Page 191 of Run Little Omega

"You shouldn't have jumped in front of that spear," I tell her, reaching to take her hand. Frost patterns synchronize where our skin connects, Wild Magic flowing between us in currents that strengthen her faltering rhythms.

"Someone needed to," she replies simply, each word costing her visible effort. "And I chose to."

Choice. The word that defines everything we've fought for these past months. Not court mandate, not biological imperative, but conscious decision made despite impossible odds. Mira at seventeen, chosen for the Hunt through no choice of her own, now making the ultimate choice to protect others despite the cost.

"The Wild Magic sustains her," Lysandra explains, joining us with an assessing gaze. Her hands hover over Mira's wound, cillae responding to her healer's training. "But the damage is extensive. I'm not certain?—"

"You're thinking like a court healer," Cadeyrn interrupts, surprising me with the directness of his contradiction. Through our bond, I feel his certainty, his recognition of possibilities beyond traditional limitations. "Wild Magic doesn't follow court rules. It never did."

He places his hand over Mira's wound, cillae brightening where they connect. "During the Hunt, I witnessed Briar heal wounds that should have been fatal. Wild Magic responds to need, to intention, not to formal training."

I understand immediately what he's suggesting. Placing my free hand alongside his, I concentrate on the connection between us—the claiming bond transformed by Wild Magic into something deeper, something that allows power to flow in both directions rather than one way. No longer alpha dominating omega, but balanced power circulating between equal vessels.

I remember the blackthorn tree where we first claimed each other, crimson sap raining down as Wild Magic erupted between us. I remember the ancient stone altar where we built upon that connection, cillae synchronizing as the forest recognized what we were becoming. I remember the throne, transformed by our union into something that transcends court separation.

Together, we channel healing into Mira's broken body, cillae synchronizing as Wild Magic flows through the connection. Not the precise, calculated healing of court medicine but something more primal, more instinctive. Magic that remembers what it once was, before artificial division and rigid training.

Mira gasps, her back arching as the magic flows through her. Frost patterns brighten across her skin, spreading outward from the wound in concentric waves. For a terrifying moment, I think we've hurt her further—but then the patterns stabilize, pulsing with renewed vitality.

Between our hands, damaged tissues knit themselves together, not with winter's precise geometry but with wild, organic patterns that incorporate all four seasonal elements. Healing not through separation but through unity.

"The wound closes," Lysandra observes with quiet wonder. "Not through court protocol but through... connection."

I watch as ravaged flesh reconstructs itself, lung tissue regenerating, blood vessels reconnecting. Not perfect court healing—scars will remain, evidence of damage survived rather than erased—but genuine healing nonetheless. Life reclaiming territory from death through balanced intervention.

"Rest now," Cadeyrn tells Mira as we withdraw our hands. "Your body needs time to adjust to what we've begun."

She nods weakly, already drifting toward sleep as the guards lift her with gentle efficiency. "Thank you," she murmurs, eyes finding mine. "For showing me I was more than just... a vessel."

As they carry her to a quieter alcove for recovery, I lean against Cadeyrn, suddenly exhausted despite having just awakened. Healing through Wild Magic demands more than formal training—it draws on emotional reserves, on connection beyond calculated protocol.

I check on our children, each still sleeping peacefully despite the drama unfolding around them. Ember's tiny fingers twitch in dreams, sparks dancing across his skin. Alder's breath synchronizes with Cadeyrn's, their cillae briefly matching before diverging again. Lyra's silver-streaked hair shifts in currents no one else can see. Willow's tears form perfect crystal patterns on her chubby cheeks.

Four vessels of Wild Magic, four elements unified rather than separated, four impossible children who will grow in a world transformed by their very existence.

"That was unexpected," I observe, adjusting Ember who has begun fussing again.

"The healing, or the fact that I suggested it?" Cadeyrn asks, amusement filtering through our bond.

"Both," I admit, studying his transformed face. No longer the perfect Winter Prince who regarded me with calculated interest at the Gathering Circle, but something far more dangerous and valuable: a mate capable of growth. "Seven centuries of Winter Court precision doesn't usually lend itself to experimental healing techniques."

His hand finds mine, cillae synchronizing where our skin connects. "Seven centuries of Winter Court precision never produced four children carrying balanced Wild Magic, either. Adaptation becomes necessary when facing unprecedented circumstances."

The formal court phrase delivered with wry self-awareness—another sign of his transformation. Seven centuries of perfect control giving way to something more authentic, more capable of genuine connection.

Lady Midnight approaches with measured steps, her expression carefully neutral despite the cillae swirling across her skin. "Prince Cadeyrn, reports continue to arrive from beyond our borders. The Wild Magic spreads faster than anticipated, awakening those with even traces of old blood in their veins."

"And the resistance?" he asks, shifting to cradle little Willow as she stirs beside him.

"Scattered and diminishing," she replies. "Small skirmishes rather than organized opposition. Many who stood against us yesterday awaken to cillae today."

Through our bond, I feel Cadeyrn's satisfaction mingled with caution. The tide turns, but transformation never comes without resistance. Those most entrenched in court hierarchy fight most desperately against inevitable change.

"Maintain defensive positions," he commands, "but avoid unnecessary confrontation. Those who awaken to Wild Magic should be welcomed, not punished for past allegiance."

Lady Midnight nods, cillae brightening with approval. "As you command. And the messengers arriving from border villages?"

"Provide sanctuary to any who seek it," I interject, not waiting for Cadeyrn to respond. The blacksmith's apprentice long gone, replaced by whatever I've become—neither fully human nor fae, neither subject nor queen, neither omega nor alpha but something transcending artificial categories. "Especially omegas awakening to cillae who fear court retaliation."

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