Page 134 of Run Little Omega

Lady Lysandra is waiting when I reach our quarters, her pale blue skin luminous in the diffuse light filtering through ice-crystal windows. Despite her formal title and obvious nobility, she's proven to be refreshingly straightforward.

"You've been wandering again," she observes, gesturing for me to sit on the examination couch. "Against medical advice."

"I get restless," I reply, lowering myself awkwardly onto the cushioned surface with all the grace of a drunken bear. "Four passengers make sitting in one place uncomfortable. They've started what feels like a competitive tumbling routine in there, and I'm pretty sure one of them is winning medals."

Her lips quirk in a slight smile as she places her hands on my abdomen. Frost patterns flow from her fingertips, mingling with my own in a diagnostic pattern I've become familiar with over the past days.

"The ancient magic continues to quicken within you," she murmurs, her brow furrowing slightly. "All four remain strong, but the power flowing through your system increases with each passing day."

"I've noticed." The fatigue has been building steadily—a bone-deep weariness that sleep doesn't touch. "How much longer can I sustain this?"

She hesitates, which is answer enough. "Two weeks at most, I believe. Perhaps less." Her hands continue their careful examination. "We need access to the proper birthing chambers soon. The magical discharge when the little ones arrive will be... significant."

That's healer-speak for "potentially catastrophic." I've gathered enough to understand that no omega has ever successfully delivered quadruplets with fae blood, let alone ones carrying Wild Magic markers from all four courts. The power released during their birth could level half the palace if not properly contained.

"Cadeyrn is working on it," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "The court situation is... complicated."

Understatement of the year. The Winter Court has essentially split into factions—younger nobles rallying to Cadeyrn's call for change, while elder council members entrench behind centuries of tradition. Neither side has enough strength for outright victory, leaving us in a precarious stalemate.

"More complicated than you know," Lady Lysandra says, withdrawing her hands. "The other courts have begun mobilizing forces at our borders. They see what's happening here as contagion that must be contained."

"Of course they do." I struggle back into a sitting position. "Heaven forbid we upset the delicate balance of oppression they've maintained for centuries."

A rare smile touches her lips. "You speak your mind freely for someone raised in border villages."

"I was a blacksmith before I was an omega," I remind her. "Hard to develop a submissive personality when you spend your days beating metal into submission instead."

The door opens, and Cadeyrn enters, his expression weary but resolute. The transformation that began during our first claiming continues to reshape him—his once-slender frame now powerfully muscled, cillae spreading across his skin in elaborate whorls, tiny flowers blooming and dying along his hairline in endless cycles. He looks nothing like the cold, controlled prince who observed the gathered omegas at the start of the Hunt.

And I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice how the new muscles shift under his skin, or how his transformed body makes my own respond in ways that are decidedly inconvenient given our complicated situation. Just because I haven't forgiven him doesn't mean I'm blind.

His eyes meet mine across the room, and something warm flickers through our claiming bond. Not forgiveness—too much lies between us for that—but perhaps understanding. Recognition of what we've become together, what we're creating, what we're fighting for. And underneath it all, that same heat that's been building between us since the blood ritual, when something started to shift in ways neither of us expected.

"The birth chambers remain contested," he says without preamble. "Elder Iris Bloom has arrived as emissary from the Spring Court, ostensibly to negotiate terms but actually to assess our defenses."

"Elder Iris," Lady Lysandra's serene demeanor falters slightly. "She predates all three of us combined. If the Spring Court has sent her, they consider this situation grave indeed."

"Grave enough to form a unified front with Summer and Autumn," Cadeyrn confirms. "Their forces gather at our borders, while their spies infiltrate our court. They fear what the little ones represent."

The way he says "the little ones" still sounds strange coming from him, the seven-century-old Winter Prince who never planned to sire offspring, who entered his first rut because something in my scent triggered what his court physicians had deemed impossible.

"Have they made specific demands?" I ask, sliding carefully off the examination couch.

"The usual." Cadeyrn's mouth twists in bitter amusement. "Your termination, the disposal of the 'heirs of the original Hunt,' my rehabilitation once the Wild Magic has been 'purged' from my system." He moves closer, cillae brightening as he approaches. "I declined their generous offer."

He steps close enough that I can smell him—that intoxicating blend of winter pine and something uniquely him that still makes my insides do a little flip. Without warning, he brushes a strand of silver-streaked copper hair from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek in a way that sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with cold.

"How diplomatic of you," I say, unable to suppress a smile as I lean slightly into his touch. "I assume you used more ice daggers than words."

"Actually, I was remarkably restrained," he replies, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Lady Lysandra will confirm I didn't freeze a single emissary, despite ample provocation."

Lady Lysandra clears her throat pointedly, reminding us we're not alone. I reluctantly step back, but not before noticing how Cadeyrn's eyes darken with something that makes me wonder what would happen if we had a moment truly alone for the first time since the haven.

"True," she acknowledges with dry amusement. "Though Lord Frostbaine may never recover from your verbal evisceration."

Something in their easy banter surprises me. These past days have revealed a side of Cadeyrn I never glimpsed during our time in the forest—a dry wit, a precise intelligence, a capacity for strategic thinking that balances his newfound primal nature. I'm still figuring out how to reconcile these aspects with the man who authorized atrocities without question for centuries. The man whose signature condemned my mother to a slow death by poisoned water.

A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts. A young alpha guard enters, his cillae marking him as one of those loyal to Cadeyrn's faction.

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