connection. Not merely distance or chaos but deliberate suppression.

Spring Court magic. Specialized binding spells designed to sever connections, to isolate vessels before harvesting their contents. The realization sends frost exploding from my skin, coating the corridor in jagged spikes that radiate outward from my body like physical manifestations of my rage.

I follow the weakening bond deeper into the palace, descending ancient stairs rarely used in modern court ceremony. The air grows thick with residual power—not just winter's frost but all four seasonal courts, their magics layered over centuries of use. This place has seen countless births, yet feels wrong somehow. Corrupted. Twisted from what it should be into something that perverts nature rather than honors it.

The presence of all four court magics here reminds me of when this chamber was built—before the courts divided, when magic flowed freely between seasonal aspects. The blackened walls bear traces of all four courts' power, not as separate forces but as aspects of a single, unified magic. What we've worked so hard to divide was once integrated, balanced.

Through our stretching bond, I feel Briar's pain shifting—not battle wounds but something deeper, more primal. Labor. The little ones quicken to life, triggered by stress and fear and whatever magic is being performed in that underground chamber. Their combined power pulses through our bond despite interference, four distinct signatures merging into something the courts have feared for generations.

I take stairs three at a time, frost exploding from my feet with each impact. The palace responds to my urgency, ice steps reshaping themselves to speed my descent. Walls pulse with sympathetic magic, ancient cillae awakening after centuries of dormancy.

Another wave of panic floods through our bond, stronger than before. I feel Briar's determination mingling with terror, her indomitable will straining against forces that seek to control what should be sacred.

The bond flickers again, weaker now. Not severed completely, but muffled, suppressed by magic specifically designed to counter Wild Magic's connections.

I reach the bottom of the ancient stairwell, emerging into a circular antechamber carved from black stone veined with silver. Four passages branch outward, each marked with symbols of a different court—winter's geometric frost, summer's licking flames, autumn's spiraling decay, spring's unfurling growth.

The bond pulls me toward the passage marked with spring's sigil—the most likely location for specialized birth magic. The corridor descends further, air growing thick with the scent of soil and new growth that seems obscene in the Winter Palace's perpetual cold.

The passage ends abruptly at a massive door carved from living wood—an artifact that predates the Winter Court itself. Ancient magic pulses from its surface, wards designed to prevent unauthorized entry to sacred spaces. In another time, these protections might have given me pause. Now, they register as merely another obstacle between me and my mate.

I press my palm against the wood, channeling Wild Magic rather than traditional Winter Court formulas. The door resists briefly, responding to unfamiliar energy, then yields with a groan that sounds almost like pain. Beyond lies not the birthing chamber itself but another antechamber—this one occupied by six Spring Court guards arranged in defensive formation.

They react instantly, iron nets at the ready to suppress Winter Court magic. Under normal circumstances, against a normal Winter fae, their tactics would prove effective.

I am no longer normal. Haven't been since Briar triggered my first rut in the Bloodmoon Forest, since Wild Magic began remaking what seven centuries of rigid control had twisted into something unnatural.

I don't waste time with formal combat. Wild Magic responds to primal need rather than calculated strategy, erupting from my skin in a wave that freezes the nearest three guards before they can deploy their nets. The remaining three retreat, forming a tighter defensive circle as they reassess the threat I pose.

"The vessel-bearer has already escaped," one states, his voice carrying spring's deceptive gentleness. "She fled the binding chamber and escaped upward. You pursue shadows, Winter Prince."

Through our weakening bond, I sense the partial truth in his words. Briar has indeed escaped the birthing chamber—her presence feels more distant now, moving upward through the palace with a midwife at her side. But labor has begun. Her path will lead to the throne room, to the ancient protection we prepared for precisely this moment.

If I follow directly, I might reach her in time to activate the protection properly. To ensure our little ones are born safely amidst magic designed to shield rather than harvest.

But instinct warns against the obvious path. The remaining guards yield too easily, their retreat calculated rather than panicked. A trap, then. Forces waiting along the direct route to the throne room, prepared to intercept me before I reach Briar.

