Page 60

CHAPTER 60

POV: Briar

I wake to my son trying to set my hair on fire.

Ember, all of six hours old and already living up to his name, has somehow wriggled from his swaddling and pressed his tiny palm against my copper-silver braid. Wisps of smoke curl upward as his fire magic responds to whatever newborn dreams fill his head. The scent of burning hair fills my nostrils—acrid and familiar from forge accidents, though considerably more alarming when it's attached to my own scalp.

"That's enough of that," I mutter, gently moving his hand back to his chest. His eyelids flutter but don't open, mouth forming a perfect O as he exhales a puff of heated air directly into my face. The warmth of it carries the scent of cinnamon and embers, nothing like the milk-sweet breath newborns should have. Definitely Cadeyrn's son in the dramatic flair department.

I prop myself up on one elbow, wincing as my body reminds me that it's been torn open and hastily stitched back together by Wild Magic rather than proper healing. Every muscle protests, from my neck down to my calves. My abdomen feels hollowed out, the space where four impossible children grew now empty and aching with phantom movements. The Wild Magic within me works to reknit what labor shredded, but even ancient power has its limits.

My gaze sweeps the throne room, taking stock of our sanctuary. Sunlight filters through ice walls transformed overnight into something both more wild and more beautiful than Winter Court precision has ever allowed. No longer the stark blue-white of controlled winter magic, but a living kaleidoscope where all four seasonal courts blend without hierarchy. Colors dance across the floor—spring green, summer gold, autumn amber, and winter blue flowing together in patterns that defy court separation.

The loyal omegas who protected us throughout the birth have arranged themselves in concentric circles around the throne, some sleeping while others maintain vigilant watch. Their cillae pulse in synchronized rhythm, no longer the rigid geometric designs of court training but something organic, flowing—Wild Magic remembering what it was before artificial division.

Beside me, Cadeyrn sleeps on in that annoying way of males who've managed eight centuries of perfect control only to collapse the moment the immediate crisis passes. His wound has closed during the night, new skin stretching over what should have been a fatal injury. The green corruption is gone, but silver-veined scars remain—a permanent reminder of how close we came to losing everything.

I study his transformed face, the features I once found coldly perfect now marked with evidence of vulnerability, of struggle, of pain survived rather than avoided. The Winter Prince who hunted me in the forest would never have allowed such imperfection to mar his appearance. The mate who fought through enemy forces to reach me wears his scars like badges of honor.

Through our restored bond, I feel his dreams—fractured images of battle, of desperate pursuit, of children he feared he wouldn't live to meet. Even in sleep, his protective instinct remains active, one hand resting near the babes while frost magic forms an instinctive shield around us all.

I shift carefully, assessing the state of my body after expelling four magical beings into the world. Sore doesn't begin to cover it. My insides feel rearranged, which they probably are, vital organs pushed aside to accommodate the four distinct magical signatures that grew within me at accelerated speed. The Wild Magic has accelerated healing—another perk of being transformed into whatever the hell I am now—but there are some things magic simply can't fix. Pushing four babies through a birth canal designed for one is definitely on that list.

"You're awake." Flora appears at my side, her violet eyes shadowed with exhaustion but alert. Her platinum hair has acquired more silver streaks overnight, cillae spiraling across her skin in ever-more-complex formations as her transformation continues. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been torn apart and stitched back together by a blacksmith instead of a seamstress," I reply honestly. "But alive, which is more than I expected when this whole mess started."

She smiles, that rare genuine expression that transforms her bred-for-beauty features into something warmer, more authentic. Court breeding programs created her to appeal to alpha aesthetics, but Wild Magic has awakened something beneath the artificial perfection—a true self emerging from enforced limitation.

"The babes slept through the night. All four. The healers say it's unprecedented."

"Well, they're unprecedented in general," I snort, glancing down at the four tiny bundles arranged between Cadeyrn and me. Even in sleep, their distinct magical signatures remain visible—Ember radiating heat, Alder pulsing with steady earth rhythms, Lyra surrounded by dancing air currents, little Willow wrapped in flowing water patterns. "Four magical children that shouldn't exist, carried by a blacksmith's apprentice who was never supposed to be anything but breeding stock. We're basically a walking middle finger to court doctrine."

