Page 59

CHAPTER 59

POV: Briar

"He's gone," I whisper, grief splitting me open more violently than any contraction. "Truly gone."

The severed bond feels like a wound that won't cauterize, raw and exposed, bleeding magic instead of blood. A phantom limb I keep reaching for only to find empty air where Cadeyrn should be. The Wild Magic within me spirals erratically, cillae fragmenting across my skin in jagged, unstable lines.

Around me, the omegas' cillae dim in shared mourning. They may not have known him as I did—may not have witnessed his transformation from perfect Winter Prince to something wilder, truer—but they understand the bond's significance. What its loss means for the birth about to occur.

"The protection requires his blood," Flora says quietly, violet eyes meeting mine with painful directness. "Without it..."

"Without it, we do this the old way," I finish, straightening on the throne despite the contraction building like molten metal inside me. "With sisters standing together."

The loyal omegas tighten their formation, frost magic flowing between them in strengthening currents. Not the separate seasonal magics the courts enforced, but something unified, balanced—Wild Magic remembering what it was before court divisions carved it into pieces like butchers portioning meat.

Beyond the sealed doors, I hear the enemy forces gathering—heavy impacts as they test the throne room's defenses. Metal against ice, magic against magic. Time running out. Our tactical position deteriorating by the second. The world collapsing around us even as new life fights to enter it.

"I feel the head," Wren announces, her calm voice anchoring me as another contraction peaks. "Push when you're ready."

The surging pressure transforms pain into purpose—the forge-fire that breaks metal down before remaking it stronger. I bear down, muscles straining as Wild Magic erupts from me in waves of crystalline frost. The patterns scrawling across my skin illuminate the chamber with azure light tinged with crimson, gold, and green—all four seasonal courts represented in a single omega's body, the division that courts spent centuries enforcing now unified in one vessel.

The omegas respond in kind, their combined power creating a protective dome around the throne that pulses with the colors of all four courts. Not separate as the courts insist magic should remain, but interwoven, strengthening each other in ways that the aristocracy has deliberately suppressed through selective breeding and brutal cullings.

"Once more," Wren encourages, hands steady as she guides the emerging life. "The child comes swiftly."

With a final push that tears a primal scream from my throat, the first child slides into the world—a boy, tiny but perfect, skin already marked with cillae that incorporate all four seasonal courts in delicate harmony. He takes his first breath and releases it as a cry that makes the very air shiver with Wild Magic.

Ember.

His name arrives in my consciousness with absolute certainty, knowledge flowing directly from his magical signature to my awareness. Ember, like the heart of a forge that contains both destruction and creation. Like the spark that can either die or consume a forest.

I cradle him against my chest, his tiny form radiating heat that belies his newborn status. He burns against me, fire-nature already asserting itself against the Winter Court's perpetual cold. Already defying the court that would have claimed him—or dissected him for the Wild Magic flowing through his impossibly small veins.

"The first child lives," Wren announces, quickly wrapping him in soft cloth embroidered with protective runes. "A son."

A thunderous impact shakes the throne room doors, frost barriers crackling under the assault. Iron against ice. Control against freedom. Time running out. Three more children still waiting to be born, and enemy forces breaching our final sanctuary.

And Cadeyrn... gone. The emptiness where our bond existed yawns wider, a wound that won't close, bleeding magic instead of blood. The void threatens to swallow me entirely despite the miracle just performed through my body.

Through tear-blurred vision, I study Ember's face—the echo of Cadeyrn in the perfect shape of his brow, the hint of my own stubbornness in the determined set of his tiny jaw. His eyes, when they flicker open briefly, hold flames where irises should be, magic manifesting from his first breath.

"We'll protect you," I promise him, voice breaking on the words. "Even without your father, we'll?—"

A ripple passes through the omegas' protective circle, cillae flickering as something disrupts their synchronized magic. Voices rise in alarm, attention shifting from the sealed main entrance to a side wall where stone begins to warp and flow like ice beneath summer heat.

"Something's breaking through!" Flora warns, frost magic gathering around her hands as she moves to intercept the new threat. "Positions!"

The wall dissolves entirely, revealing a hidden passage I never knew existed. From the darkness emerges a figure so covered in blood and frost that I barely recognize him at first—body transformed by battle, by wounds that should have been fatal, by Wild Magic fighting to keep him alive against impossible odds.

Cadeyrn.