"Where is Elder Iris?" I demand, cillae darkening across my skin as Wild Magic responds to building rage. "She orchestrated this attack."

The guard's eyes flick briefly toward the inner chamber. "The Elder follows protocol regarding unauthorized Wild Magic manifestation. The vessels must be properly stabilized before?—"

I don't let him finish. Wild Magic erupts from my transformed hands, not as controlled frost spears but as living patterns that spread across the guard's spring-green skin, turning verdant flesh gray with cellular death. Unlike the outer guards, I show no mercy here. These hunters came with specific intent to harm my mate, to steal our children.

"The little ones are not vessels," I tell the remaining guards as their companion crumbles to frozen dust. "They are children. Heirs to magic you've forgotten."

Fear replaces calculated confidence in their eyes. This isn't the Winter Prince they expected—bound by court protocol, constrained by traditional forms. They face something older, more primal—Wild Magic given conscious vessel after centuries of suppression.

I choose a different approach than direct pursuit. The palace itself remains my ally, its ancient structure responding to Wild Magic in ways the courts have forgotten. Pressing my palm against the black stone wall, I channel power not to destroy but to reshape. The wall yields like softened wax, creating an opening where none existed before.

"Stop him!" The cry goes up as I slip through the newly formed passage, walls flowing closed behind me to seal my hunters away. The makeshift corridor leads upward at a steep angle, a direct route to the upper levels that bypasses traditional pathways.

I climb swiftly, ignoring the strain on my transformed body. Through our weakened bond, I feel Briar's labor progressing—waves of pain and determination reaching me through the increasingly tenuous connection. The contractions come faster now, the four little ones responding to danger by hastening their arrival.

Hold on, I send through our bond, unsure if the message penetrates interference. I'm coming.

I feel something—not words but raw emotion—flowing back through our connection. Determination. Fear. The fierce, protective instinct of an omega protecting unborn children. She's fighting, continuing forward despite whatever horrors Elder Iris subjected her to in that birth chamber.

Halfway to my destination, disaster strikes. Something punches through the palace wall beside me—a specialized weapon that erupts in a bloom of summer gold and autumn amber. Not court-created but something newer, experimental, developed for this very conflict.

Pain unlike anything in seven centuries of existence tears through me—not surface agony but something deeper, more fundamental. As if every cell in my transformed body suddenly fights against itself, Wild Magic warring with my very essence.

I stagger, cillae across my skin flickering erratically as the weapon's magic spreads through my system like poison in a wound. Not killing—that would be too simple, too clean—but disrupting the connection between vessel and magic, between form and function.

Blood wells from the wound—silver-blue and glittering with frost that melts almost immediately upon contact with stone. My transformed body betrays me, its changes destabilizing as the weapon's magic spreads. Not returning completely to what I was before, but caught between states, unstable and weakening.

Through the makeshift passage wall steps The Collector—Summer Court alpha notorious for his obsessive trophy-taking. His bronzed skin bears ritual scars marking successful Hunt claims, dark hair falling to his shoulders in intricate braids interwoven with small bones and scraps of clothing—physical records of breeding history that suddenly seem obscene rather than impressive.

"Winter Prince," he greets, voice carrying the perfect mix of formal respect and utter contempt. "How far you've fallen. From the court's perfect example of control to this... wild thing."

Another wave of pain washes through me as the weapon's disruption spreads deeper. I fall to one knee, Wild Magic pouring from my skin in chaotic bursts as my transformed body fights to maintain itself.

"She escaped us below," The Collector continues conversationally, examining the specialized weapon with proprietary satisfaction. "But it matters little. My hunters intercept her in the upper corridors even now. The vessels she carries will make perfect additions to my collection." He gestures to the small bones woven into his braids. "I have a space waiting specifically for your spawn."

The trophies in his hair—I recognize them now with sickening clarity. Not just animal bones or trinkets from willing conquests. These are fragments taken from claimed omegas, from their offspring. Some appear too small to have survived extraction—tiny finger bones that could only have come from unborn children. Seven centuries of Winter Court discipline, and this is what finally makes me want to vomit. Progress.