I reach out to touch each child in turn, marveling at how distinct they already feel despite being mere hours old. Ember's skin burns hot against my fingertips, Alder's heartbeat pulses with the steady rhythm of tree roots seeking soil, Lyra's breath creates visible currents in the air around her, Willow's tears freeze into perfect crystals as she stirs briefly before settling.

"And thank the old magic for that," Flora replies, her voice lowering as she glances toward the doors where Lady Lysandra confers with several Winter Court guards. The traditional Winter Court healer has undergone her own transformation overnight—her once-rigid cillae now incorporating spirals and whorls of Wild Magic, her strictly formal posture softened by a new awareness. "There's news you should hear."

I carefully adjust Ember, who has already started reaching for my hair again, tiny fingers leaving heat trails against my skin. His determination to set things ablaze seems hardwired into his very being—fire magic manifesting from his first breath.

"Let me guess—the courts are gathering their armies to storm the palace and steal our children for dissection?"

Flora settles beside me, close enough to speak privately while respecting the invisible boundary around our newly formed family unit. "Yes and no." Her voice drops further, though her expression brightens with poorly concealed excitement. "The Wild Magic is... spreading. On its own. Beyond the palace walls. Reports come from all four territories—omegas awakening to cillae, magic responding to emotion rather than training."

A savage satisfaction warms my chest, starting as a tight knot beneath my breastbone and expanding outward like Ember's fire magic. "Good. Let them try to stuff that magic back in its box."

Court separation was never natural—always enforced through selective breeding, through cullings, through rigid training that punished any deviation from artificial norms. Wild Magic remembering its original, balanced state feels like justice long delayed but finally arriving.

"The backlash has already begun," she continues, expression sobering. "Summer Court has deployed hunters to capture awakened omegas for binding. Spring Court healers work to develop stronger suppression collars." She hesitates, looking uncomfortable. "And Nessa has been captured trying to reach Autumn Court territory."

The name sends a spike of complicated emotions through me. Nessa, who betrayed us, whose information led to the assault on the palace. I remember her as she was during the Hunt—terrified, her blue eyes darting frantically as she huddled in that shallow cave. I remember guiding her toward safety, not knowing she would later endanger everything we fought to build.

I should hate her, but all I feel is a hollow sadness. Another omega trapped by impossible choices, doing what she thought necessary to survive. The courts have always excelled at turning sisters against sisters—enforcing hierarchy where unity would threaten control.

"What will they do to her?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Flora's jaw tightens. "Binding, most likely. The Raveling Brothers had... methods... of extracting information while keeping subjects alive, if not intact."

I think of the identical twins with their perfect synchronization, their sharing of claimed omegas, their sadistic enjoyment of suffering. My hand drifts to the scar on my side where Blaim's claws raked me during our final confrontation.

"And what about The Collector and the others we faced?" I ask, remembering the bronzed skin and amber eyes that regarded me like a particularly interesting specimen.

"Dead," Flora says with finality, satisfaction evident in her voice despite her attempt at neutrality. "All of them. The Wild Magic seems to have established a new precedent—those killed by it cannot be resurrected through court magic. The Autumn Court necromancers tried with both The Collector and the Raveling Brothers. Their bodies simply dissolved into frost when resurrection was attempted. And Lord Klairs Thorn..." She shivers slightly. "The Wild Magic left nothing of him to resurrect."

I think of the trail of bodies Cadeyrn and I left during the Hunt—alphas dispatched with increasing brutality as his protection of his claimed omega intensified. The Winter Prince who tore through enemies with cold precision, leaving warnings arranged in forest clearings. The blacksmith's apprentice who killed the Raveling Brothers when they attacked her. Death that remains death, not circumvented by court magic. There's a certain finality to it that feels right, even necessary.