The sight of him hits me like a hammer strike to the chest, driving air from my lungs in a gasp that sounds like his name but feels like salvation. He stands—barely—in the newly formed opening, his massive frame transformed beyond even the changes Wild Magic had already wrought.

Blood coats him in layers that freeze and melt with each labored breath, silver-blue rather than mortal red. One side of his chest bears a wound that should have killed him instantly—a gaping hole where green corruption spreads in geometric patterns, fighting against the Wild Magic that keeps his heart beating. Court binding magic trying to unmake him, to force him back into the box he's broken.

His eyes no longer merely ice-blue but swirling kaleidoscopes of all four seasonal courts, pupils expanded to eclipse almost all color. Frost patterns spiral across his skin in chaotic formations rather than the rigid geometries of Winter Court tradition—patterns that match mine, that connect to the ones adorning our newborn son.

The emptiness where our bond existed flares painfully, connection struggling to reestablish across magical interference. Like a limb gone numb suddenly flooded with returning blood, the sensation hovers between agony and relief.

"Cadeyrn," I whisper, disbelief and desperate hope warring within me.

The room blurs as tears fill my eyes—not the few reluctant drops I'd allowed myself earlier, but a torrent held back by a dam that suddenly breaks. My throat closes around words I can't form, emotion too vast to compress into language. Three months of resisting him, of fighting our bond, of gradual surrender and unexpected need culminate in this moment of impossible return.

"Briar," he gasps, my name emerging as frost on the air between us. Each syllable clearly costs him physical agony, his wounds reopening as he forces himself forward.

He takes one stumbling step forward, then another. Silver-blue blood streams from his chest wound, freezing on contact with the floor only to melt again as his uncontrolled magic fluctuates. The effort it costs him to remain upright is visible in every line of his transformed body—in the trembling of limbs that never showed weakness before, in the rigid set of shoulders that bear the impossible weight of his own survival.

"I felt you die," I say, voice breaking on each word. I clutch Ember closer, his tiny warmth the only thing anchoring me to reality. "I felt the bond... just... gone."

Ember stirs against my chest, tiny hands reaching toward his father as if sensing their connection despite never having seen him before. The movement unlocks something in me—rage and relief tangling together into something sharp enough to cut.

"You fucking died," I accuse, tears streaming freely down my face now. "You left me alone. You promised?—"

"Never by choice," he rasps, staggering closer. Each step leaves bloody footprints that freeze instantly against the ancient stone. "They had... specialized weapons. Designed to sever bonds."

The loyal omegas part before him, their cillae brightening in recognition as he approaches the throne. There's awe in their expressions, and something deeper—the stunned reverence of witnessing the impossible made manifest.

"The child," he manages, his gaze finding Ember, recognition and wonder breaking through the battle-madness that grips him. "Our son."

He collapses to his knees before the throne, legs finally giving out beneath him. Even kneeling, his transformed frame looms large, broader and more powerful than the perfect Winter Prince who once governed with cold precision. Wild Magic has remade him as thoroughly as it has remade me—breaking and reforming, like metal in a forge that emerges stronger from the fire.

"I thought I'd lost you," I whisper, free hand reaching for him despite the fury still smoldering beneath my relief. "I thought I'd have to do this alone."

Our fingers touch, and the bond flares between us—damaged but rekindling, like a fire catching from scattered embers. Sensation floods the connection from both directions. His pain becomes mine; my labor becomes his. The strain of his desperate battle to reach me, the terror of my capture and escape, the shared determination that has kept us both alive against impossible odds—all of it flows through the reestablishing connection between us.

"Never," he promises, blood-stained fingers closing around mine with desperate strength. "Death itself couldn't keep me from this moment."

His eyes—those kaleidoscope eyes swirling with the colors of all four seasonal courts—find mine with an intensity that strips away court formality, battle strategy, everything but the naked truth between us. The Winter Prince who hunted me in the forest, who claimed me against a blackthorn tree while crimson sap rained down upon us, is gone. In his place kneels my mate—transformed by Wild Magic, by choice, by love that neither of us expected to find in the brutality of the Hunt.

"The protection," I remind him, heart racing with renewed hope as I shift Ember to one arm. "Before the next child comes."

He nods, understanding flowing between us despite the damaged bond. With painful deliberation, he places his palm against the throne's armrest, where ancient runes carved into the ice begin to glow in response to royal blood.

"With my blood freely given," he recites, voice steadying as he connects with magic older than court divisions, "I activate the throne's protection. For my mate, for my children, for the Wild Magic reborn through our union."

