Page 58

CHAPTER 58

POV: Briar

The silence where Cadeyrn should be hollows me from the inside out.

Not the absence of sound—gods know the palace screams with battle—but the void where our bond pulsed since that first claiming against the blackthorn tree. A connection I fought, then surrendered to, then came to need like air. Now gone. Severed. A phantom limb of the soul that leaves me gasping with each remembered reach toward nothingness.

I've endured broken bones, hunger pains, and the bite of shadowroot withdrawal, but nothing compares to this. The bond's absence is a wound that bleeds magic instead of blood, leaking Wild Magic that spirals around me in jagged, unstable patterns. My grief manifests physically—frost forming and shattering with each ragged breath.

"Keep moving," Wren urges, her hand steady under my elbow as another contraction bends me double, stealing breath and thought alike. "We need to reach the throne room."

Funny how death and birth insist on happening simultaneously. Nature's cosmic joke. The universe doesn't care about appropriate timing or dramatic pacing. It simply happens, brutal and indifferent as a forge fire that burns regardless of what you feed it.

I straighten, one hand cradling my belly where the fire child fights to enter a world half-orphaned before taking its first breath. The corridor ahead stretches impossibly long, palace walls bleeding with battle magic that seeps from the stone like sweat from fevered skin. From somewhere to my left, I hear the clash of weapons and the distinctive crack of frost magic meeting fire—the sound of bone snapping in winter cold.

"Can you make it?" Wren asks, professional concern etched in the lines around her eyes.

"Do I have a choice?" The laugh that escapes me sounds feral even to my own ears, more wolf than woman. "Either I walk to the throne room or I birth four babes with Wild Magic in a bloody hallway while three courts hunt us down."

Her lips twitch—the ghost of a smile in a face too accustomed to witnessing pain. "You remind me of myself, before."

Before. That single word contains multitudes. Before the Hunt. Before claiming. Before everything changed. I wonder what Wren was like in her before-time, when she was just a village midwife whose hands brought new life rather than serving as instruments for courts that view omegas as vessels.

We reach an intersection where three corridors meet, and I halt, assessing each path with a hunter's eyes. Each pulses with different energy—the left crackling with combat magic, the center eerily silent like a sprung trap waiting for prey, the right humming with the whispers of awakened omegas.

"This way," I decide, choosing the right path with the tactical instinct that kept me alive in the forest when others fell.

We've taken five steps when they appear—a group of omegas rounding the corner ahead, cillae glowing across their skin in the controlled, rigid geometries of court magic. For a heartbeat, relief floods me. Allies. Safety in numbers.

Then I notice the silver collars around their throats, digging into flesh where they suppress Wild Magic. The flatness in their eyes, like frozen ponds with nothing living beneath. Court loyalists, bound to the old ways either by fear or conviction or simple survival calculation.

"The breeder approaches," one announces, her voice mechanical beneath the collar's influence. "Secure her for binding."

Breeder. The word strikes like a hammer blow on hot metal, reducing me to the function the courts assigned. A vessel. A womb with legs. The very thing I've fought against becoming since I discovered what being omega meant in this twisted world.

"Sisters," I address them, one hand braced against the wall as another contraction builds, pressure and fire intertwined. "Why fight for those who see you as things rather than people?"

The leader steps forward, silver collar glinting in the ambient light of the corridor. "Wild Magic brings destruction, not freedom. The courts maintain order."

"Order built on our backs," I counter, breath hissing through clenched teeth as the contraction peaks like metal reaching breaking point. "On our bodies. On our children."

Something flickers in the eyes of the youngest—doubt, perhaps, or recognition of a truth she's buried to survive. But the others maintain their positions, frost magic gathering at their fingertips despite the collars' suppression.

"The grief has broken her mind," the leader tells her companions. "Take her before the children are lost."

They advance in practiced formation—five court-trained omegas against one in active labor and a midwife without combat skills. The odds aren't just bad; they're bloody absurd, like fighting a forest fire with a bucket of spit.