The Wild Magic imposes its own rules—balance rather than dominance, transformation rather than stagnation. Those who violate that balance, who sought to harvest its power while maintaining artificial separation, find no mercy in its justice.

"And Wren?" I ask, remembering the midwife's steady hands guiding my children into the world, her practical courage during our escape through the palace depths.

"Gone," Flora admits, twisting a strand of silver-streaked hair. "Slipped away during the night. No one knows where."

I'm not surprised. Wren helped me when it mattered, but she has her own child to protect, her own impossible choices to navigate. I hope she finds safety in whatever refuge she seeks. Another survivor of the Hunt, making her own path forward.

"And Elder Iris?" I press, remembering the deceptively gentle eyes that regarded me with clinical detachment in that underground birthing chamber. The ancient Spring Court emissary who designed the modern Hunt, who viewed me as breeding stock rather than person, who almost forced my labor prematurely to harvest my children's magic.

Flora's expression darkens, cillae flaring briefly with remembered fear. "Dead. She tried to breach the throne room during the night with binding magic. The Wild Magic... rejected her. She simply ceased to exist." She rubs her arms as though chilled by the memory. "The awakened guards say it was as if the very air itself recognized her as a threat to what you've created and... unmade her."

Another life claimed in this conflict, though I feel no remorse for the Spring Court emissary who engineered so much suffering over centuries. Some enemies cannot be converted, cannot be awakened. Some must simply be removed from the equation entirely.

Wild Magic brings destruction, yes—but destruction aimed at restoring balance rather than maintaining artificial separation. Like forest fires that clear undergrowth to allow new growth, some systems must burn before they can heal.

The throne room doors creak open, and I tense instinctively, one arm moving to shield my children. Frost magic gathers at my fingertips, ready to strike despite my exhaustion.

But it's Lady Midnight who enters, her almost-translucent skin now marked with swirling cillae that incorporate all four seasonal elements. The Winter Court's chief diplomat moves with the same elegant precision as always, but something has changed in her bearing—a new awareness that transcends court protocol.

"Prince Cadeyrn," she calls, her voice carrying that harmonic quality of awakened magic. "Lady Briar. Forgive the intrusion, but there's someone you should see."

She steps aside, revealing a small figure supported between two guards—Mira, her chest bandaged where the frost spear struck her during yesterday's chaos. Her face is ashen with the gray pallor of approaching death, her breathing labored, but cillae pulse across her skin with surprising vitality for someone who took a killing blow.

"Mira!" I exclaim, disturbing Ember who fusses in protest, tiny fists trailing sparks. "You're alive!"

"Barely," she manages, a weak smile flickering across features strained with pain. "The healers say the Wild Magic is keeping me... together. They don't know for how long."

Cadeyrn stirs beside me, roused by the commotion. His eyes assess the situation with immediate clarity, centuries of court training instantly overriding sleep's lingering fog. Through our bond, I feel his physical pain—the wound may have closed, but healing remains incomplete beneath the surface—yet his focus narrows instantaneously to the tactical situation before us.

"Bring her closer," he commands, already rising despite his own still-healing wounds.

The guards support Mira to the throne, where she collapses with visible relief. Up close, I can see the extent of her injury—the frost spear took her just below the collarbone, puncturing lung and likely heart, a wound that should have been instantly fatal. Yet she breathes, her eyes clear despite the pain evident in every line of her face.

Frost patterns spiral across her skin in chaotic formations, Wild Magic fighting to maintain life against devastating damage. The patterns pulse erratically, weakening with each breath—magic powerful enough to delay death, but not to prevent it entirely.

"You shouldn't have jumped in front of that spear," I tell her, reaching to take her hand. Frost patterns synchronize where our skin connects, Wild Magic flowing between us in currents that strengthen her faltering rhythms.

"Someone needed to," she replies simply, each word costing her visible effort. "And I chose to."

Choice. The word that defines everything we've fought for these past months. Not court mandate, not biological imperative, but conscious decision made despite impossible odds. Mira at seventeen, chosen for the Hunt through no choice of her own, now making the ultimate choice to protect others despite the cost.