The runes flare brilliant blue-white, absorbing the silver-blue blood that flows freely from his wounds. The entire throne room resonates in response, ancient magic awakening after centuries of dormancy. The protective dome created by the omegas' combined power merges with this older, deeper magic, creating a barrier that encompasses the entire chamber in pulsing layers of light.

Then he does something I don't expect. Still kneeling, still bleeding, he presses his forehead against my knee—a gesture of such vulnerability that it steals my breath completely. His shoulders shake with emotion too powerful to contain, silver-blue tears freezing against his transformed skin.

"I thought I wouldn't reach you in time," he admits, voice muffled against my skin. "I could feel you through the bond, feel the labor beginning, feel your grief when you thought me dead—and still the distance between us seemed impossible to cross."

My hand finds his hair, fingers tangling in frost-crusted strands. "But you did reach me. You're here now."

Another contraction begins, the second child preparing to enter the world. Wren returns to her position, professional focus momentarily softened by the reunion she's witnessing.

"Your timing is impeccable, my prince," she says, a hint of dry humor entering her voice. "The next child approaches."

Cadeyrn raises his head, determination replacing momentary weakness. With visible effort, he pulls himself from the floor onto the throne beside me, his massive frame somehow fitting perfectly despite the seat being designed for one. The wound in his chest continues leaking silver-blue blood, green corruption fighting against the Wild Magic that refuses to let him die.

"Together," he says, one arm encircling me while the other cradles our firstborn son. "As it was meant to be."

His transformation has changed him in ways I'm only beginning to understand. The perfect Winter Prince who once ruled through cold control now leans into the messier, more vital connection between us. The bond strengthens with proximity, though still damaged by whatever weapon nearly killed him.

Through our connection flows not just emotion but memory—fractured images of his desperate battle through enemy forces, the arrow meant for his heart, the general with the binding crystal who nearly succeeded in severing our connection permanently. His determination to reach me, to fulfill the promise he made when we discovered the pregnancy, to protect what we created together even if it meant defying centuries of court tradition.

"I saw you fall," I tell him as another contraction builds, stronger than any before. "Through the bond. I felt you... disappear."

"I almost did," he admits, his arm tightening around me. "The weapon was designed to separate us—to sever what the courts cannot control. For a moment, I was truly lost." His lips brush my temple, cillae synchronizing where our skin touches. "But then I heard you calling. Felt you reaching. And something... shifted."

"Wild Magic," I suggest, bearing down as the second child begins his descent.

"More than that," he corrects, and the raw emotion in his voice makes me turn to meet his gaze despite the building contraction. "Love, Briar. The one thing the courts never accounted for in all their calculations."

The word hangs between us—simple, profound, revolutionary. Not the biological imperative of alpha to omega, not the political alliance of prince to claimed tribute, but something the courts have never been able to breed out or control away. The connection forged in shared transformation, in mutual choice rather than enforced hierarchy.

"Push," Wren directs, and I bear down again, feeling the second child—earth child, steady and grounding, with more geometric cillae—move into position.

With Cadeyrn beside me, with the throne's protection activated, with loyal omegas maintaining the protective dome around us, I surrender to the process that will bring three more lives into a world forever changed by their existence.

Wild Magic flows between Cadeyrn and me, our combined power creating a microcosm of what the world could be without court divisions. Fire and earth, air and water, all balanced rather than separated. All necessary. All part of the whole that's greater than its divided parts.

"I couldn't let you do this alone," Cadeyrn murmurs against my temple, his voice rough with pain and something deeper. "Not after everything we've become to each other."

"You nearly died trying to reach me," I respond, the words emerging through clenched teeth as the contraction peaks. "I felt the bond break."

"Not break," he corrects, hand finding mine as cillae synchronize between us. "Muffled. Suppressed. They tried to separate us with binding magic."

"But failed," I finish, bearing down as the second child crowns.

"But failed," he agrees, pride and wonder mingling in his transformed eyes. "As all attempts to divide what belongs together must eventually fail."

With a final push that sends Wild Magic cascading through the throne room in visible waves, the second child enters the world—another boy, built sturdy despite his newness, cillae geometric and stable where his brother's dance like flames.

Alder. His name flows through the bond, knowledge shared between mate and mate, parent and parent. Alder, like the trees that bend but don't break, that root deep and stand against storms.

"The second child lives," Wren announces, performing the same efficient wrapping before placing him in Cadeyrn's waiting arm. "Another son."