But then, I've survived worse absurdities over the past three months.

I gather what remains of my strength, Wild Magic responding sluggishly to my depleted reserves. Frost spirals around my hands, no longer the delicate patterns of court magic but something feral and uncontained, like winter storms that kill without malice or mercy.

"Last chance," I tell them, voice steadier than I feel. "Step aside, or I'll show you exactly what the courts fear about Wild Magic."

The leader raises her hands, frost gathering despite the collar's suppression. "Your threats mean noth?—"

Movement erupts from the side corridor—a blur of silver-streaked hair and glowing cillae. Mira launches herself at the leader with untrained but devastating force, ice dagger materializing in her hand as she strikes. Her pregnant belly doesn't slow her attack, desperation making her movements swift despite her condition.

"Briar! Go!" she shouts, voice cracking with effort as she grapples with the older omega. "We'll hold them!"

More figures emerge behind her—Flora leading a contingent of awakened omegas, their cillae burning bright and unconstrained by silver collars. What began in the Hunt as desperate individuals helping each other survive has evolved into something more powerful: solidarity. Purpose. Rebellion forged in shared suffering.

"Sisters against sisters," I murmur, the bitter irony of it settling in my bones like winter chill as the corridor erupts into chaotic combat.

Frost magic fills the space—some wild and feral, some constrained by court limitations. I press myself against the wall, another contraction making offensive magic impossible as I focus purely on protecting my belly from stray attacks. The four little ones respond to battle chaos with agitated movement, the fire child pressing lower with each passing moment.

Flora fights her way to my side, cillae glowing like constellations across her transformed skin. "This way," she urges, supporting me toward a narrow side passage I hadn't noticed. "The others will hold them."

"Mira—" I begin, glancing back at the young omega still locked in desperate combat despite her pregnant state.

"Chose her side," Flora finishes, her violet eyes holding mine with unexpected fierceness. "As we all must."

The hidden passage twists upward through the palace depths, curved walls pulsing with ancient magic that responds to our passing. More than architecture, the very stones seem alive with purpose, guiding us toward the throne room through paths unknown to court maps.

"The loyalists found us too quickly," I observe as we climb, each step a negotiation between determination and physical limitation. "Someone's coordinating them."

Flora's expression darkens. "The Summer Court general. He's taken command since Elder Iris fell. They say he's using binding magic to direct their forces."

The binding magic. The thought of such power in the hands of someone determined to maintain court separation sends another wave of dread through me. Without Cadeyrn to complete our bond... without his blood to activate the throne room's protection...

The emptiness in my chest where he should be yawns wider, a void cold enough to freeze tears before they fall. I push the grief down, locking it away behind the practical calculations that have kept me alive when emotion would have killed me.

Another contraction seizes me, this one dropping me to my knees on the cold stone. The fire child descends further, magma-hot and impatient to enter a world that doesn't deserve its raw power.

"We're close," Wren says, kneeling beside me with professional efficiency. "But this babe won't wait much longer."

"It has to," I gasp, fighting against biology's inexorable progression. "Not here. Not in a bloody service corridor."

With Flora and Wren supporting me from either side, I force myself upright again. The throne room represents our only hope—its ancient protection designed to shield royal births during crisis. Without Cadeyrn to activate it properly, the protection will be incomplete, but still better than nothing.

We emerge from the hidden passage into a grand corridor I recognize—the ceremonial approach to the throne room itself. Massive ice doors loom at the end, carved with the history of the Winter Court in intricate patterns that now pulse with awakened magic.

"Almost there," Flora whispers, relief evident in her voice. "The others have been holding it for hours."

Three more steps, and disaster strikes. From a side passage, a group of court loyalists emerges—omegas and court guards working in tandem, cillae muted by their allegiance to court limitations.

"The vessel approaches the throne," one calls, ice spear materializing in his grip. "Stop her!"

