Page 180 of Run Little Omega

Another explosion, closer this time. Through a gaping wound in the palace wall, I glimpse the battle raging in the courtyard beyond—hundreds of allied court forces clashing with my loyal Winter Guard. The snow-covered grounds run red and gold and green and amber, blood of four courts mingling as they tear each other apart for power they don't understand.

Among the defenders, awakened omegas fight alongside trained soldiers, their cillae gleaming in the crimson moonlight. Untrained but fierce, channeling Wild Magic through sheer will rather than formal technique. One creates a shield of ice that deflects a Summer Court fireball. Another freezes an attacking alpha in mid-leap, her face set in grim determination as she protects younger omegas retreating toward the palace interior.

Through our bond, Briar's terror spikes suddenly—a wave of pure, animal panic that staggers me mid-stride. Not battle fear but something deeper, more primal. The sacred chamber. Forced labor. The collar's suppression. The connection between us stretches painfully thin, distance and magical interference muffling what should be crystal clear.

I spin toward the inner palace, abandoning the courtyard battle without hesitation. Nothing matters but reaching her. Not the palace. Not the court. Not seven centuries of duty and tradition and control. Nothing.

"My Prince!" Lysandra calls after me, but I'm already gone, frost trailing in my wake as I race through corridors that reshape themselves to speed my passage. The palace responds to my desperation, walls flowing like liquid to create the most direct path to wherever Briar has been taken.

I'm halfway there when our bond flickers—like a candle in wind, guttering momentarily before stabilizing. Something—or someone—actively interferes with the connection. Not merely distance or chaos but deliberate suppression.

Spring Court magic. Specialized binding spells designed to sever connections, to isolate vessels before harvesting their contents. The realization sends frost exploding from my skin, coating the corridor in jagged spikes that radiate outward from my body like physical manifestations of my rage.

I follow the weakening bond deeper into the palace, descending ancient stairs rarely used in modern court ceremony. The air grows thick with residual power—not just winter's frost but all four seasonal courts, their magics layered over centuries of use. This place has seen countless births, yet feels wrong somehow. Corrupted. Twisted from what it should be into something that perverts nature rather than honors it.

The presence of all four court magics here reminds me of when this chamber was built—before the courts divided, when magic flowed freely between seasonal aspects. The blackened walls bear traces of all four courts' power, not as separate forces but as aspects of a single, unified magic. What we've worked so hard to divide was once integrated, balanced.

Through our stretching bond, I feel Briar's pain shifting—not battle wounds but something deeper, more primal. Labor. The little ones quicken to life, triggered by stress and fear and whatever magic is being performed in that underground chamber. Their combined power pulses through our bond despite interference, four distinct signatures merging into something the courts have feared for generations.

I take stairs three at a time, frost exploding from my feet with each impact. The palace responds to my urgency, ice steps reshaping themselves to speed my descent. Walls pulse with sympathetic magic, ancient cillae awakening after centuries of dormancy.

Another wave of panic floods through our bond, stronger than before. I feel Briar's determination mingling with terror, her indomitable will straining against forces that seek to control what should be sacred.

The bond flickers again, weaker now. Not severed completely, but muffled, suppressed by magic specifically designed to counter Wild Magic's connections.

I reach the bottom of the ancient stairwell, emerging into a circular antechamber carved from black stone veined with silver. Four passages branch outward, each marked with symbols of a different court—winter's geometric frost, summer's licking flames, autumn's spiraling decay, spring's unfurling growth.

The bond pulls me toward the passage marked with spring's sigil—the most likely location for specialized birth magic. The corridor descends further, air growing thick with the scent of soil and new growth that seems obscene in the Winter Palace's perpetual cold.

The passage ends abruptly at a massive door carved from living wood—an artifact that predates the Winter Court itself. Ancient magic pulses from its surface, wards designed to prevent unauthorized entry to sacred spaces. In another time, these protections might have given me pause. Now, they register as merely another obstacle between me and my mate.

I press my palm against the wood, channeling Wild Magic rather than traditional Winter Court formulas. The door resists briefly, responding to unfamiliar energy, then yields with a groan that sounds almost like pain. Beyond lies not the birthing chamber itself but another antechamber—this one occupied by six Spring Court guards arranged in defensive formation.

They react instantly, iron nets at the ready to suppress Winter Court magic. Under normal circumstances, against a normal Winter fae, their tactics would prove effective.

I am no longer normal. Haven't been since Briar triggered my first rut in the Bloodmoon Forest, since Wild Magic began remaking what seven centuries of rigid control had twisted into something unnatural.

I don't waste time with formal combat. Wild Magic responds to primal need rather than calculated strategy, erupting from my skin in a wave that freezes the nearest three guards before they can deploy their nets. The remaining three retreat, forming a tighter defensive circle as they reassess the threat I pose.

"The vessel-bearer has already escaped," one states, his voice carrying spring's deceptive gentleness. "She fled the binding chamber and escaped upward. You pursue shadows, Winter Prince."

Through our weakening bond, I sense the partial truth in his words. Briar has indeed escaped the birthing chamber—her presence feels more distant now, moving upward through the palace with a midwife at her side. But labor has begun. Her path will lead to the throne room, to the ancient protection we prepared for precisely this moment.

If I follow directly, I might reach her in time to activate the protection properly. To ensure our little ones are born safely amidst magic designed to shield rather than harvest.

But instinct warns against the obvious path. The remaining guards yield too easily, their retreat calculated rather than panicked. A trap, then. Forces waiting along the direct route to the throne room, prepared to intercept me before I reach Briar.

"Where is Elder Iris?" I demand, cillae darkening across my skin as Wild Magic responds to building rage. "She orchestrated this attack."

The guard's eyes flick briefly toward the inner chamber. "The Elder follows protocol regarding unauthorized Wild Magic manifestation. The vessels must be properly stabilized before?—"

I don't let him finish. Wild Magic erupts from my transformed hands, not as controlled frost spears but as living patterns that spread across the guard's spring-green skin, turning verdant flesh gray with cellular death. Unlike the outer guards, I show no mercy here. These hunters came with specific intent to harm my mate, to steal our children.

"The little ones are not vessels," I tell the remaining guards as their companion crumbles to frozen dust. "They are children. Heirs to magic you've forgotten."

Fear replaces calculated confidence in their eyes. This isn't the Winter Prince they expected—bound by court protocol, constrained by traditional forms. They face something older, more primal—Wild Magic given conscious vessel after centuries of suppression.

I choose a different approach than direct pursuit. The palace itself remains my ally, its ancient structure responding to Wild Magic in ways the courts have forgotten. Pressing my palm against the black stone wall, I channel power not to destroy but to reshape. The wall yields like softened wax, creating an opening where none existed before.

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