"The Wild Magic sustains her," Lysandra explains, joining us with an assessing gaze. Her hands hover over Mira's wound, cillae responding to her healer's training. "But the damage is extensive. I'm not certain?—"

"You're thinking like a court healer," Cadeyrn interrupts, surprising me with the directness of his contradiction. Through our bond, I feel his certainty, his recognition of possibilities beyond traditional limitations. "Wild Magic doesn't follow court rules. It never did."

He places his hand over Mira's wound, cillae brightening where they connect. "During the Hunt, I witnessed Briar heal wounds that should have been fatal. Wild Magic responds to need, to intention, not to formal training."

I understand immediately what he's suggesting. Placing my free hand alongside his, I concentrate on the connection between us—the claiming bond transformed by Wild Magic into something deeper, something that allows power to flow in both directions rather than one way. No longer alpha dominating omega, but balanced power circulating between equal vessels.

I remember the blackthorn tree where we first claimed each other, crimson sap raining down as Wild Magic erupted between us. I remember the ancient stone altar where we built upon that connection, cillae synchronizing as the forest recognized what we were becoming. I remember the throne, transformed by our union into something that transcends court separation.

Together, we channel healing into Mira's broken body, cillae synchronizing as Wild Magic flows through the connection. Not the precise, calculated healing of court medicine but something more primal, more instinctive. Magic that remembers what it once was, before artificial division and rigid training.

Mira gasps, her back arching as the magic flows through her. Frost patterns brighten across her skin, spreading outward from the wound in concentric waves. For a terrifying moment, I think we've hurt her further—but then the patterns stabilize, pulsing with renewed vitality.

Between our hands, damaged tissues knit themselves together, not with winter's precise geometry but with wild, organic patterns that incorporate all four seasonal elements. Healing not through separation but through unity.

"The wound closes," Lysandra observes with quiet wonder. "Not through court protocol but through... connection."

I watch as ravaged flesh reconstructs itself, lung tissue regenerating, blood vessels reconnecting. Not perfect court healing—scars will remain, evidence of damage survived rather than erased—but genuine healing nonetheless. Life reclaiming territory from death through balanced intervention.

"Rest now," Cadeyrn tells Mira as we withdraw our hands. "Your body needs time to adjust to what we've begun."

She nods weakly, already drifting toward sleep as the guards lift her with gentle efficiency. "Thank you," she murmurs, eyes finding mine. "For showing me I was more than just... a vessel."

As they carry her to a quieter alcove for recovery, I lean against Cadeyrn, suddenly exhausted despite having just awakened. Healing through Wild Magic demands more than formal training—it draws on emotional reserves, on connection beyond calculated protocol.

I check on our children, each still sleeping peacefully despite the drama unfolding around them. Ember's tiny fingers twitch in dreams, sparks dancing across his skin. Alder's breath synchronizes with Cadeyrn's, their cillae briefly matching before diverging again. Lyra's silver-streaked hair shifts in currents no one else can see. Willow's tears form perfect crystal patterns on her chubby cheeks.

Four vessels of Wild Magic, four elements unified rather than separated, four impossible children who will grow in a world transformed by their very existence.

"That was unexpected," I observe, adjusting Ember who has begun fussing again.

"The healing, or the fact that I suggested it?" Cadeyrn asks, amusement filtering through our bond.

"Both," I admit, studying his transformed face. No longer the perfect Winter Prince who regarded me with calculated interest at the Gathering Circle, but something far more dangerous and valuable: a mate capable of growth. "Seven centuries of Winter Court precision doesn't usually lend itself to experimental healing techniques."

His hand finds mine, cillae synchronizing where our skin connects. "Seven centuries of Winter Court precision never produced four children carrying balanced Wild Magic, either. Adaptation becomes necessary when facing unprecedented circumstances."

The formal court phrase delivered with wry self-awareness—another sign of his transformation. Seven centuries of perfect control giving way to something more authentic, more capable of genuine connection.

