Page 91 of Run Little Omega

"You're channeling it," she corrects. "The Wild Magic works through you, not for you. There's a crucial difference."

The distinction feels significant though I can't fully articulate why. Unlike Cadeyrn's calculated ice formations—weapons and barriers crafted through centuries of practiced control—this feels cooperative, symbiotic. The magic responds to intention rather than command.

I experiment, envisioning Thornwick's forge where I apprenticed under Fergus. Immediately, the ice sculpture transforms, reproducing the building in perfect detail down to the chimney where frozen smoke rises in crystalline tendrils.

"Remarkable," the Survivor murmurs. "Such attunement without formal training."

"Not control," I realize, understanding flowing through me alongside the magic. "Partnership."

Her smile suggests I've passed some unspoken assessment. "Exactly. Courts believe magic must be dominated, forced into compliance. Wild Magic has always been about balance—giving and receiving equally."

A shadow darkens the chamber entrance, accompanied by a sudden temperature drop. I look up to find Cadeyrn standing there, his expression guarded as he surveys the scene.

"I wondered where you'd disappeared to," he says, voice deliberately neutral though the patterns across his skin pulse with agitation. "Our host has been sharing the haven's secrets, I see."

The Survivor straightens, her demeanor shifting from instructive to defensive. "Knowledge she deserves to possess, Winter Prince."

"I don't dispute that." His attention fixes on the ice structure hovering above the pool. "Impressive work, Briar. You've always been quick to learn."

I maintain the creation out of pure stubbornness. "The Survivor has explained the Hunt's original purpose," I tell him, watching for his reaction. "Before court corruption."

Something flickers in his ice-blue eyes—discomfort, perhaps guilt. "The courts have much to answer for," he says quietly, surprising me. "They've forgotten more than they've preserved."

The Survivor eyes him warily, clearly not expecting this concession. "You speak differently than court-bred alphas."

"I haven't been 'most' anything since claiming Briar." His gaze returns to the ice sculpture suspended between my hands. "Perhaps longer."

I study his face, trying to reconcile this Cadeyrn with the Winter Prince who commanded messengers with such natural authority. "You knew about this," I realize. "About Wild Magic. About what the courts did to suppress it."

"I suspected." He advances into the chamber, each footstep leaving crystalline traces. "Winter Court archives contain texts, heavily redacted, that hint at what preceded seasonal divisions. But suspicion differs from concrete evidence." He gestures to the wall carvings. "From truth carved in stone."

The Survivor watches him like a predator assessing prey. "And what does the Winter Prince think of this truth?"

"That the courts' desperate control has produced precisely what they feared." His voice carries an unfamiliar bitterness. "Each generation grows more rigid in their magic. The bloodlines weaken despite all efforts to strengthen them."

"Yet you've helped maintain that system," she counters, accusation hanging between them like a blade.

Cadeyrn doesn't deny it. The patterns across his skin dim slightly, responding to emotions carefully concealed from his expression. "We all have parts to play," he says finally. "Some less defensible than others."

His phrasing sends cold dread spreading through my abdomen. Something lies beneath their exchange—history beyond political disagreement, something personal that the Survivor knows and Cadeyrn avoids acknowledging.

"The Wild Magic has chosen you both," the Survivor states after weighted silence. "Despite everything. Despite the Winter Court's... practices."

The way she says "practices" chills me more thoroughly than any ice magic could.

"We should prepare to move on," Cadeyrn says abruptly. "Our sanctuary is temporary, and court hunting parties close in."

"Convenient deflection," I observe, refusing diversion. "What practices exactly?"

He stiffens visibly. "Court politics are complex?—"

"That's not an answer," I interrupt. The ice structure between my hands responds to my frustration, edges sharpening, growing jagged.

The Survivor observes my magic react, satisfaction glinting in her mercurial eyes. "The Winter Prince excels at evading uncomfortable truths. It's how he's survived seven centuries of court intrigue."

"Briar," Cadeyrn says, voice softening as he notices ice spreading from my feet across the chamber floor. "Your power responds to emotion here. Center yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap, though I recognize the truth in his warning. Ice advances further, climbing the walls in delicate formations that mirror my internal turbulence.

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