I straighten as much as my laboring body allows, Wild Magic gathering around me in swirling currents despite my exhaustion. "I've come too far to be stopped by court puppets who can't see the leash around their own necks."

The battle erupts with brutal efficiency. Flora launches herself at the nearest guard, violet eyes blazing with conviction as ice daggers form between her fingers. Wren pulls me back, shielding my belly with her own body as frost magic fills the corridor with deadly beauty.

For a midwife without combat training, she moves with surprising confidence, using her knowledge of anatomy to guide us through the chaos. "The door," she urges, keeping me against the wall where protection is greatest. "We just need to reach it."

A loyalist omega breaks through the defensive line, frost spear aimed directly at my heart. Time slows, my depleted magic responding too sluggishly to form an adequate shield. In that suspended moment, I think of Cadeyrn—of the emptiness where our bond should be, of the children about to enter the world without knowing their father's face.

Then a small figure hurls herself into the path of the spear.

Mira.

The frost weapon takes her in the shoulder, the impact throwing her against me with enough force to stagger us both backward. Blood blooms across her chest, freezing instantly in crimson crystals that fracture with each labored breath.

"No!" I catch her as she falls, lowering her to the ground as gently as my pregnant body allows. "Mira, why?"

Her hazel eyes meet mine, pain and something like peace mingling in their depths. "You saved me in the forest," she whispers, blood bubbling between frost-pale lips. "Showed me I was more than just... a vessel."

"And you're still more," I tell her fiercely, frost magic gathering at my fingertips as I try to stabilize the wound. "Hold on. We'll get you help."

She smiles—too serene, too accepting for one so young. "The babes need you more. Go." Her gaze shifts to something behind me, eyes widening slightly. "They've opened the door."

I turn to see the massive throne room doors swinging inward, loyal omegas beckoning urgently from within. Safety, so close I can taste it on the air—the distinctive resonance of Wild Magic flowing freely without court constraints.

"I can't leave you," I tell Mira, even as another contraction builds, this one strong enough to steal my breath and bend my spine. "Not after everything?—"

"You can," she interrupts, her small hand finding mine with surprising strength. "Because that's what this has always been about. Choice. And I choose this."

Flora appears at my side, her face grim with the reality of battlefield choices. "She's right. We need to move now, while the path is clear."

With aching reluctance, I allow them to pull me away from Mira's broken form. Each step toward the throne room doors feels like betrayal, abandoning yet another omega to court brutality. Another sister sacrificed on the altar of survival.

"Remember her," Flora says quietly as we cross the threshold. "Remember all of them. That's how we make this matter."

The massive doors swing closed behind us, loyal omegas channeling frost magic to seal the entrance against pursuit. For the moment, we're secured within the throne room—the heart of Winter Court power now transformed by the Wild Magic we've awakened.

"Get her to the throne," someone calls, and I'm guided forward in a procession that feels both urgent and ceremonial.

The throne itself awaits—transformed beyond recognition since 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, all four seasonal courts represented in perfect balance rather than separation.

As I approach, the throne responds—cillae brightening as it recognizes the magic of the children I carry. Without Cadeyrn's blood to activate it properly, the protection remains incomplete. But the throne itself knows me, welcomes me, ancient magic awakening to protect what grows within my transformed body.

Another contraction seizes me as I settle onto the ancient seat, this one unmistakably transitional. The fire child—the most active of the four little ones, whose quicksilver rhythm reminds me of forge flames dancing in the blacksmith's shop where I grew up—presses insistently at my entrance.

"Circle formation," Flora commands, and the loyal omegas move with practiced coordination, arranging themselves in concentric rings around the throne. Their cillae synchronize with mine, Magic flowing between us in currents that grow stronger with each passing heartbeat.

"The child comes now," Wren announces, taking position before me with professional focus. "No more delays."

I close my eyes, reaching once more through the emptiness where our claiming bond should be. Cadeyrn. If any part of you remains in this world or the next, I need you now. Our children need you.

Nothing returns but silence.