The protective dome pulses stronger with each birth, ancient magic recognizing and responding to the new lives that carry Wild Magic in perfect balance rather than division. Beyond the sealed doors, I hear the enemy forces' frustration mounting—magical assaults intensifying as they encounter barriers they cannot breach. Their weapons designed for division falter against unified power.

For now, we're safe. For now, we're together. For now, despite everything the courts have done to prevent it, Wild Magic flows freely through the Winter Palace once more—not as separate seasonal powers but as the unified force it was always meant to be.

Two born. Two still waiting. The transformation not yet complete, but irreversibly begun.

I lean against Cadeyrn, his solid presence defying the death that should have claimed him. Through our bond, I feel the Wild Magic fighting to heal the wound in his chest, to purge the green corruption that still seeks to separate winter from the other seasonal courts.

"Don't you dare die on me now," I tell him, managing a pained smile as another contraction builds. "Not when we're finally getting interesting."

His laugh emerges as crystallized frost, beautiful despite the pain evident in every line of his transformed body. "As my mate commands," he replies, the formal court phrase transformed into something intimate and true.

Together on the transformed throne, surrounded by sisters in suffering and triumph alike, we prepare to welcome the remaining children who will forever change the balance of power between the courts. Children born of violence and claiming, of transformation and choice, of a blacksmith's apprentice who dared defy court limitations and a Winter Prince who discovered that perfect control was the poorest substitute for actual living.

Fire and earth already born. Air and water still to come. Four elements united rather than divided. The pattern older than the courts themselves, remembered in blood and magic despite centuries of enforced separation.

"The third child approaches," Wren announces, returning to position with practical efficiency that belies the wonder of what we undertake. "Ready yourselves."

I straighten on the throne, Cadeyrn's arm supporting me as Wild Magic flows between us in strengthening currents. Whatever comes next—whether healing or war, transformation or destruction—we face it together.

Another contraction grips me, this one different from those before. Where fire demanded swift passage and earth pressed steadily forward, air seems to dance between states—sometimes urgent, sometimes yielding, a rhythm entirely its own.

"This one moves differently," Wren observes, wonder entering her professional voice. "Like she's riding the currents rather than fighting through them."

She. The word echoes through the bond between Cadeyrn and me, recognition flowing in both directions. Our daughter. The air child.

As if responding to our shared thought, a shiver passes through the protective dome around us, the colors shifting toward spring green and summer gold before rebalancing. The palace itself seems to hold its breath as the contraction peaks.

With a push that feels more like release than effort, our daughter emerges—smaller than her brothers, with delicate features and wisps of copper hair already streaked with silver. Her cillae spiral in constant motion across perfect skin, never settling into fixed shapes.

Lyra. The name comes to both of us simultaneously, a shared certainty that needs no discussion. Lyra, like the instrument whose music moves through air, connecting rather than dividing.

"The third child lives," Wren announces with quiet reverence. "A daughter."

Before I can even reach for her, the air around Lyra shimmers with visible currents, cillae separating from her skin to dance in the space around her. Her tiny hands move as if conducting an unseen orchestra, magic responding to instinctive commands.

"Wild Magic," Flora breathes from her position in the omega circle. "Responding to her from birth."

Cadeyrn reaches for our daughter with trembling hands, and the moment his fingers touch her, the wound in his chest responds—green corruption retreating before currents of purifying air. Lyra's magic recognizes her father, works to heal what foreign enchantments sought to destroy.

"And so the balance shifts further," he murmurs, wonder and pain mingling in his voice as he cradles her against his wounded chest. "Three elements manifested."

The protective dome strengthens with each birth, colors shifting to incorporate more green and gold alongside winter's blue and autumn's amber. The courts tried to separate what was always meant to be unified—to claim the seasonal powers as distinct when they were merely aspects of the same primal force.

Beyond the sealed doors, I hear the allied courts' assault faltering. Their weapons designed to counter specific court magics fail against the balanced Wild Magic swirling through our sanctuary. Their strategy built on division cannot comprehend what unity makes possible.

I have only moments to marvel at our daughter before the final contraction begins—a rolling sensation entirely unlike the previous three. The water child approaches, flowing rather than fighting, finding the path of least resistance.

"The last one comes swiftly," Wren warns, hands ready to receive our fourth miracle. "The way has been prepared."