Lady Midnight approaches with measured steps, her expression carefully neutral despite the cillae swirling across her skin. "Prince Cadeyrn, reports continue to arrive from beyond our borders. The Wild Magic spreads faster than anticipated, awakening those with even traces of old blood in their veins."

"And the resistance?" he asks, shifting to cradle little Willow as she stirs beside him.

"Scattered and diminishing," she replies. "Small skirmishes rather than organized opposition. Many who stood against us yesterday awaken to cillae today."

Through our bond, I feel Cadeyrn's satisfaction mingled with caution. The tide turns, but transformation never comes without resistance. Those most entrenched in court hierarchy fight most desperately against inevitable change.

"Maintain defensive positions," he commands, "but avoid unnecessary confrontation. Those who awaken to Wild Magic should be welcomed, not punished for past allegiance."

Lady Midnight nods, cillae brightening with approval. "As you command. And the messengers arriving from border villages?"

"Provide sanctuary to any who seek it," I interject, not waiting for Cadeyrn to respond. The blacksmith's apprentice long gone, replaced by whatever I've become—neither fully human nor fae, neither subject nor queen, neither omega nor alpha but something transcending artificial categories. "Especially omegas awakening to cillae who fear court retaliation."

She glances between us, noting my presumption but raising no objection. Through our bond, I feel Cadeyrn's approval, his pride in my assertion of authority. "Of course, Lady Briar. Already many gather in the outer courtyards—omegas from all four territories, some with children, others alone. All bearing awakening cillae."

The image strikes me with unexpected force—omegas finding sanctuary in the Winter Court, of all places. The same palace that once housed the coldest, most controlled breeding program now offering protection to those awakening to Wild Magic. Irony has never tasted quite so sweet.

"They'll need proper accommodation," Cadeyrn observes, ever practical. "And instruction in controlling newly awakened magic."

"Later," I tell him, fighting to keep my eyes open as exhaustion claims its due. "First, I need more sleep. And probably another twelve meals. Growing four magical beings takes a lot out of you."

His laugh holds genuine warmth, his hand squeezing mine with gentle pressure. "Rest, then. The transformation continues whether we oversee it directly or not."

As I settle back against the furs, four impossible children arranged between us, I think of everything that's changed since I entered the Hunt wearing my friend's face. The blacksmith's apprentice who expected to die fighting, now mother to four children carrying balanced Wild Magic. The Winter Prince whose perfect control defined him for seven centuries, now transformed by claiming into something wilder, truer.

Not an ending but a beginning. Not victory through dominance but transformation through balance.

Outside our sanctuary, the Wild Magic continues its gradual spread, touching those with even traces of old blood throughout all four territories. Small skirmishes flare where resistance remains strongest, but these grow fewer with each passing hour as more awaken to cillae and recognize kin where once they saw enemy.

Within the throne room, our four impossible children sleep peacefully, unaware that their very existence has triggered the transformation of an entire magical system. Ember with his quicksilver fire magic, Alder with his steady earth rhythms, Lyra with her dancing air currents, little Willow with her flowing water patterns—all balanced rather than separated, all necessary parts of a whole that court doctrine tried to divide.

"Sleep," Cadeyrn murmurs, his hand finding mine as cillae synchronize between us. "Tomorrow brings new challenges, but for now, we've earned this moment of peace."

I surrender to exhaustion, knowing he's right. The transformation we've begun extends far beyond these walls, beyond our direct influence or control. The Wild Magic awakens what court doctrine suppressed for centuries, flowing through pathways long sealed by artificial division.

Somewhere in the borderlands, Willow tends to her garden, unaware that the wasting sickness slowly retreats as poisoned earth purifies beneath Wild Magic's influence. In other villages, omegas find cillae spreading across their skin, magic responding to emotion rather than rigid training. In court territories, rigid hierarchy fractures as those with old blood awaken to possibilities beyond artificial separation.

The future unfolds not with dramatic battles but with quieter, more persistent transformation—Wild Magic remembering what it once was, what it was always meant to be.

Run, little omega. Not from death, but toward rebirth. Not alone, but together. Not in fear, but in transformation's embrace.