Page 182 of Run Little Omega

I force myself upright, leaving The Collector's frozen form behind. His fate matters less than reaching Briar, than activating the throne room's ancient protection before our children enter a world determined to control or destroy them.

Each step forward costs more than the last, the weapon's disruption spreading inexorably through my system. Wild Magic fights to maintain the vessel it has remade these past months, but even its primal power struggles against magic specifically designed to counter it.

Through our weakened bond, I feel Briar's presence in the throne room, her labor progressing rapidly now. Pain and determination mingle in what little connection remains between us—she's made it to our sanctuary, to the ancient protection we prepared. But something else comes through the bond as well—a sense of pursuit closing in, of danger not yet escaped.

The crystal blade remains embedded in my chest, its disruption magic spreading with each heartbeat. I could pull it free, but doing so without proper magical containment might sever the bond completely rather than just weaken it. Better to reach Briar first, to be there physically before attempting removal.

The palace responds to my desperate need, walls shifting to create the most direct path upward. I climb through channels never meant for passage, ancient ice flowing aside to speed my journey. Blood marks my trail, silver-blue droplets freezing instantly upon contact with the Winter Court's perpetual cold.

I emerge finally into a corridor I recognize—the approach to the throne room itself. Guards lie frozen along the passage, evidence of Briar's passage and the awakened Wild Magic she now wields even in labor. Pride mingles with concern—such power exerted during birth could endanger both her and the babes if not properly channeled.

The throne room doors stand partially open, cillae spiraling outward from where her hands must have touched them. Beyond lies our sanctuary, the transformed throne at its center—our best hope for safely delivering children carrying Wild Magic that shouldn't be possible.

I stagger forward, weapon's disruption spreading through my chest now, reaching for vital organs. Each heartbeat pumps silver-blue blood through a system increasingly unable to contain it, cillae across my skin fading like morning mist before rising sun.

The bond between us weakens further, stretching painfully thin as the weapon's magic interferes with Wild Magic's connections. Still, I feel Briar's determination, her indomitable will driving her forward despite labor's pain. She reaches the throne itself, ancient magic responding to her presence, to the children she carries.

Almost there. Just a few more steps to join her, to complete the protection, to ensure our children enter a world prepared to receive them.

A shout from behind—Summer Court hunters, having discovered The Collector's frozen form, now pursue me with renewed determination. Their golden armor gleams in the Winter Palace's dim light, weapons raised as they race to prevent what they cannot understand.

No time to fight. No strength left for battle. Every remaining fragment of power must be reserved for reaching Briar, for activating the throne's ancient protection.

I lunge forward, clearing the throne room threshold as weapons discharge behind me. Something strikes my back—another specialized projectile, this one releasing magic designed to completely sever the connection between vessel and power.

Pain beyond description tears through me, Wild Magic pouring from the wound in visible waves that crystallize instantly upon contact with air. My transformed body begins unmaking itself, the changes wrought by months of awakening now reversing under specialized attack.

The throne room stretches before me, impossibly vast. The transformed throne gleams at the center, surrounded by a protective circle of loyal omegas whose cillae pulse in synchronized rhythm. Briar is there, her face contorted with both physical labor and the emotional agony of what she must think is my death.

The weapon severs our bond completely—not just stretched or muffled but utterly destroyed. In that terrible moment, I understand what she feels: complete emptiness where our connection should be. To her, I must feel dead, gone, the bond vanished as if it never existed.

I fall, silver-blue blood pooling beneath me on the throne room's transformed floor. Summer Court hunters pour through the doorway behind me, weapons raised for the killing blow. I haven't reached her. Haven't completed the protection that might have shielded our children during birth.

Through the severed bond, I try one final time to reach her—pushing against magical blockage with everything remaining of my transformed self.I live. I'm here.

But the connection no longer exists. What once carried thoughts and emotions between us now stretches into empty void, a chasm too wide to bridge with failing strength.

The weapon's magic fills my vision with dark fractals, consuming awareness as it severs the bond completely. The last sensation I register is Briar's anguished scream—her pain at feeling our connection vanish more devastating than any physical wound. I wish I could tell her I'm not afraid of dying. I'm only afraid of leaving her to face this alone. But wishes are for people with futures, and mine just ran out.

Then darkness claims me completely, silver-blue blood pooling beneath my still form as Summer Court hunters close in for the final strike.

CHAPTER58

POV: Briar

The silencewhere Cadeyrn should be hollows me from the inside out.

Not the absence of sound—gods know the palace screams with battle—but the void where our bond pulsed since that first claiming against the blackthorn tree. A connection I fought, then surrendered to, then came to need like air. Now gone. Severed. A phantom limb of the soul that leaves me gasping with each remembered reach toward nothingness.

I've endured broken bones, hunger pains, and the bite of shadowroot withdrawal, but nothing compares to this. The bond's absence is a wound that bleeds magic instead of blood, leaking Wild Magic that spirals around me in jagged, unstable patterns. My grief manifests physically—frost forming and shattering with each ragged breath.

"Keep moving," Wren urges, her hand steady under my elbow as another contraction bends me double, stealing breath and thought alike. "We need to reach the throne room."

Funny how death and birth insist on happening simultaneously. Nature's cosmic joke. The universe doesn't care about appropriate timing or dramatic pacing. It simply happens, brutal and indifferent as a forge fire that burns regardless of what you feed it.

I straighten, one hand cradling my belly where the fire child fights to enter a world half-orphaned before taking its first breath. The corridor ahead stretches impossibly long, palace walls bleeding with battle magic that seeps from the stone like sweat from fevered skin. From somewhere to my left, I hear the clash of weapons and the distinctive crack of frost magic meeting fire—the sound of bone snapping in winter cold.

"Can you make it?" Wren asks, professional concern etched in the lines around her eyes.

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