Indeed, where the other births required effort and determination, this one feels almost peaceful—a gentle glide rather than desperate push. The water child enters the world with quiet dignity, barely a whimper marking her arrival.

Another daughter. Smaller even than Lyra, with silver-white hair and eyes that open immediately—one ice-blue, one amber-gold, seeing both realms simultaneously from her first breath.

Willow. The name flows through our bond, chosen to honor the friend whose place I took, whose sacrifice began this journey unknowingly. Willow, like the tree that bends to water's flow, flexible enough to survive what rigid oaks cannot.

"The fourth child lives," Wren announces, completing the sacred count. "All four elements now embodied."

As little Willow joins her siblings, the protective dome reaches its full strength—a perfect balance of all four seasonal elements unified in Wild Magic that hasn't flowed freely for centuries. The very air within our sanctuary pulsates with potential, ancient power awakened after long dormancy.

Cadeyrn's arm tightens around me, his body curved protectively around our children. The wound in his chest has stopped bleeding, Lyra's air magic continuing its healing work. Through our bond, I feel his wonder, his pride, his fierce determination to protect what we've created together.

"Look what we've made," he whispers, voice rough with emotion as he gazes down at our four children. "Not just babes, but revolution."

I lean into him, exhaustion finally claiming its due. "We started with hate," I remind him, thinking of that first claiming in the forest, of my desperate fight to maintain independence even as the bond formed between us.

"And ended with this," he finishes, cillae synchronizing with mine where our skin touches. "Love, little omega. The one force even Wild Magic cannot predict or control."

From beyond the throne room doors comes not the sound of battle but something unexpected: silence. Then, gradually, retreat. Footsteps fading into distance. The allied courts withdrawing not in defeat but in awe—in recognition of something beyond their comprehension.

"They're leaving," Flora reports from her position near the entrance, disbelief evident in her voice. "All of them. The assault ceases."

"Not leaving," Cadeyrn corrects, his voice stronger now as Lyra's air magic continues healing his wound. "Transforming. The Wild Magic spreads beyond these walls. The awakening begins."

Through our strengthening bond, I feel his certainty—knowledge flowing from centuries of court history combined with the new awareness our transformation has brought. The Wild Magic awakened in our children doesn't simply protect them; it transforms everything it touches. Spreads like frost across glass, like ripples across still water.

"The courts will fight back," I warn, practical despite the wonder of holding our four children, despite the miracle of Cadeyrn's survival. The tactician in me cannot yield completely to the mother, to the mate. "They won't surrender power easily."

"No," he agrees, shifting to better support me as exhaustion finally claims its due. "But they fight a losing battle now. The magic remembers what it once was, before division. The rebalancing has begun."

Around us, the loyal omegas maintain their protective circle, cillae synchronized with the magical signatures of our four children. Sisters who chose to stand together rather than submit separately. The true strength the courts feared all along—not Wild Magic itself, but the connection it creates between those they sought to use as mere vessels.

I lean against Cadeyrn, allowing myself to feel the fullness of what we've accomplished—not just the birth of four impossible children, but the awakening of magic that courts spent centuries suppressing. The return of balance to a system built on artificial division.

"What happens now?" I ask, voice rough with exhaustion as I cradle our daughters while he holds our sons.

His laugh holds genuine joy despite the wounds still marking his transformed body. "Now? Now we remake the world, little omega." He presses his lips to my temple, cillae synchronizing where our skin touches. "Or rather, we allow it to remake itself around what we've awakened."

Outside the throne room, the Winter Palace continues its transformation—walls flowing like water, ice incorporating colors previously forbidden in winter's domain. The Wild Magic spreads outward in ever-widening circles, touching court and village alike, awakening what generations of selective breeding sought to suppress.

Within our sanctuary, four impossible children sleep in their parents' arms—fire and earth, air and water, unified rather than divided. The new generation that will grow in a world where balance replaces hierarchy, where Wild Magic flows freely between seasons rather than being trapped in artificial separation.

Not the end of our journey, but the true beginning. Not a traditional fairy tale ending, but something far more interesting: a transformation still unfolding, a balance still being remembered, a world still being remade.

I close my eyes, sinking into the comfort of our bond restored and strengthened, of children safely delivered despite impossible odds. Whatever comes next—whether healing or conflict, reconstruction or revolution—we face it together, transformed beyond what either of us once was, into something neither court nor Hunt protocol could have predicted.

Wild Magic finds a way. Life finds a way. Love, against all odds and reasonable expectations, finds a way.