Page 172 of Run Little Omega

Everyone in position as planned, with one critical absence. Cadeyrn, still fighting somewhere in the palace, drawing enemy forces away from this final sanctuary, unaware that I've been separated from my escort and nearly captured.

As I emerge through the trapdoor, all eyes turn toward me. Relief washes across faces strained with tension and fear. The gathered omegas had been expecting me, but the delay had clearly begun to foster concern.

"Lady Briar!" Flora rushes forward, helping me up the last few steps. Her voice carries genuine relief rather than the calm efficiency I've come to expect from her court-trained persona. "We feared—when Lysandra arrived without you?—"

"The Collector found me," I explain, my voice rougher than intended, the fall and subsequent chase having taken more out of me than I realized. "And Elder Iris Bloom. They collapsed the passage, but the palace created another route."

A murmur runs through the gathered omegas—some fearful, others determined. The names carry weight, reputation, threat. The Collector's particularly sends visible shivers through several who bear his claiming marks, his reputation for brutal possessiveness well-established among those who survived his attention.

"The birth chambers have been completely overrun," Flora informs me, guiding me toward the throne. Her practical nature reasserts itself as she focuses on immediate tactical concerns. "But the decoy worked. The bulk of their forces concentrated there, giving us time to prepare here."

I survey the throne room as we approach the dais, noting the defensive positions established exactly as we'd planned. Fourteen awakened omegas, each showing varying levels of Wild Magic manifestation through cillae visible on exposed skin. Some maintain ice barriers across vulnerable entry points, others prepare healing stations for potential injuries, still others work to activate the ancient protection patterns etched into the floor—concentric circles of magical formulae that pulse with increasing brightness as the quadruplets approach.

"And Cadeyrn?" I can't keep the worry from my voice, our claiming bond stretched thin by the chaos between us. I still sense him—alive, fighting—but the connection feels tenuous, like trying to hold smoke between cupped palms.

Flora's expression tightens slightly. "Leading the defense at the north junction. Drawing Summer Court forces away from direct paths to the throne room."

Separated by necessity, by strategy, by the cruel logic of warfare that divides strength to survive. My chest aches with the physical distance between us, our claiming bond stretched thin by the chaos of battle and the magic being thrown against palace defenses.

I reach through the bond instinctively, sending wordless reassurance that I've reached the throne room safely. Whether he receives the message is impossible to know, but the attempt itself strengthens my resolve. We've prepared for this moment—planned, strategized, accepted the necessity of temporary separation to ensure the quadruplets' safe arrival.

Another explosion rocks the foundations, this one close enough to send dust raining from the ceiling. The loyal omegas look upward with alarm, cillae flaring across skin in protective response. Small fragments of ice dislodge from ornate fixtures, falling like deadly snow across the ancient patterns etched into the floor.

"They're breaking through faster than we anticipated," Flora observes, her practical nature asserting itself despite the fear evident in her violet eyes. "We need to begin the ancient protection ritual."

"We can't," I remind her, one hand automatically moving to my belly where the quadruplets respond to the magical turbulence around us. "Not without Cadeyrn's blood to trigger the protective field."

Flora's expression turns grim. "Then we hold as long as we can. And hope he reaches us before they break through."

I turn toward the throne—transformed beyond recognition by 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—spring green, summer gold, autumn amber all flowing through winter blue in perfect balance. A physical manifestation of what our children represent—the reunification of elements that should never have been divided.

If Cadeyrn can't reach us in time... if the allied courts breach our final defenses before he returns...

I push the thought away, focusing instead on what I can control. The loyal omegas need leadership, certainty, conviction. Not the fear clawing at my insides or the desperate longing for my mate's return.

"Strengthen the eastern approach," I command, settling onto the throne despite the way it makes me feel like an imposter. Ice shaped to honor royalty, now supporting a village blacksmith transformed by Wild Magic and stubborn survival. "That's where Elder Iris will focus her attack. Mira, your ice flowers seem to reinforce the protection patterns—create more along the perimeter."

They move with immediate purpose, cillae brightening with renewed determination. I watch them position themselves around the chamber, these omegas who should have been nothing but breeding vessels according to court doctrine, now wielding awakened magic with growing confidence.

Another blast shakes the foundation, closer this time. Small fragments of ice dislodge from the ceiling, drifting down like snow across the ancient patterns etched into the floor. Cracks appear in the western wall, golden light seeping through like infection spreading through damaged flesh.

We're running out of time.

I close my eyes, reaching through our claiming bond for any sense of Cadeyrn's location. The connection stretches thin across the chaos-filled palace, like trying to hear a whisper during a thunderstorm. Distance and magical interference distort the bond, making it difficult to sense anything beyond his continued existence.

I need you, I push through the bond, pouring every ounce of emotion into the sending. Every memory of connection, every moment of trust built since that first claiming beneath the blackthorn tree. They've found me. The throne room. Hurry.

Whether he receives the message is impossible to know. The bond pulses once in response, but whether that's genuine connection or just wishful thinking, I can't tell through the magical static created by colliding court magic and defensive spells.

A third explosion, violent enough to crack one of the ice pillars supporting the western arch. The loyal omegas respond immediately, frost magic flowing from their hands to reinforce the damaged structure. The collaborative working impresses me—spontaneous coordination without verbal commands, cillae synchronizing automatically between practitioners with different ability levels.

"They're getting closer," Flora observes, taking position at my right hand. The practical assessment carries no panic, just strategic recognition of worsening odds. "The palace defenses are falling faster than predicted."

"We hold," I tell her, straightening on the throne despite the fear threatening to swallow me whole. The four lives within me deserve nothing less than absolute conviction, even if it's mostly performance. "As long as necessary. Until Cadeyrn arrives."

Or until the allied courts break through and take what they've come for.

I place both hands on my belly, feeling the quadruplets respond with synchronized movement. Four lives that shouldn't exist according to court doctrine. Four vessels carrying magic that could either save or destroy the rigid systems that have dominated both realms for millennia.

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