Page 129 of Run Little Omega

"We proceed as planned," Cadeyrn decides. "But with additional caution. I know the Winter Palace better than anyone living—its secrets, its weaknesses, its hidden paths."

The Hound inclines his head in reluctant agreement. "I will guide you to the northern approach, but I cannot enter the palace itself. My... history with the Winter Court would make me too recognizable."

I hadn't considered that The Hound wouldn't accompany us all the way. The realization leaves me unexpectedly bereft. Despite his strangeness, his divided loyalties, he has been a constant presence since I fled the Central Haven.

"Thank you," I tell him, meaning it. "For everything."

He studies me with those mismatched eyes—one brown, one fae-blue. "You carry hope," he says simply. "For both realms. Remember that when the path grows darkest."

As the last light fades from the sky, we make final preparations. I dress in the stolen clothes—a long woolen dress in Winter Court blue, a cloak with a deep hood to shadow my face, soft boots that accommodate my swollen feet. Cadeyrn applies the masking salve to all visible cillae, his touch careful and impersonal.

"There are nobles who might support us," he tells me as we prepare to leave our mountain sanctuary. "Those who remember the old ways, before the courts became so rigid. Lady Lysandra is our best hope, but there are others."

"And how do we find these potential allies without exposing ourselves?" I ask.

"We don't," he replies. "We make our way directly to the birthing chambers. They're located in the oldest section of the palace, where the walls are thickest and magical containment strongest."

"And if we're discovered before we reach them?"

His cillae briefly flare beneath the masking salve. "Then we improvise."

The mountain air bites with approaching winter as we emerge from our cave. Stars crowd the night sky, cold and distant, while the crimson moon hangs low on the horizon—a reminder that the Hunter's Moon cycle that began this journey continues its inexorable progression.

The Hound leads us down a narrow path that winds between jagged rocks, his movements as silent and fluid as his namesake. Cadeyrn follows, occasionally extending a hand to help me navigate the more treacherous sections. I accept his assistance without comment, secretly grateful for the steadying touch of his fingers around mine.

It's a strange thing, this pull between us that refuses to die despite everything. When his arm circles my waist to help me across a particularly narrow ledge, I find myself leaning into his strength more than strictly necessary. His body radiates cool power, solid and reassuring against mine.

"Careful," he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. "The stones are loose here."

"I was a blacksmith before I was a broodmare," I remind him, but there's no heat in the words. "I know how to keep my footing."

The corner of his mouth lifts in that almost-smile I'm starting to look for. "Of course you do. I'm merely being..."

"Overprotective?" I suggest.

"Prudent," he corrects, but his hand remains at the small of my back even after we've passed the dangerous section. I don't ask him to remove it.

We travel mostly in silence after that, the only sounds our breathing and the occasional distant cry of a night bird. The quadruplets are unusually still, as though they too understand the need for stealth. Only when we pause for brief rest do they resume their restless movements, pressing against my ribs and bladder with typical disregard for my comfort.

During one such pause, Cadeyrn kneels before me, pressing his ear directly to my belly. The intimacy of the gesture catches me off guard—his face level with my swollen abdomen, his hands resting lightly on my hips.

"What are you doing?" I whisper, hyper-aware of the warmth spreading through me at his touch.

"Listening," he replies simply. "Each has a distinct heartbeat. Different rhythms."

"You can hear that?"

He nods, his eyes closing in concentration. "This one," he says, touching a spot on the lower right side of my belly, "has the strongest beat. Steady, commanding. And this one," his hand shifts higher, "beats in a pattern like rainfall. Gentle but persistent."

Something in me softens at the wonder in his voice. For all that he's done, for all the blood on his hands, this moment contains a purity I can't deny. Four lives we created together, hearts beating beneath his ear.

As the night deepens, the landscape changes. The rugged mountain terrain gradually gives way to more cultivated lands—forests with suspiciously precise spacing between trees, meadows too perfectly proportioned to be natural. Winter Court territory, shaped by centuries of controlled magic.

"We're close," Cadeyrn murmurs, cillae briefly visible beneath the masking salve. "Another hour at most."

The Hound pauses atop a ridge, his profile sharp against the star-filled sky. "This is where we part ways," he says. "The northern approach lies through that ravine." He points to a narrow cut between two hills ahead. "Follow it to the frozen falls, then look for the ice-carved steps behind the second cascade."

I study his strange, not-quite-human face, wondering if we'll ever see him again. "Where will you go?"

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