Rage burns cold and sharp beneath the agony. This creature dares to claim our children as trophies, to view Wild Magic as something to be possessed rather than respected. I want to tear him apart slowly, savor each moment of his suffering. But I also need him dead quickly, efficiently. Seven centuries of Winter Court precision battling against primal instinct newly awakened.

"You will never touch them," I promise, cillae stabilizing briefly as I gather what remains of my fractured power. "Never see them. Never come within a realm's distance of what is mine."

The Collector smiles, the expression never reaching his amber eyes. "Bold words from a prince who kneels. Your mate escaped one trap only to enter another. Elder Iris may have failed, but I never do." He leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'll tell you something special, Prince. I only need one vessel for my collection. The rest will be... processed for their magical components."

He withdraws from his robes another weapon—this one more refined than what struck me initially. A crystal blade that pulses with unnatural light, its structure designed not to kill but to sever magical connections permanently.

"This severs claiming bonds," he explains, turning the blade so light refracts through its facets. "Developed specifically for you. Once the connection between you is broken, your mate will be easier to control. The shock alone might trigger full birth."

The bond. Our connection—the magical link that formed between Briar and me during our first claiming in the forest, strengthened through subsequent joinings, deepened as Wild Magic awakened within us both. More than just alpha-omega biology now; it carries parts of our consciousness, our shared transformation.

"I've studied your kind for centuries," The Collector continues, inspecting the crystal blade with professional interest. "The vessels you call children are simply containers for power—easily harvested, easily processed. What makes this batch special is the Wild Magic they contain. Such a shame they must be separated for proper evaluation."

He raises the weapon again, aiming for my heart to complete the disruption. Winter Court tradition would demand strategy here—careful calculation of odds, precise application of countering magic, tactical retreat if necessary. But Winter Court tradition would never have led me to Briar in the first place, would never have awakened Wild Magic through our claiming, would never have created the children now fighting to be born amid battle and betrayal.

I abandon tradition entirely, embracing instead the primal instinct that has guided me since first scenting Briar in the forest. Wild Magic responds not to formal training but to raw need, erupting from my wound in a concentrated blast that takes The Collector entirely by surprise.

He staggers back, weapon discharging wildly into the ceiling as frost crawls up his arm with unnatural speed. Perfect bronzed skin blackens with frostbite, ritual scars cracking as ice invades flesh beneath. His scream echoes through the makeshift passage, primal and terrified in a way that satisfies something dark within me. The sound carries the metallic tang of panic, a scent I've never permitted myself to enjoy until now.

"My collection," he gasps, watching frost consume his trophy-marked arm. "You can't?—"

"I already have." I watch dispassionately as ice reaches his shoulder, then crosses to his chest where it accelerates, heading straight for his heart. Not Winter Court's precision frost—this is Wild Magic's primal ice, not just freezing but unmaking what it touches. "You should have feared me more."

The effort costs dearly. My vision darkens at the edges as the weapon's disruption spreads further through my system. The wound in my side gapes wider, silver-blue blood pouring faster now, cillae across my transformed body flickering like dying stars.

But The Collector pays a higher price. Ice consumes his chest, reaching the heavily scarred skin where ritually carved marks of his "conquests" spread across his torso. As frost touches each scar, the tiny bones woven into his hair emit faint light—the last remnants of the omegas and children he claimed as trophies finally finding release.

"You destroy everything the courts have built," he accuses, voice weakening as frost reaches his throat. "Centuries of careful cultivation and control."

"Good." I force myself upright, legs threatening to buckle beneath damaged power flows. "What you built was wrong from the beginning."

The Collector has no response beyond a final, gasping breath as ice claims his heart. His body falls, frozen into a statue of grotesque trophy-taking suspended forever in crystalline death.

I force myself upright, leaving The Collector's frozen form behind. His fate matters less than reaching Briar, than activating the throne room's ancient protection before our children enter a world determined to control or destroy them.

