Page 175 of Run Little Omega

"You mean stolen," I growl, cillae flickering weakly beneath iron's constraint. "Ripped away so they can't threaten your precious control."

"So they cannot destroy what maintains peace between realms," she corrects, pressing cold hands against my swollen belly. Where once I'd have welcome a healer's touch, now I recoil as if burned. "Wild Magic is too dangerous to exist without proper channels."

As her hands touch me, the collar tightens viciously, constricting like a noose. Something twists inside me—not labor but violation, foreign magic attempting to reshape what should unfold naturally. The four little ones thrash in protest, their distinct signatures becoming erratic, frightened. I feel their panic as if it's my own, multiplied fourfold in my blood.

I arch against the restraints, iron burning deeper into frost-marked flesh. "Stop! You're killing them!"

"The discomfort is temporary," Elder Iris says, increasing pressure until I taste blood from biting my tongue. "The vessels will stabilize once separated from your corrupting influence."

Through our claiming bond, I feel Cadeyrn's sudden, razor-sharp focus—his attention cutting through battle chaos as he finally registers my agony. His rage explodes through our connection, cillae responding to his fury even across distance. He's coming. But the palace is vast, the sacred chamber hidden, and time running short as crimson moonlight inches closer to center.

The pressure increases as Elder Iris forces foreign magic deeper. Something tears inside me—not physical but magical, boundaries breached that should remain inviolate. The four little ones respond with increasingly desperate movements, their magic fluctuating wildly as it fights invasion. I feel them reaching for each other, for me, for anything familiar in this storm of foreign power.

"Stop this!" Wren suddenly shouts, shoving herself between us with unexpected force. "The vessels show critical distress. These methods will kill them!"

Elder Iris pauses, irritation flashing across her face. "You forget yourself, midwife. Step back and allow me to continue."

"I cannot," Wren replies, placing protective hands over my belly. "My oath binds me to preserve life first. This approach guarantees death."

The hunters shift, metal scraping against stone as they register this unexpected resistance. Elder Iris's mask of serenity cracks, revealing something ancient and terrible beneath.

"Then you have outlived your purpose," she states, green magic gathering at her fingertips like poisonous vines. "Guards, remove her."

Two hunters move toward Wren, iron nets at the ready. She doesn't resist, accepting her fate with the bitter resignation of one who's made countless impossible choices.

"Wait," I call out, mind racing for any delay, any chance for Cadeyrn to reach us. "She's right. Even your court needs live children, not dead ones. We can find another way."

Something shifts beneath my skin—a subtle change in pressure, in magical resonance. The collar around my neck grows unexpectedly warm, then hot, the iron beginning to glow red against my throat.

The four little ones respond to my desperation with synchronized magic, four distinct signatures merging into something beyond their individual power. Despite iron's suppression, despite the collar's bindings, Wild Magic surfaces—responding not to technique but to primal need.

A hot spasm rolls through my lower body, tightening my belly into a band of solid muscle. My breath catches as recognition dawns—not the magic violation from Elder Iris, but something natural, something right.

The first contraction hits without warning—a wave of pain so intense my vision whites out. Not artificial acceleration but genuine labor, triggered by danger and desperation. My water breaks in a rush, steaming where it touches the rune-carved stone beneath me.

"She's entering labor!" Wren announces, professional instinct overriding fear. "The extraction attempt has triggered natural birth!"

Elder Iris's perfect composure shatters. "Impossible. The iron should suppress all magical responses, particularly from impure hybrids."

"The little ones come whether you will it or not," Wren insists, moving protectively closer. "Their magic responds to threat. You cannot stop what grows in strength with every beat of her heart."

Another contraction tears through me, stronger than the first. The collar around my neck starts to soften, iron losing cohesion as it heats beyond its melting point. The four little ones' combined magic fights against suppression—cillae reappearing across my skin as their power channels through me.

"Accelerate the extraction," Elder Iris commands, green magic intensifying around her hands until they glow with sickly light. "Before the Wild Magic fully awakens."

She presses harder, foreign magic battling against my body's natural rhythms. The pressure builds unbearably—magical, physical, emotional—as forced extraction fights against natural birth.

I reach for Cadeyrn through our bond, pushing past iron's interference with all my strength. Labor has begun. The sacred chamber. Hurry.

His response surges like a tide—rage and determination and something deeper, more primal. The instinct of an alpha fighting to reach his mate in labor. Distance still separates us, but his focus cuts through magical barriers like a blade through flesh.

Another contraction grips me, violent enough to arch my spine against stone. The four little ones' magic flares in response, cillae spreading from my skin to the table. The carved symbols crack, ancient markings shattering as Wild Magic pushes against court control.

"The binding fails!" a hunter shouts, backing away as frost crawls across the floor like living vines. "Her magic returns!"

Elder Iris abandons all pretense of serenity, spring magic gathering around her in verdant waves. "Hold her down! We must complete extraction before?—"

The collar melts completely, liquid iron running down my neck and chest, leaving burn trails that immediately freeze as cillae resurge. Wild Magic explodes from me in a wave that shatters the remaining suppression, ice splintering outward in a blast that sends hunters staggering back.

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