Each step forward costs more than the last, the weapon's disruption spreading inexorably through my system. Wild Magic fights to maintain the vessel it has remade these past months, but even its primal power struggles against magic specifically designed to counter it.

Through our weakened bond, I feel Briar's presence in the throne room, her labor progressing rapidly now. Pain and determination mingle in what little connection remains between us—she's made it to our sanctuary, to the ancient protection we prepared. But something else comes through the bond as well—a sense of pursuit closing in, of danger not yet escaped.

The crystal blade remains embedded in my chest, its disruption magic spreading with each heartbeat. I could pull it free, but doing so without proper magical containment might sever the bond completely rather than just weaken it. Better to reach Briar first, to be there physically before attempting removal.

The palace responds to my desperate need, walls shifting to create the most direct path upward. I climb through channels never meant for passage, ancient ice flowing aside to speed my journey. Blood marks my trail, silver-blue droplets freezing instantly upon contact with the Winter Court's perpetual cold.

I emerge finally into a corridor I recognize—the approach to the throne room itself. Guards lie frozen along the passage, evidence of Briar's passage and the awakened Wild Magic she now wields even in labor. Pride mingles with concern—such power exerted during birth could endanger both her and the babes if not properly channeled.

The throne room doors stand partially open, cillae spiraling outward from where her hands must have touched them. Beyond lies our sanctuary, the transformed throne at its center—our best hope for safely delivering children carrying Wild Magic that shouldn't be possible.

I stagger forward, weapon's disruption spreading through my chest now, reaching for vital organs. Each heartbeat pumps silver-blue blood through a system increasingly unable to contain it, cillae across my skin fading like morning mist before rising sun.

The bond between us weakens further, stretching painfully thin as the weapon's magic interferes with Wild Magic's connections. Still, I feel Briar's determination, her indomitable will driving her forward despite labor's pain. She reaches the throne itself, ancient magic responding to her presence, to the children she carries.

Almost there. Just a few more steps to join her, to complete the protection, to ensure our children enter a world prepared to receive them.

A shout from behind—Summer Court hunters, having discovered The Collector's frozen form, now pursue me with renewed determination. Their golden armor gleams in the Winter Palace's dim light, weapons raised as they race to prevent what they cannot understand.

No time to fight. No strength left for battle. Every remaining fragment of power must be reserved for reaching Briar, for activating the throne's ancient protection.

I lunge forward, clearing the throne room threshold as weapons discharge behind me. Something strikes my back—another specialized projectile, this one releasing magic designed to completely sever the connection between vessel and power.

Pain beyond description tears through me, Wild Magic pouring from the wound in visible waves that crystallize instantly upon contact with air. My transformed body begins unmaking itself, the changes wrought by months of awakening now reversing under specialized attack.

The throne room stretches before me, impossibly vast. The transformed throne gleams at the center, surrounded by a protective circle of loyal omegas whose cillae pulse in synchronized rhythm. Briar is there, her face contorted with both physical labor and the emotional agony of what she must think is my death.

The weapon severs our bond completely—not just stretched or muffled but utterly destroyed. In that terrible moment, I understand what she feels: complete emptiness where our connection should be. To her, I must feel dead, gone, the bond vanished as if it never existed.

I fall, silver-blue blood pooling beneath me on the throne room's transformed floor. Summer Court hunters pour through the doorway behind me, weapons raised for the killing blow. I haven't reached her. Haven't completed the protection that might have shielded our children during birth.

Through the severed bond, I try one final time to reach her—pushing against magical blockage with everything remaining of my transformed self. I live. I'm here.

But the connection no longer exists. What once carried thoughts and emotions between us now stretches into empty void, a chasm too wide to bridge with failing strength.

The weapon's magic fills my vision with dark fractals, consuming awareness as it severs the bond completely. The last sensation I register is Briar's anguished scream—her pain at feeling our connection vanish more devastating than any physical wound. I wish I could tell her I'm not afraid of dying. I'm only afraid of leaving her to face this alone. But wishes are for people with futures, and mine just ran out.

Then darkness claims me completely, silver-blue blood pooling beneath my still form as Summer Court hunters close in for the final strike.